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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



KErRESKNTATIVK ENCxLISH PLAYS 



/ 

REPRESENTATIVE 
ENGLISH PLAYS 



FROM THE MIDDLE AGES TO THE 
END OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 

BY 

JOHN S. P. TATLOCK 

Stanford University 

AND 

V 
ROBERT G. MARTIN 

Northwestern University 




^''■'Vc*' 



NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1916 



Copyright, 1916, by , 
The Century Co. V 



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J. W. T. 

Vide quattro stelle 
Non viste mai fuor che alia prima gente 



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PREFACE 

In the present collection, for the first time, representative English plays from 
the earliest period to our own generation are included in one volume. The drama 
in our day shows a vitality, an originality and a literary excellence unknown 
for two centuries; and partly in consequence of this, the drama of the past is 
being studied and read in our schools and colleges, and among people at large, 
to such an extraordinary extent as justifies such a convenience as this. In a 
single volume of readable form it is obviously impossible to include all celebrated 
or influential plays, or plays of all types. Some long periods with few plays 
of high excellence, such as the nineteenth century, are difficult to represent ade- 
quately at all in so small a collection. As to principles of choice, a collection 
merely of the best plays would be deficient in balance and in meaning for the 
student ; one merely of typical plays would be deficient in attractiveness and in- 
terest for the reader. Choice must be made on practical and not purely theoret- 
ical grounds, by a series of checks and balances; now one consideration will 
prevail, now another. Probably no two editors would independently agree, and 
it is impossible to content every reader. In the present case the principal con- 
siderations have been excellence, influence and historical importance, representa- 
tive and typical character (for a body of drama or for an age), and the importance 
of the type. Occasionally the mere celebrity of a play or its author has been 
allowed to turn the scale. Lyly's Mother Bomhie was chosen, rather than one 
of his other plays, as exemplifying the strong Latin influence which helped to 
transform the medieval into the modern drama ; ]\Iarlowe 's Edward II as one of 
his best plays and as exemplifying the plays on English history written by so 
many besides Shakespeare; Dryden's Conquest of Granada rather than All for 
Love as being more influential, original and characteristic; Bulwer's Lady of 
Lyons as extremely popular in its day, and as characteristic of a long and barren 
period which it would be unsatisfying ,to leave almost unrepresented. It is un- 
necessary to explain the entire omission of Shakespeare ; in so small a collection 
it was the only way to do him full justice and honor. 

The editorial matter is meant to be, as Bacon said of his Essays, "certain 
brief notes, set down rather significantly than curiously." The introductions, 
while giving the necessary facts, are devoted rather to criticism and interpreta- 
tion of the plays in themselves and in reference to their time. The foot-notes 
are meant simply to answer tersely questions which any attentive reader not 



PREFACE 

familiar with a play or with the language of its time is likely to ask. The brief 
bibliography mentions general works, important or convenient editions, some 
historical and critical studies, and biographies. Here is recorded the source for 
the text of the several plays, and also, for supplementary reading, other plays 
of like character, and a few of types unrepresented in the collection. All pains 
have been taken to make the texts both accurate and readable; in no case have 
careless and popular modern editions been followed, yet in general textual 
problems and apparatus have been disregarded. Even in the medieval texts no 
changes have been made, except as consistently as possible to modernize the 
spelling (even at the cost of slightly increasing the original roughness of verse 
and rime) ; the reader may rest assured that he is getting, as the modern reader 
very properly wishes, that which the author wrote and that only. Elsewhere..), 
also the spelling, punctuation and capitalizing have been modernized, and some 
latitude has been allowed as to stage-directions. It should be added that Mr. 
]\Iartin is mainly responsible for the editing of the medieval and Elizabethan 
plays, except for the introductions to Jonson and Webster; and Mr. Tatlock for 
those and for the remainder of the volume. 

The editors find pleasure in thanking those who have lightened and otherwise 
assisted their work. They are particularly obliged to Professor W. A. Neilson, 
who generously allowed them to make use of certain of his texts, ^ the best 
there are for numerous Elizabethan dramas; and to ]Marjorie Fenton Tatlock, for 
constant assistance and advice. They heartily thank Professors J. M. Manly, 
R. W. Bond, and G. R. Noyes, C. F. McClumpha Esqre., G. A. Aitken Esqre., 
M. V. 0., and Professor Dr. F. Lindner for gracious permissions to use texts of 
the miracle plays and Everyman, of Dry den, Otway, Steele, and Fielding. They 
also thank various fellow literary-students who advised as to the choice of plays. 

J. S. P. T. 
R. G. M. 

1 In The Chief Elirjabethan Dramatists (Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1911). 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

I. THE MIDDLE AGES 

1. Thr Miracle Play page 

Noah's Flood 3 

Abraham and Isaac 13 

The Second Shepherds' Play 19 

2. The Morality 

Everyman 31 

II. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 

1. Mother Bombie John Lyly 45 

2. The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable - , 

Death op Edward the Second . . . Christopher Marlowe . . 74 

3. The Shoemakers' Holiday, or The Gen- / 

TLB Craft Thomas Delcker . l/ . . 119 

4. A Woman Killed with Kindness . . Thomas Hey wood . . . 155 

5. Philaster, or Lo\'E Lies A-Bleeding . . Francis Beaumont and John 

Fletcher 190 

6. The Alchemist Ben Jonson . / . . . 233 

7. The Duchess of Malfi John Webster .... 292 

8. The Wild-Goose Chase John Fletcher .... 340 

9. The Changeling Thomas Middleton and Wil- 

liam Eotuley .... 383 
[II. THE RESTORATION 

1. Almanzor and Almahide, or The Con- 

quest OP Granada John Dryden 420 

2. Venice Preserved, or A Plot Discovered Thomas Otway .... 458 

3. The Way of the World William Congreve . . . 502 

[V. THE EIGHTEENTH CEXTLTIY 

1. Cato Joseph Addison .... 543 

2. The Conscious Lo\-ers Sir Richard Steele . . . 577 

3. The Tragedy of Tragedies; or, The Life 

AND Death op Tom Thumb the Great . Henry Fielding . . . .613 

4. She Stoops to Conquer, or The Mis- 

takes OF A Night . . . ' . . . . Oliver Goldsmith . . . 638 

5. The School for Scand^vl Bichard Brinsley Sheridan . 671 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



V. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY page 

1. The Cenci -P^*"^^ Bysshe Slielleij . . 715 

2. The Lady of Lyons, or Lo\t: and Pride . Edicard Bulwer-Uition . . 754 

3. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon Bohert Broivning . . .782 

4. Lady Windermere's Fan Oscar Wilde 806 

835 



Bibliography 



REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS 



REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS 



I. THE MIDDLE AGES 
MIRACLE PLAYS 



Pope Urban IV, when he instituted in 1264 
the church festival of Corpus Christi, be- 
came a real thougli unwitting patron of the 
drama. On the continent, Corpus Christi 
Day, the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, 
was soon establislied as an occasion for pre- 
senting religious plays. In England espe- 
cially was the day notable, for the trade 
guilds, the associations of craftsmen roughly 
corresponding to the trade unions of our 
day, adopted it as their chief holiday, and 
assisted the church in its celebration with 
a procession through the town. In another 
way also they came to the aid of the church 
by taking over a form of activity which had 
for some time been growing in disfavor with 
the church authorities; namely, the per- 
formance of the liturgical plays. Originally 
introduced at Christmas and Easter for the 
edification of ignorant audiences, these be- 
came so popular that their primary didactic 
purpose was in danger of being forgotten. 
From motives in which religion and busi- 
ness — for the church feast brought visitors 
and trade to town — were oddly mixed, the 
guilds added pageantry to their procession, 
and were soon giving performances on a 
scale more sumptuous than the church had 
ever reached. 

By the time that the miracle, or, as they 
are sometimes called, mystery, plays passed 
from the hands of Mother Church into the 
care of the guilds, they had already developed 
into a great drama of many acts, covering 
scriptural and apocryphal history from the 
Fall of the Angels to the Last Judgment. 
They were, therefore, well adapted for guild 
performance. Each guild took one section 
of the Bible story and tried to outdo its 
rivals in effectiveness of presentation. A 
quaint humor often marked the distribution 
of the separate plays among the various 
guilds. It is not difficult to see why, in the 
York plays, the Shipwrights undertook the 
Building of the Ark, and the Fishmongers the 
Flood; nor why in the same cycle the Gold- 
smiths selected the story of the Three Kings, 
with their offerings of gold and spices; the 
Vintners, the Miracle at Cana; the Bakers, 
the Last Supper. To the Tanners was as- 
signed the Fall of Lucifer and the torments 
of the fallen angels in hell, where the tan- 



ning process was likely to be thorough; while 
the Cooks, well trained in taking things from 
the fire, could present, more fittingly than 
any other craft, the Harrying of Hell, with 
its delivery of well-roasted prophets and 
martyrs. 

The performances took place upon pageant 
wagons, which could be drawn from place to 
place through the town. At street corners or 
open squares stations were assigned for the 
acting of the plays. When the play of the 
creation had been acted at the first station 
the pageant wagon moved on to the second 
station, while the story of the fall of Adam 
and Eve took its place at the first station, 
and so on. This method made possible the 
simultaneous production of many plays, each 
little audience, of course, seeing the entire 
sequence in the proper order. The wagons 
seem usually to have been built with two 
platforms, the lower curtained in and serv- 
ing as a dressing room for the actors, the 
upper as the stage. Stage properties were 
of the simplest. Among the most prominent 
was Hell mouth, a great gaping pair of jaws 
at one side of the stage, painted flame color 
and belching forth the smoke of the torment, 
from which leaped forth the Devil with his 
boisterous "Ho! Ho!" and into which he 
pitched the lost souls with his wooden pitch- 
fork and himself plunged at the end of the 
play. Some attempt was made at appropri- 
ateness of costume: God appeared in white 
leather, with gilded face and hair, the Devil 
in black leather, with full equipment of 
horns, hoofs, and a tail. But Herod boasted 
the full panoply of a knight of chivalry, and 
in general anachronism of attire as well as 
of speech was rampant. 

We have records of such dramatic activity 
lasting from the thirteenth until far into the 
sixteenth century, all over England, as well 
as in Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Not only 
the cathedral towns but market towns and 
even villages had their collective or indi- 
vidual miracle plays. The greatest activity, 
however, seems to have been localized in cer- 
tain places. There are extant manuscripts, 
the earliest belonging to the fifteenth century, 
for four great cycles of miracle plays : the 
York, Chester, Towneley or Wakefield, and 
Coventry cycles. While each has its indi- 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



vidual characteristics, all cover about the 
same ground and influences of one cycle upon 
another are evident. Of the authors prac- 
tically nothing is known, but we infer that 
they were churchmen. What we know of the 
history of the miracles makes it seem im- 
probable that any one man should have cre- 
ated all the plays of a cycle. As they come 
down to us they may rather represent the 
bringing together and amplification of the 
work of many hands, and such a cycle as that 
of York, with its forty-eight episodes, may 
have been in process of development for dec- 
ades before its text was reduced to the com- 
parative orderliness of our manuscript ver- 
sion. Occasionally, as in some plays of the 
Towneley cycle, there are manifest excellences 
in the handling of situation, the characteriza- 
tion, and the quality of the verse, which 
lead us to infer composition by a hand more 
competent than that of the average clerical 
playwright. 

A modern reader is likely to underesti- 
mate the dramatic efl'ectiveness of the miracle 
plays. Their writers had, of course, little or 
no apprehension of the niceties of technique 
— they were concerned chiefly with making 
the teaching of the play so plain that the 
most ignorant spectator must understand; 
hence the wearisome repetitions, the expound- 
ing of Christian doctrines in long didactic 
passages which sadly interrupt the action, 
the introduction of Doctor or Expositor to 
drive the moral home. Tlie literary value of 
the miracles is not great. But thoy possess 
the virtues of strength and sincerity and 
human interest. With no flnesse but with 
indubitable power they present some of the 
great episodes in the Bible story, in particu- 
lar those of Christ's life and passion. By 
frequent bits of homely realism they made 
their audiences realize the humanness of the 
Bible figures, and that was a useful service. 
The occasional coarseness of language and 
situation should not blind us to the simple 
reverence of purpose and treatment. The im- 
pressiveness of the Passion Play at Oberam- 
mergau is sufficient evidence that the theory 
of the miracle play is sound. 

The three plays which follow fairly repre- 
sent the miracle at its best. Though the long 
didactic beginning of the Towneley Noah's 
Flood is characteristic in its dullness, the 
play brightens up at once when Noah re- 
turns to the bosom of his family. From the 
rank and file of miracle personages a few 
stand out with special clearness, usually be- 
cause the spirit of comedy has touched them 
into life. Of these Noah's wife seems to have 
been a particular favorite, for in the York 
and Chester cycles she plays the shrew as she 
does here, and in them also the taming of 
the shrew is done in the same rough-and- 
tumble fashion. One of the unintentionally 



amusing things about the play is the naivete 
with which tlie passage of time is recorded, 
{ e. g., on p. 11). The local allusion of 
Noah's wife ( " Stafford blue," p. 8 ) , and the 
oaths by Peter (p. 10), Mary (p. 8), and 
" God's pain" (i.e., Christ's suii'erings on the 
cross, p. 8), illustrate the lack of historical 
sense. 

The Brome play is so called because the 
manuscript was found in Brome Hall, 
Sufl'olk. Abraham and Isaac is the most 
truly pathetic of all the miracle plays. The 
scene is pathetic rather than tragic because, 
since Abraham is from the first determined 
to obey the will of God, his natural revul- 
sion against killing his son never reaches the 
intensity of the struggle with fate, involved 
in true tragedy. But this is as close an ap- 
proach to tragedy as we find at this stage 
of the drama. Despite the ineptitude and 
slowness of the beginning, the playwright 
really vinderstands how to handle his ma- 
terial in such a way as to produce on the 
audience the effect he desires. A briefer 
treatment would have been better — he holds 
the situation till he gets the maximum 
emotional response, but the tension of 
suspense is undeniable. The characteriza- 
tion is not quite individual; we feel about 
Abraham and Isaac that they are rather 
types of parenthood and childhood than an 
individual father and an individual son. 
The child's actual physical terror of the 
bright sword and his messages to his mother 
are notable as showing how the miracle 
authors sometimes visualized and humanized 
their material. 

The Towneley Second Shepherds' Play 
{Second because the Towneley cycle contains 
two versions of the announcement to the 
shepherds) is the flower of the miracle plays. 
Here is an admirable acting play, with plot, 
characterization, atmosphere. The exposi- 
tion is clear and reasonably rapid, providing 
a neat differentiation of the three shepherds 
as they make their appearance one after an- 
other. Mak and Gill are masterpieces in 
miniature of comic characterization, done 
with deftness and gusto. The action mounts 
steadily to the climax; the imderstanding of 
the value of suspense at the climactic point, 
when the discomfited shepherds actually leave 
the house, only to return in response to the 
youngest shepherd's kindly thought of a gift 
to the child is proof enough that the man who 
made this play was a real dramatist. After 
the punishment of Mak there is an artless 
transition to the angels' song and the tradi- 
tional bit of the gifts to the Christ child. Th& 
blending of Yorkshire setting and figures with 
the Bible story is naive and delightful. This 
episode of jNIak is true farce comedy, comedy 
better than anything else England was to pro- 
duce till the middle of the sixteenth century. 



MIRACLE PLAYS 

NOAH'S FLOOD 

NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 



God. 


First Sox. 


FiBST Wife. 


Noah. 


Secoxd Son. 


Second Wife 


Noah's Wife. 


Third Son. 


Third Wife. 



Noah. Mightful God very, maker of all 
that is, 
Three persons without nay,^ one God in 

endless bliss, 
Thou made both night and day, beast, 

fowl, and fish; 
All creatures that live may, wrought thou 
at thy wish. 
As thou well might; 
The sim, the moon, verament,- 
Thou made, the firmament, 
The stars also, full fervent. 

To shine thou made full bright. 

Angels thou made full even, all orders 
that is. 

To have the bliss in heaven : this did thou 
more and less. 

Full marvelous to neven; ^ yet was there 
unkindness 

More by folds seven than I can well ex- 
press. 
For why? 

Of all angels in brightness 

God gave Lucifer most lightness; 

Yet proudly he flitted * his dais. 
And set him even him by. 

He thought himself as worthy as him that 

him made 
In brightness, in beauty; therefore he 

him degraded, 
Put him in a low degree soon after, in a 

braid,^ 
Him and all his meinie,^ where he may 

be unglad 
For ever. 
Shall they never win away 
Hence unto doomsday, 



But burn in bale "^ for ay ; 
Shall they never dissever. 

Soon after that gracious lord to his like- 
ness made man. 

That place to be restored even as he be- 
gan. 

Of the Trinity by accord, Adam, and 
Eve, that woman. 

To multiply without discord in jDaradise 
put he them. 
And sithen ^ to both 

Gave in commandment 

On the tree of life to lay no hand. 

But yet the false fiend 

Made him with man wroth, 

Enticed man to gluttony, stirred him to 

sin in pride. 
But in jjaradise securely ^ might no sin 

abide. 
And therefore man full hastily was put 

out in that tide, 
In woe and wandreth '^^ for to be, pains ^^ 

full unrid ^' 
To know. 
First in earth, sithen in hell 
With fiends for to dwell. 
But ^^ he his mercy mell ^* 
To those that will him trow.^^ 

Oil of mercy he us bight, ^® as I have 

heard rede,^''^ 
To every living wight that would love 

him and dread; 

But now before his sight eveiy living 
lede,i8 

Most part day and night, sin in word and 
deed, 
Full bold; "^^ 



1 denial. 


5 moment. 


9 certainly. 


l-t unless. 


17 say. 


2 truly. 


6 company. 


10 wretchedness. 


14 'nterpose. 


18 people 


3 name. 


7 torment. 


11 MS. in pains. 


15 believe. 




4 forsook. 


8 afterward. 


12 cruel. 
5 


16 promised. 





THE MIDDLE AGES 



Some in pride, ire, and envy, 
Some in covetyse ^^ and gluttony, 
Some in sloth and lecheiy. 
And otherwise many fold. 

Therefore I dread lest God on ns will 
take vengeance, 

For sin is now allowed without any re- 
pentance ; 

Six hundred years and odd have I, with- 
out distance,^*' 

On earth, as any sod, lived with gTeat 
grievance 
Alway ; 

And now I wax old. 

Sick, sorry, and cold, 

As muck upon mould 
I wither away. 

But yet will I cry for mercy and call : 
Noah thy servant am I, Lord over all ! 
Therefore me and my fry,-^ shall with 

me fall. 
Save from villainy, and bring to thy hall 

Tn heaven. 
And keep me from sin 
This world within ; 
Comely King of manldnd, 

I pray thee hear my steven! -^ 

God. Since I have made all-thing that is 
living, 
Duke, emperor, and king, with mine own 

hand, 
For to have their liking by sea and by 

sand. 
Every man to my bidding should be bow- 
ing 
Full fervent. 
That made man such a creature. 
Fairest of favor; 
Man must love me paramour,^^ 
By reason, and repent. 

Methought I showed man love when I 

made him to be 
All angels above, like to the Trinity, 
And now in gTeat reproof full low lies he 
On earth, himself to stuf¥ with sin that 
displeases me 
Most of all; 
Vengeance will I take 
On earth for sin's sake. 
My grame -* thus will I wake, 
Both of ^^ great and small. 



I repent full sore that ever made I man; 

By me he sets no store, and I am his sov- 
ereign. 

I will destroy therefore both beast, man, 
and woman; 

All shall perish, less and more; that bar- 
gain may they ban,^*' 
That ill has done. 

On earth I see right nought 

But sin that is unsought; ^^ 

Of those that well has wrought 
Find I but a few. 

Therefore shall I fordo -^ all this middle- 
earth 2^ 

With floods that shall flow, and run with 
liideous rerd ; ^° 

I have good cause thereto : for me no man 
is afeared. 

As I say shall I do : of vengeance draw 
my sword. 
And make end 

Of all that bears life. 

Save Noah and his wife. 

For they would never strive 
With me nor me offend. 

[To] him to mickle win^^ hastily will I 

go. 
To Noah my servant, ere I blin,^^ to warn 

him of his woe. 
On earth I see but sin running to and 

fro. 
Among both more and min,^^ each one 

other's foe 
With all their intent ; 
All shall I fordo 
With floods that shall flow. 
Work shall I them woe. 
That will not repent. 

Noah, my friend, I thee command, from 

cares thee to keel,''* 
A shijD that thou ordain ^^ of nail and 

board full well. 
Thou w^as alway well working, to me true 

as steel, 
To my bidding obedient; friendship shall 

thou feel 
To meed.^" 
Of length thy ship be 
Three hundred cubits, warn I thee, 
Of height even thirty. 
Of fifty also in breadth. 



19 covetousness ; the 
seven deadly sins 
iire here listed. 

20 without dispute, 
beyond doubt. 



21 offspring; tinder- .24 anger, 
stand who before / 25 against. 
shall. f 26 rue. 

22 voice. 27 iinatoned. 

23 as a lover. 28 destroy. 



20 world. 

30 uproar. 

31 joy. 


3 1 cool, assuage 
s.') make. 
30 reward. 


32 cease. 

33 less. 





NOAH'S FLOOD 



Anoint thy ship with pitch and tar with- 
out and also within, 

The water out to spar : ^"^ this is a noble 
gin ; ^^ 

Ijook no man thee mar. Three chess ^^ 
chambers begin; 

Thou must spend many a spar this work 
ere thou win 
To end fully. 

Make in thy ship also 

Parlors one or two, 

And houses of office mo,*" 
For beasts that there must be. 

One cubit in height a window shall thou 

make ; 
On the side a door with sleight *^ beneath 

shall thou take; 
With thee shall no man fight, nor do thee 

no kind wrake."*^ 
When all is done thus right, thy wife, 

that is thy make,*^ 
Take in to thee; 
Thy sons of good fame, 
Shem, Japhet, and Ham, 
Take in also them, 
Their wives also three. 

For all shall be fordone that live on land 

but ye, 
With floods that from above shall fall, 

and that plenty ; 
It shall begin full soon to rain inces- 
santly. 
After days seven be done, and endure 
days fortv, 
Without fail. 
Take to thy ship also, 
Of each kind, beasts two, 
Male and female, but no mo. 
Ere thou pull up thy sail. 

For they may thee avail when all this 

thing is wrought ; 
Stutf thy ship with victual, for hunger 

that ye perish not. 
Of beasts, fowl, and cattle, for them have 

thou in thought ; 
For them is my counsel, that some succor 

be sought 
In haste; 
They must have com and hay. 
And other meat alway. 
Do now as I thee say, 

In the name of the Holy Ghost. 



Noah. Ah, benedicite ! ** What art thou 
that thus 
Tells afore that shall be? Thou art full 

marvelous ! 
Tell me, for charity, thy name so gra- 
cious. 
God. My name is of dignity, and also full 
glorious 
To know. 
I am God most mighty. 
One God in Trinity, 
Made thee and each man to be; 
To love me well thou ought. 

Noah. I thank thee, Lord so dear, that 
would vouchsafe 
Thus low to appear to a simple knave ; 
Bless us. Lord, here, for charity I it 

crave ; 
The better may we steer the ship that we 
shall have. 
Certain. 
God. Noah, to thee and to thy fry 
My blessing grant I : 
Ye shall wax and multiply. 
And fill the earth again. 

When all these floods are past and fully 

gone away. 
Noah. Lord, homeward will I haste as fast 

as that I mav. 
My [wife] « will I f raist *« what she 

will say. 
And I am aghast that we get some fray 

Betwixt us both ; 
For she is full teethy,*'^ 
For little oft angiy. 
If anything wrong be, 
• Soon is she wroth. 

TJien lie goes to his wife. 

God speed, dear wife; how fare ye? 
Wife. Now, as ever might I thrive, the 
worse I thee see! 
Do tell me belive,*^ where has thou thus 

long been? 
To death may we drive, or life for thee,** 

For want. 
When we sweat or swink,^" 
Thou does what thou think. 
Yet of meat and of drink 
Have we very scant. 

Noah. Wife, we are hard stead with tid- 
ings new. 



37 shut. 


40 more. 


43 mate. 


46 ask. 


49 for all you care 


38 device. 


41 skill. 


44 bless me 1 


47 testy. 


50 work. 


39 tiers of. 


42 kind of wrong. 


45 missing in MS. 


48 quickly. 





8 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Wife. But thou were worthy be clad in 
Stafford blue,^i 
For thou art alway adread, be it false or 

true. 
But God knows I am led, and that may I 
rue, 
Full ill; 
For I dare be thy borrow,^^ 
From even unto morrow 
Thou speaks ever of sorrow ; 
God send thee once thy fill ! 

We women may wary ^^ all ill husbands ; 
I have one, by Mary! that loosed me of 

my bands ! 
If he teen ^-^ I must tarry, howsoever it 

stands, 
"With semblance full sorry, wringing both 

my hands 
For dread. 
But yet other while. 
What with game and with guile, 
I shall smite and smile, 
And quit him his meed.^^ 

Noah. We! hold thy tongue, ramskyt, or 

I shall thee still ! 
Wife. By my thrift, if thou smite, I shall 

turn thee until! 
Noah. We shall assay as tight. Have at 
thee, Gill! 
Upon the bone shall it bite. 
Wife. Ah, so ! Marry, thou smites ill ! 

But I suppose 
I shall not in thy debt 
Flit of this flet ! ^^ 
Take thee there a languet ^^ 
To tie up thy hose ! 

Noah. Ah! wilt thou so? Marry, that is 

mine ! 
Wife. Thou shall ^^ three for two, I swear 

by God's pain ! 
Noah. And I shall quit thee then, in faith, 

ere syne.^'' 
Wife. Out upon thee, ho ! 
Noah. Thou can both bite and whine 

With a rerd ! ^^ 
For all if she strike 
Yet fast will she screech; 
In faith, I hold none [such] 
In all middle-earth. 



But I will keep charity, for I have at 
do." 
Wife. Here shall no man tany thee; I 
pray thee, go to! 
Full well may we miss thee, as ever have 

I ro.*'- 
To spin will I dress ^^ me. 
Noah. We ! farewell, lo ! 

But, wife. 
Pray for me busily 
Till eft •'^ I come unto thee. 
Wife. Even as thou prays for me, 
As ever might I thrive. 

Noah. I tarry full long from my work, I 
trow; 
Now my gear will I fang,^^ and thither- 
ward draw. 
I may full ill go, the sooth for to know; 
But if ^^ God help among, I may sit 
down daw ^'^ 
To ken. 
Now assay will I 
How I can of wrightry ; ^^ 
In nomine Patris, et Filii, 
Et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. 

To begin of this tree my bones will I 

bend; 
I trow from the Trinity succor will be 

sent. 
It fares full fair, methinks, this work to 

my hand ; 
Now blessed be he that this can amend. 

Lo, here the length, 
Three hundred cubits evenly; 
Of breadth, lo, is it fifty; 
The height is even thirty 
Cubits full strength.«9 

Now my gown will I cast, and work in 

my coat ; 
Make will I the mast, ere I flit one foot. 
Ah, my back, I trow, will burst ! this is 

a Sony note ! 
It is wonder that I last, such an old 

dote,7° 
All dold,'^! 
To begin such a work. 
My bones are so stark. 
No wonder if they wark,^^ 
For I am full old. 



51 beaten black and 
blue. 

52 pledge. 

53 curse. 

54 grieve. 



55 give him his de- 
serts. 

56 flee from 
dwelling. 

57 thong. 



this 



58 understand have. 

59 long. 

GO of. n. 30. 

61 work to do. 

62 rest. 



63 prepare. 

64 again. 

65 take. 

66 unless. 

67 a sluggard. 



68 carpentry. 

69 Qy. streght? 

70 dotard. 

71 stupid, stiff. 

72 ache. 



NOAH'S FLOOD 







The top and the sail both will I make, 

The helm and the castle '^^ also will I 
take; 

To drive each nail will I not forsake ; 

This gear may never fail, that dare I un- 
dertake 
Anon. 

This is a noble gin : 

These nails so they run 

Through more and min, 
These boards each one ; 

Window and door, even as he said, 
Three chess ^* chambers, they are well 

made. 
Pitch and tar full sure thereupon laid. 
This will ever endure, therefore am I 
paid ; 

For why? 
It is better wToug^ht 
Than I could have thought ; 
Him that made all of nought 

I thank only. 

Now will I hie me and nothing be lither/^ 
My wife and my meinie to bring even 

hither. 
Tent ^® hither tidily, wife, and consider; 
Hence must us flee, all sam '''' together 

In haste. 
Wife. Why, sir, what ails you? 
Who is that assails you? 
To flee it avails you 

And '^^ ye be aghast. 

Noah. There is yam on the reel other, my 

dame. 
Wife. Tell me that each a deal,'^^ else get 

ye blame. 
Noah. He that cares may keel, blessed be 
his name ! 
He has [spoken] ^'^ for our sele *^ to 
shield us from shame, 
And said. 
All this world about 
With floods so stout. 
That shall run in a rout, 
Shall be overlaid. 

He said all shall be slain but only we. 
Our baii'ns that ai'e bain,^^ and their 

wives three ; 
A ship he bade me ordain to save us and 

our fee ; ^^ 



Therefore with all our main thank we 
that free 
Beeter of bale.^* 
Hie us fast, go we thither. 
Wife. I wot never whither; 
I daze and I didder ^^ 
For fear of that tale. 

Noah. Be not afeared; have done. Truss 
sam our gear. 
That we be there ere noon without more 
dere.^® 

1 Son. It shall be done full soon. Broth- 

ers, help to bear. 

2 Son. Full long- shall I not hone ^^ to do 

my dever,*^ 
Brother Shem. 

3 Son. Without any yelp,^^ 
At my might shall 1 help. 

Wife. Yet for dread of a skelp,®° 
Help well thy dam. 

Noah. Now are we there as we should be; 
Do get in our gear, our cattle and fee, 
Into this vessel here, my children free. 
Wife. I was never barred ere, as ever 
might I thee,^^ 
In such an hostry ^^ as this. 
In faith, I can not find 
Which is before, which is behind. 
But shall we here be pinned, 
Noah, as have thou bliss? 

Noah. Dame, as it is skill,^^ here must us 
abide grace; 
Therefore, wife, with good will come into 
this place. 
Wife. Sir, for Jack nor for Jill will I 
turn my face. 
Till I have on this hill spun a space 

On my rock.^* 
Well were he might get me! 
Now will I down set me ; 
Yet rede ^^ I no man let ®® me, 
For dread of a knock. 

Noah. Behold to the heaven the cataracts 
all. 
That are open full even, great and small. 
And the planets seven left has their stall ; 
These thunders and levin ^'^ down gar^^ 
fall. 
Full stout, 
Both halls and bowers. 



T3 poop. 

74 cf. n. 39 above. 

75 lazy. 

76 take heed. 

77 together. 

78 if. 



79 every bit. 

80 suggested by 
Manly. 

81 happiness, 

82 obedient. 

83 property. 



84 helper of misery. 
8."; tremble. 

86 harm, hindrance. 

87 delay. 

88 duty (devoir). 

89 boasting. 



90 blow. 

91 thrive. 

92 hostelry. 


inn. 


96 hinder. 

97 lightning 

98 make. 


93 reason. 

94 distaff. 

95 advise 







10 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Castles and towers, 
Full sharp are these showers 
That runs about. 

Therefore, wife, have done; come into 
ship fast. 
Wife. Yea, Noah, go clout thy shoon ; ^^ 
the better will they last. 

1 Wife. Good mother, come in soon, for 

all is overcast, 
Both the sun and the moon. 

2 Wife. And many a wind blast ^ 

Full sharp ; 
These floods so they run; 
Therefore, mother, come in. 
Wife. In faith, yet will I spin; 

All in vain ye carp. 

5 Wife. If ye like, ye may spin, mother, 

in the ship. 
Noah. Now is this twice; come in, dame, 

on my friendship. 
Wife. Whether I lose or win, in faith, thy 
fellowship 
Set I not at a pin. This spindle will I 
slip 
Upon this hill, 
Ere I stir one foot. 
Noah. Peter ! I trow we dote. 
Without any more note, 
Come in if ye will. 

Wife. Yea, water nighs so near that I sit 
not dry; 
Into ship Avith a birr- therefore will I 

hie. 
For dread that I drown here. 
Noah. Dame, securely. 

It is bought full dear, ye abode so long 
by 
Out of ship. 
Wife. I will not for thy bidding 

Go from door to midden.^ 
Noah. In faith, and for your long tarrying 
Ye shall lick on the whip. 

Wife. Spare me not, I pray thee, but even 
as thou think. 
These gi'eat words shall not flay * me. 
Noah. Abide, dame, and drink, 

For beaten shall thou be with tliis staff 

till thou stink. 
Are strokes good? Say me! 



Wife. What say ye, Wat Wink? 

Noah. Speak ! 

Cry me mercy, I say ! 
Wife. Thereto say I nay. 
Noah. But thou do, by this day. 
Thy head shall I break. 

Wife. Lord, I were at ease and heartily 
full whole. 
Might I once have a mess of widow's 

cole ^ ; 
For thy soul, without lese,*' should I deal 

penny dole.'^ 
So would more, no frese,® that I see on 
this sole ^ 
Of wives that are here ; 
For the life that they lead, 
Would their husbands were dead ! 
For, as ever eat I bread. 
So would I our sire ^° were. 

Noah. Ye men that has wives, while they 
are young. 
If ye love yoirr lives, chastise their 

tongue. 
Methinks my heart rives, both liver and 

lung, 
To see such strifes wedmen ^^ among. 

But I, 
As have I bliss, 
Shall chastise this. 
Wife. Yet may ye miss, 
Nicol Needy! 

Noah. I shall make thee still as stone, be- 
ginner of blunder! 
I shall beat thee, back and bone, and 
break all in sunder. 

Out, alas, I am gone ! 
thee, man's wonder! 

See how she can groan, 
under ! 
But, wife. 
In this haste let us ho,^- 
For my back is near in two. 
Wife. And I am beaten so blue 
That I may not thrive. 



Wife. 



Noah. 



out upon 
and I lie 



1 Son. Ah, why fare ye thus, father and 

mother both "? 

2 Son. Ye should not be so spitous,^^ 

standing in such a woth.^'* 

3 Son. These ^^ are so hideous, with many 

a cold cothe.^® 



shoes, 
verb; 



99 patch thy 

1 probably 

blows. 

2 rush. 

3 dunghill ; the 

whole phrase 



means "do any 
slightest thing." 

4 put to flight. 

5 broth, fare; MS. 

coyll, Scotch hail. 

6 lying. 



7 alms (in memory 

of the dead). 

8 doubt. 

9 place ; Noah's wife 

is here speaking 
directly to the au- 



dience, as does 
Noah in the next 
stanza. 

10 i.e. Noah. 

11 married people. 

12 stop. 



13 malicious. 

14 peril. 

15 Manly suggests 
These [strifes]. 

16 disease. 



NOAH'S FLOOD 



11 



Noah. We will do as ye bid us ; we will no 
more be wroth, 
Dear bairns. 
Now to the helm will I hent/'' 
And to my ship tent.^^ 
Wife. I see in the firmament, 
Methinks, the seven stars. 

Noali. This is a gTeat flood, wife, take 

heed. 
Wife. So methoug-ht, as I stood; we are 
in gTeat dread, 
These waves are so wood.^^ 
Noah. Help, God, in this need ! 

As thou art steersman good, and best, as 
I rede. 
Of all, 
Thou rule in this race,^° 
As thou me behight ^^ has. 
Wife. This is a parlous case ; 
Help, God, when we call ! 

Noah. Wife, tent the steer-tree,-^ and I 
shall assay 
The deepness of the sea that we bear,-^ 
if I may. 
Wife. That shall I do full wisely. Now 
go thy way. 
For upon this flood have we floated many 
a day 
With pain. 
Noah. Now the water will I sound. 
Ah ! it is far to the ground ; 
This travail, I expound. 
Had I to tine.2* 

Above all hills bedene -^ the flood is risen 

late 
Cubits flfteen ; but in a higher state 
It may not be, I ween, for this well I wit. 
This forty days has rain been; it will 
therefore abate 

Full leal.26 
This water in haste 
Eft will I test ; 
Now am I aghast : 

It is waned a great deal. 

Now are the weathers -''' ceased and cata- 
racts knit,^® 

Both tlie most and the least. 
Wife. Methinks, by my wit, 

The sun shines in the east; lo, is not 
yond it^ 



We should have a good feast were these 
floods flitted,29 
So spitous. 
Noah. We have been here, all we, 

Three hundred days and fifty. 
Wife. Yea, now wanes the sea; 
Lord, well is us! 

Noah. The third time will I prove what 

deepness we bear. 
Wife. How long shall thou hove *? ^° 

Lay ^^ in thy line there. 
Noah. I may touch with my loof^^ the 

ground even here. 
Wife. Then begins to grow to us merry 
cheer. 
But, husband, 
Wliat ground may this be? 
Noah. The hills of Armenia. 
Wife. Now blessed be he 

That thus for us can ordain ! 

Noah. I see the tops of hills high, many 
at a sight; 
Nothing to let ^^ me, the weather is so 
bright. 
Wife. These are of mercy tokens full 

right. 
Noah. Dame, thou counsel me what fowl 
best might 
And could, 
With flight of wing. 
Bring, without tarrying. 
Of mercy some tokening, 
Either by north or south, 

For this is the flrst day of the tenth 
month. 
Wife. The raven, durst I lay,^* will come 
again soon; 
As fast as thou may, cast him forth; 

have done. 
He may happen today come again, ere 
noon. 
With graith.^^ 
Noah. 1 will cast out also 
Doves one or two. 
Go your way, go, 

God send you some wathe ! ^® 

Now are these fowls flown into sere ^^ 

countries ; 
Pray we fast each one, kneeling on our 

knee, 



17 seize. 


22 helm. 


had in vain. 


29 gone. 


34 wager. 


18 cf. n. 76 above. 


2. I hnve. 


2r, completely. 


30 tarry. 


3.5 without delay 


19 wild. 


24 This work (i.e. 


20 thoroughly. 


31 cast. 


36 hunting. 


20 difficulty. 


the sounding), I 


27 tempests. 


32 hand. 


37 several. 


21 promised. 


perceive, I have 


28 restrained. 


33 hinder. 





12 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



To him that is alone worthiest of degree, 
That he would send anon our fowls some 
fee 
To glad us. 
Wife. They may not fail of land, 

The water is so waning. 
Noah. Thank we God all-wielding, 
That lord that made us. 

It is a wonder thing, methinks soothly, 
They are so long tarrying, the fowls 

that we 
Cast out in the morning. 
Wife. Sir, it may be 

They tarry till they bring.^^ 
Noah. The raven is a-hungi"y 

Alway ; 
He is without any reason ; 
And ^^ he find any carrion, 
As peradventure may [befall,] '*° 
He will not away. 

The dove is more gentle, her trust I unto. 

Like unto the turtle,*^ for she is ay true. 

Wife. Hence but a little she comes. Lo, 

lo! 

She brings in her bill some novels *- new. 

Behold! 
It is of an olive tree 
A branch, thinks me. 
Noah. It is sooth ; perdy. 
Right so is it called. 

Dove, bird full blest, fair might thee be- 
fall ! 
Thou att true for to trust, as stone in the 

wall. 
Full well I it wist thou would come to 
thy hall. 
Wife. A true token is't we shall be saved 
all; 
For why? 
The water, since she came 
Of deepness plumb. 
Is fallen a fathom 
And more, hardily. ''^ 

1 Son. These floods are gone, father, be- 

hold ! 

2 Son. There is left I'ight none, and [for] 

that be ye bold. 



3 Son. As still as a stone our ship is 

stalled. 
Noah. Upon land here anon that we were, 
fain I would. 
My children dear, 
Shem, Japhet, and Ham, 
With glee and with game. 
Come, go we all sam ; 

We will no longer abide here. 

Wife. Here have we been, Noah, long 
enough, 
With tray •** and with teen,*^ and dreed *^ 
mickle woe. 
Noah. Behold, on this green neither cart 
nor plough 
Is left, as I ween, neither tree nor bough. 

Nor other thing. 
But all is away; 
Many castles, I say. 
Great towns of array. 

Flitted has this flowing.*^ 

Wife. These floods not afright all this 
world so wide 
Has moved with might, on sea and by 
side. 
Noah. To death are they dight,*^ proudest 
of pride. 
Every wight that ever was spied 

With sin ; 
All are they slain. 
And put unto pain. 
Wife. From thence again 
May they never win. 

Noah. Win? No, iwis,''^ but ^^ he that 
might has 
Would mind of ^^ their miss, and admit 

them to grace. 
As he in bale is bliss, I pray him in this 

space, 
In heaven high with his to purvey us a 
place. 
That we 
With his saints in sight. 
And his angels bright. 
May come to his light. 
Amen, for charity. 



3S i.e. some bootv 


41 turtle-dove. 


44 affliption. 


47 this flood has re- 


43 certainly. 


30 if. 


42 tidings. 


4r> grief. 


moved. 


50 unless. 


40 MS. befon. 


43 certainly. 


46 endured. 


48 delivered. 


51 remember 



ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 



13 



ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 



NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



Abraham. 


An Angel 


Isaac. 


Doctor. 


God. 





[Enter Abraham and Isaac] 

Ah. Father of Heaven, omnipotent, 
With all my heart to thee I call; 
Thou hast given me both land and rent, 
And my livelihood thou hast me sent; 
I thank thee highly evermore for all. 

First of the earth thou madest Adam, 
And Eve also to be his wife ; 

All other ci'eatures of them two came ; 

And now thou hast granted to me, Abra- 
ham, 
Here in this land to lead my life. 

In mine age thou hast granted me this, 
That this young child with me shall 
won ; ^ 
I love nothing so much, iwis,^ 
Except thine own self, dear Father of 
bliss, 
As Isaac here, my own sweet son. 

I have divers children mo, 

The which I love not half so well ; 
This fair sweet child he cheers me so. 
In every place where that I go, 
That no disease ^ here may I feel. 

And therefore, Father of Heaven, I thee 
pray 

For his health and also for his grace; 
Now, Lord, keep him both night and day. 
That never disease nor no fray 

Come to my child in no place. 

Now come on, Isaac, my own sweet child, 
Go we home and take our rest. 
Isaac. Abraham, mine own father so mild, 
To follow you I am full prest,* 
Both early and late. 
Ah. Come on, sweet child, I love thee best 
Of all the children that ever I begat. 



[God speaks from above.] 



1 dwell. 

2 certainly. 



3 dis-ease, trouble ; 
so hereafter. 



4 ready. 



Deus. Mine angel, fast hie th^e thy way. 
And unto middle-earth ^ anon thou go. 
Abraham's heart now will I assay. 
Whether that he be steadfast or no. 

Say I commanded him for to take 
Isaac, his young son, that he loves so 
well. 

And with his blood sacrifice he make. 
If any of my friendship he will feel. 

Show him the way unto the hill 

Where that his sacrifice shall be. 
I shall assay now his good will. 

Whether he loveth better his child or 
me. 
All men shall take example by him 
My commandments how they shall 
keep. 

Ah. Now, Father of Heaven, that formed 
all things, 
My prayers I make to thee again, 
For this day my tender offering 

Here must I give to thee, certain. 
Ah, Lord God, Almighty King, 

What manner ^ best will make thee 
most fain? 
If I had thereof very knowing, 
It should be done with all my main 
Full soon anon. 
To do thy pleasure on a hill, 
Verily, it is my will, 

Dear Father, God in Trinity! 

[Enter Angel.] 

Angel. Abraham, Abraham, will thou rest ! 

Our Lord commandeth thee for to take 

Isaac, thy young son, that thou lovest 

best. 

And with his blood sacrifice that thou 

make. 

Into the land of Vision thou go. 
And offer thy child unto thy Lord ; 

5 the world. 6 i.e. of offering. 



14 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



I shall thee lead and show also. 
Unto God's hest/ Abraham, accord, 

And follow me upon this green ! 
Ah. Welcome to me be ray Lord's sand,^ 

And his best I will not withstand ; 

Yet Isaac, my young son in laud, 
A full dear child to me hath been ! 

I had liefer, if God had been pleased. 
For to have forborne all the good that 
I have. 
Than [that] Isaac, my son, should have 
been diseased. 
So God in heaven my soul may save ! 

I loved never thing so much on earth, 

And now I must the child go kill ! 
Ah, Lord God, my conscience is strongly 

stirred, 
And yet, my dear Lord, I am sore 
afeared 
To grutch ° anything against your will. 

I love my child as my life. 

But yet I love my God' much more; 
For though my heart would make any 

strife, 
Yet will I not spare for child nor wife. 

But do after my Lord's lore.^° 

Though I love my son never so well, 
Yet smite off his head soon I shall. 
Ah, Fatker of Heaven, to thee I kneel, 
A hard death my son shall feel. 
■ For to honor thee. Lord, withal! 

Angel. Abraham, Abraham, this is Avell 
said. 
And all these commandments look that 
thou keep ; 
But in thy heart be nothing dismayed. 
Ah. Nay, nay, forsooth ! I hold me well 
pleased 
To please my God to the best that I 
have. 

For though my heart be heavily set 
To see the blood of my own dear son. 

Yet for all this I will not let. 

But Isaac, my son, I will go fet,^^ 
And come as fast as ever we can. 

[Exit Angel] 

Now, Isaac, my own son dear. 

Where art thou, child'? Speak to me. 



Is. My fair sweet father, I am here. 

And make my prayers to the Trinity. 

Ah. Rise up, my child, and fast come 
hither. 
My gentle bairn that art so wise, 
For we two, child, must go together. 
And unto my Lord make sacrifice. 

Is. I am full ready, my father, lo ! 

Given to your hands, I stand right 
here. 
And whatsoever ye bid me do, 
It shall be done with glad cheer, 
Full well and fine. 
Ah. Ah, Isaac, my own son so dear, 

God's blessmg I give thee, and mine. 

Hold this fagot upon thy back. 
And here myself fire shall bring. 
Is. Father, all this here will I pack, 
I am full fain to do your bidding. 
Ah. Ah, Lord of Heaven, my hands I 
wring. 
This child's words all to-wound ^- my 
heart! 

Now, Isaac, son, go we our way 
L^nfo yon mount, with all our main. 
Is. Go we, my dear father, as fast as I 
may; 
To follow you I am full fain, 
Although I be slender. 
Ah. Ah, Lord, my heart breaketh in twain, 
This child's words, they be so 
tender ! 

Ah, Isaac son, anon lay it down. 
No longer upon thy back it hold, 

For I must make ready boon ^^ 

To honor my Lord God as I should. 

Is. Lo, my dear father, where it is! 

To cheer you, alway I draw me near. 
But, father, I marvel sore at this. 
Why that ye make this heavy cheer ; 

And also, father, ever more dread I: 
Where is your quick ^* beast that ye 
should kill? 
Both fire and wood we have ready. 

But quick beast have we none on this 
hill. 

A quick beast, I wot well, must be dead. 
Your sacrifice for to make. 



7 command. 

8 sending, message. 



n begrudge. 
10 bidding. 



11 fetch. 

12 to has 



sive force ; 
sorely. 



wound 



13 prayer. 

14 live. 



ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 



15 



Ab. Dread thee nought, my child, I thee 
rede ; ^^ 
Our Lord will send me unto this stead ^" 
Some manner of beast for to tahe, 
Through his sweet sand. 
Is. Yea, father, but my heart beginneth 
to quake 

To see that sharp sword in your 
hand. 

Why bear ye your sword drawn so'? 
Of your countenance I have much won- 
der. 
Ah. Ah, Father of Heaven, so I am woe ! 
This child here breaks my heai't in 
sunder. 

Is. Tell me, my dear father, ere that ye 
cease. 
Bear ye your sword drawn for me"? 
Ab. Ah, Isaac, sweet son, peace, peace! 
For, iwis, thou break my heart in 
three ! 

Is. Now truly, somewhat, father, ye think, 
That ye mourn thus more and more. 

Ab. Ah, Lord of Heaven, thy grace let 
sink, 
For my heart was never half so sore ! 

Is. I pray you, father, that ye will let me 
that wit," 
Whether shall I have any harm or no. 
Ab. Iwis, sweet son, I may not tell thee 

yet, 

My heart is now so full of woe. 

Is. Dear father, I pray you, hide it not 

from me. 
But some of your thought that ye tell 

me. 
Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, I must kill thee ! 
Is. Kill me, father"? Alas, what have I 

done"? 

If I have trespassed against you aught, 
With a yard ^^ ye may make me full 
mild, 

And with your sharp sword kill me not. 
For iwis, father, I am but a child. 

Ab. I am full sorry, son, thy blood for to 

spill. 
But truly, my child, I may not choose. 
Is. Now I would to God my mother were 

here on this hill ! 



She would kneel for me on both her 
knees 

To save my life. 
And sithen ^^ that my mother is not here, 
I pray you, father, change your cheer. 
And kill me not with your knife. 

Ah. Forsooth, son, but if -° I thee kill, 
I should grieve God right sore, I 
dread ; 
It is his commandment and also his will 
That I should do this same deed. 

He commanded me, son, for certain, 
To make my sacrifice with thy blood. 
Is. And is it God's will that I should be 

slain ? 
Ah. Yea, truly, Isaac, my son so good. 
And therefore my hands I wring! 

7s. Now, father, against my Lord's will 
I will never grutch, loud nor still. 
He might have sent me a better destiny, 
If it had been his will.-^ 

Ab. Forsooth, son, but if I did this deed. 
Grievously displeased our Lord will be. 

7s. Nay, nay, father, God forbid 

That ever ye should grieve him for me ! 

Ye have other children, one or two. 
The which ye should love well by 
kind.^- 
I pray you, father, make ye no woe. 
For be I once dead and from you gone, 
I shall be soon out of your mind. 

Therefore do our Lord's bidding. 

And when I am dead, then pray for 
me. 
But, good father, tell ye my mother 

nothing, 
Say that I am in another countiy dwell- 
ing. 
Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, blessed may thou be ! 

My heart beginneth strongly to rise 
To see the blood of thy blessed body ! 
7s. Father, since it may be no other wise, 
Let it pass over, as well as I. 

But, father, ere I go unto my death, 
I pray you bless me with your hand. 
Ab. Now, Isaac, with all my breath. 



15 counsel. 

16 place. 



17 know. 

18 rod. 



19 since. 

20 unless. 



21 will is M<Tnly's emen- 
dation; MS. plecer. 



22 nature. 



16 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



My blessing I give thee upon this land, 
And, God's also thereto, iwis. 

Isaac, Isaac, son, up thou stand. 
Thy fair sweet mouth that I may 
kiss. 

Is. Now farewell, my own father so fine, 
And greet well my mother on earth. 
But I pray you, father, to hide my 
eyne,-^ 
That I see not the stroke of your sharp 
sword 
That my flesh shall defile. 
Ab. Son, thy words make me to weep full 
sore — 
Now, my dear son Isaac, speak no more. 
7s. Ah, my own dear father, wherefore? 
We shall speak together here but a 
while. 

And sithen that I must needs be dead, 
Yet, my dear father, to you I pray. 
Smite but few strokes at my head, 
And make an end as soon as ye may, 
And tarry not too long. 
Ab. Thy meek words, child, make me 
afraid ; 

So "welawey !" ^4 may be my song, 

Except alone God's will. 

Ah, Isaac, my own sweet child. 
Yet kiss me again upon this hill! 

In all this world is none so mild. 

7s. Now truly, father, all this tarrying, 
It doth my heart but hai-m ; 
I pray you, father, make an ending. 
Ab. Come up, sweet son, into my arm. 

I must bind thy bands two. 

Although thou be never so mild. 
7s. Ah, mercy, father I Why should ye do 

so? 
Ab. That thou sbould^st not I'et,^^ my child. 

Is. Nay, iwis,. father, I will not let you; 
Do on, for me, your will, 
And on the purpose that ye have set you, 
For God's love, keep it forth still. 

I am full sorry this day to die, 

But yet I keep -® not my God to giieve. 

Do on your list ^'^ for me hardily, 

My fair sweet father, I give you leave. 



But, father, I pray you evermore, 
Tell ye my mother no deal ; ^^ 
If she wist it, she would weep full sore, 
For iwis, father, she loveth me full 
well; 
God's blessing may she have ! 

Now farewell, my mother so sweet. 
We two be like no more to meet. 
Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, son, thou makest me 
to greet,^'^ 
And with thy words thou distemperest 
me. 

7s. Iwis, sweet father, I am sorry to grieve 
you; 
I cry you mercy for that I have done. 
And for all trespass that ever I did move 
you; 
Now, dear father, forgive me that I 
have done. 
God of Heaven be with me! 

Ab. Ah, dear child, leave off thy moans. 
In all thy life thou grieved me never 

once; 
Now blessed be thou, body and bones, 
That ever thou were bred and born ! 
Thou hast been to me child full good. 
But iwis, child, though I mourn never 

so fast. 
Yet must I needs here at the last 
In this place shed all thy blood. 

Therefore, my dear son, here shall thou 
lie. 
Unto my work I must me stead ; ^^ 
Iwis, I had as lief myself to die — 

If God will be pleased with my deed — 
And mine own body for to offer! 
7s. Ah, mercy, father! mourn ye no more. 
Your weeping maketh my heart sore 
As my own death that I shall suffer. 

Your kerchief, father, about my eyes ye 
wind. 
Ab. So I shall, my sweetest child on eai'th. 
7s. Now yet, good father, have this in 
mind. 
And smite me not often with your 
sharp sword. 
But hastily that it be sped. 

Here Abraham laid a cloth on Isaac's face, 
thus saying: 



^3 eyes. 



24 an exclamation of grief. 



25 hinder. 

26 wish. 



27 pleasure. 

28 nothing. 



29 weep. 

30 address. 



ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 



17 



Ah. Now farewell, my child, so fvill of 

grace. 
Is. Ah, father, father, turn downward my 

face ! 

For of your sharp sword I am ever 
adread. 

Ab. To do this deed I am full sorry, 

But, Lord, thine hest I will not with- 
stand. 

Is. Ah, Father of Heaven, to thee I cry ; 
Lord, receive me into thy hand ! 

Ab. Lo, now is the time come certain 
That my sword in his neck shall bite. 
Ah, Lord, my heart riseth there-against, 
I may not find it in my heart to smite ! 
My heart will not now thereto ! 
Yet fain I would work my Lord's will, 
But this young innocent lieth so still, 
I may not find it in my heart him to kill — 
Father of Heaven, what shall I 
do! 

7s. Ah, mercy, father, why tarry ye so, 
And let me lie thus long on this heath ? 
Now I would to God the stroke were 

done! 
Father, I pray you heartily, short me of 
my woe. 

And let me not look thus after my 
death. 

Ab. Now, heart, why wouldst not thou 
break in three f 
Yet shall thou not make me to my God 
unmild. 
I will no longer let for thee, 
For that my God aggrieved would be. 
Now hold the stroke, my own dear 
child. 

Here Abraham drew his stroke, and the 
Angel took the sword in Ms hand sud- 
denly. 

Ang. I am an angel, thou mayest see 
blithe, 
That from heaven to thee is sent. 
Our Lord thanketh thee a hundred 
sithes ^^ 
For the keeping of his commandment. 

He knoweth thy -will and also thy heart, 
That thou dreadest him above all thing, 



And some of thy heaviness for to de- 
part, ^- 
A fair ram yonder I gan ^^ bring ; 

He standeth tied, lo, among the briars. 

Now, Abraham, amend thy mood. 
For Isaac, thy young son, that here is, 

This day shall not shed his blood. 

Go, make thy sacrifice with yon ram. 
Now farewell, blessed Abraham, 
For unto heaven I go now home : 
The way is full gain.^'* 
Take up thy son so free ! 

[Exit Angel.'] 

Ab. Ah, Lord, I thank thee for thy great 
grace. 
Now am I eased ^^ in divers wise. 
Arise up, Isaac, my dear son, arise, 
Arise up, sweet child, and come to me ! 

7s. Ah, mercy, father, why smite ye not*? 
Ah, smite on, father, once with your 
knife ! 
Ab. Peace, my sweet son, and take no 
thought. 
For our Lord of Heaven hath granted 
thy life 
By his angel now, 

That thou shalt not die this day, son, 
truly. 
7s. Ah, father, full glad then were I, 
Iwis, father, I say, iwis, 
If this tale were true ! 
Ab. A hundred times, my son fair of hue, 
For joy thy mouth now will I kiss. 

7s. Ah, my dear father Abraham, 

Will not God 'be wroth that we do 
thus? 
Ab. No, no, hardily, my sweet son ! for 
yon same ram 
He hath sent hither down to us.^^ 

Yon beast shall die here in thy stead, 

In the worship of our Lord alone; 
Go fet him hither, my child, indeed. 
7s. Father, I will go hent ^'^ him by the 
head. 
And bring yon beast with me anon. 



Ah, sheep, sheep, blessed may thou be. 
That ever thou were sent down hither ! 



31 times. 

32 remove. 



33 did. 

34 straight. 



35 Manly's emenda- 
tion; MS. yeyed. 



36 Line arranirement ac- 
cording to Manly. 



37 seize. 



18 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Thou shall this day die for me, 
In the worship of the Holy Trinity. 
Now come fast and g'o we together, 

To my father of Heaven. 
Though thou be never so gentle and good, 
Yet had I liefer thou sheddest thy blood, 

Iwis, sheep, than I ! 

Lo, father, I have brought here, full 
smart, 
This gentle sheep, and him to you I 
give, 
But, Lord God, I thank thee with all my 
heart. 
For I am glad that I shall live. 
And kiss once my dear mother. 
Ah. Now be right merry, my sweet child. 
For this quick beast that is so mild 

Here I shall present before all other. 

7s. And I will fast begin to blow. 

This fire shall burn a full good speed. 
But, father, will I stoop down low. 
Ye will not kill me wdth your sword, I 
trowl 
Ah. No, hardily, sweet son, have no dread. 

My mourning is past. 
Is. Yea, but I would that sword were in a 
gleed,^* 

For, iwis, father, it makes me full 
ill aghast. 

Here Ahraham made Ms offering, kneeling 
and saying thus: 



Ah. Now, Lord God of Heaven in Trinity, 
Almighty God omnipotent, 
My offering I make in the worship of 
thee. 
And with this cpick beast I thee pre- 
sent. 
Lord, receive thou mine intent, 
As [thou] art God and ground of our 
grace. 

Deus. Abraham, Abraham, well may thou 
speed. 
And Isaac, thy young son, thee by ! 
Truly, Abraham, for this deed, 
I shall multiply both your seed, 
As thick as stars be in the sl^. 
Both more and less, 
And as thick as gravel in the sea, 
So thick multiplied your seed shall be : 
This grant I you for your goodness. 



Of you shall come fruit great. 

And ever be in bliss without end. 
For ye dread me, as God alone, 
And keep my commandments every one; 
My blessing I give, wheresoever ye 
wend! 

Ah. Lo, Isaac, my son, how think ye 
Of this work that we have wrought? 
Full glad and blithe we may be. 

Against the will of God that we 
grutched not. 
Upon this fair heath. 
Is. Ah, father, I thank our Lord evei-y 
deal. 
That my wit served me so well 

For to dread God more than my 
death. 



Ah. 



thou 



7s. 



Wliy, dearworthy son, were 
adread ? 
Llardily, child, tell me thy lore. 
Yea, by my faith, father, now have I 

rede,^^ 
I was never so afraid before. 
As I have been on yon hill. 
But, by my faith, father, I swear 
I will nevermore come there. 
But it be against my will ! 



Ah. 



38 five. 40 in 

39 judgment. foi' 



that manner, 
that purpose. 



Yea, come on with me, my own sweet 
son. 
And homeward fast now let us go. 
7s. By my faith, father, thereto I grant; 
I had never so good will to go home. 
And to speak with my dear mother ! 
Ah. Ah, Lord of Heaven, I thank thee! 
For now may I lead home with me 
Isaac, my young son so free. 
The gentlest child above all other, 
This may I well avow. 

Now, go we forth, my blessed son. 
7s. I grant, father, and let us go. 
For, by my troth, were I at home, 
I would never go out under that form.*° 
I pray God give us grace evermo. 
And all those that we be holden to. 

{Exeunt. Enter Doctor.^ 

Boctor.^'^ Lo, sovereigns and sirs, now 
have we shoAved 
This solemn story to great and small; 
It is good learning to learned and lewd,^^ 

41 A Doctor, or Expositor, frequently accompanied the 42 ignorant, 
miracle and morality plays to expound the moral teaching. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



19 



And the wisest of us all, 
Without any berrying.*^ 
For this story showeth you [here]. 
How we should keep, to our power, 

God's commandments without 
grutching. 

Trow ye, sirs, and ** God sent an angel. 
And commanded you your child to 
slay, 
By your troth, is there any of you 

That either would grutch or strive 
there-against *? 
How think ye now, sirs, thereby'? 

I trow there be thi'ee or four or more. 
And these women that weep so sorrow- 
fully 
When that their children die them 
from, 

As nature will and kind. 
It is but folly, I may well avow, 
To grutch against God or to grieve you. 



For ye shall never see him misehiefed, 
well I know, 

By land or water, have this in 
mind. 

And grutch not against our Lord God, 
In wealth or woe, whether *'^ that he 
you send, 
Though ye be never so hard bestead, 

For when he will, he may it amend. 
His commandments truly if ye keep with 
good heart. 
As this story hath now showed you 
before. 
And faithfully serve him while ye be 
quart,**' 
That ye may please God both even and 

morn. 
Now Jesu, that wore the crown of 
thorn, 

Bring us all to heaven's bliss ! 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 



FiKST Shepherd. 
Second Shepherd. 
Third Shepherd. 
Mak. 

Scene : Bethleliem, and the open country near it. 



Gill, Mak''s wife. 
An Angel 
Mary. 



[Scene I 
Enter First Shepherd.] 

Shep. Lord ! what, these weathers are 
cold ! and I am ill happed ; ^ 

I am near-hand - dold,^ so long have I 
napped ; 

My legs they fold, my fingers are 
chapped ; 

It is not as I would, for I am all lapped 
In sorrow. 

In storms and tempest. 

Now in the east, now in the west, 

Woe is him has never rest. 
Mid-day nor mon-ow ! 



But we seely * shepherds, that walk on 

the moor. 
In faith, we are near-hands out of the 

door ; 
No wonder, as it stands, if we be poor, 
For the tilth of our lands lies fallow as 

the floor, 
As ye ken. 
We are so lamed,^ 
For-taxed "^ and shamed,'^ 
We are made hand-tamed 

With these gentlery men. 

Thus they reave ^ us our rest. Our Lady 

them wary ! ^ 
These men that are lord-fast,^° they cause 

the plough tarry. 



43 threshing ; 


"the 


Toulmin Smith). 


2 almost. 


teaching of 


this 


44 if. 


3 numb. 


story comes 


out 


45 whichever. 


4 poor. 


without 


any 


46 in health. 


5 MS. hamyd 


threshing" 


(L. 


1 clothed. 


crippled. 



6 overta.xed. 

7 MS. ramyd. op- 

pressed (?). 

8 rob of. 



9 curse. 

10 bound to the serv- 
ice of lords. 



20 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



That ^1 men say is for the best, we find 


Why fares this world thus? Oft liave 


it contrary; 


we not seen ! 


Thus are husbands ^- opprest, in point to 


Lord, these weathers are spitous,"** and 


miscarry 


the weathers full keen; 


In life. 


And the frosts so hideous they water 


Thus hold they us under, 


mine een,-" 


Thus they bring- us in blunder; 


No lie. 


It were great wonder, 


Now in dry, now in wet. 


And ^^ over should we thrive. 


Now in snow, now in sleet, 




When my shoon freeze to my feet 


For may he get a painted sleeve, or a 


It is not all easy. 


brooch nowadays, 




Woe is him that him grieves, or once 


But as far as I ken, or yet as I go. 


again-says ! ^* 


We seely wed-men dree mickle woe ; -^ 


Dare no man him reprieve,^^ what mas- 


We have sorrow then and tlien, it falls 


tery he makes ; ^° 


oft so. 


And yet may no man believe one word 


Seely Capel, our hen, both to and fro 


that he says, 


She cackles; 


No letter. 


But begin she to croak. 


He can make purveyance,^'' 


To groan or to cluck. 


With boast and bragance,^^ 


Woe is him, our cock. 


And all is through maintenance 


For he is in the shackles. 


Of men that are greater. 






These men that are wed have not all their 


There shall come a swain, as proud as a 


will; 


po,i« 
He must borrow my wain, my inough 


When they are full hard stead,-" they 


sigh full still ; 


also; 


God wot they are led full hard and full 


Then I am full fain to grant ere he go. 


ill, 


Thus live we in pain, anger, and woe, 


In bower nor in bed they say nought 


By night and day. 


theretill,3o 


He nnist have if he longed. 


This tide. 


If I should forego it; 


My part have I found, 


I were better be hanged 


I know my lesson : 


Than once say him nay. 


Woe is him that is bound. 




For he nuist abide. 


It does me good, as I walk thus by mine 




own,-° 


But now late in our lives — a marvel to 


Of this world for to talk in manner of 


me, 


moan.-^ 


That I think my heart rives such wonders 


To my sheep will I stalk and hearken 


to see. 


anon, 


What that destiny drives, it should so 


There abide on a balk,^" or sit on a stone 


be!— 


Full soon. 


Some men will have two wives, and some 


For I trow, pardie,-^ 


men three. 


True men if they be. 


In store. 


We get more company 


Some are woe that have any; 


Ere it be noon. 


But so far can ^^ I, 




Woe is him that has many, 


[Enter Second Shepherd.] 


For he feels sore. 


2 Shep. Benste -* and Dominus ! what 


But young men of wooing, for God that 


may this bemean ? ^s 


you bought. 



11 that which. 

12 husbandmen. 
1.3 if. 

14 speaks against 
him 

15 reprove. 

10 liowever master- 



fully he acts. 
' the right to buy 
provisions for the 
royal household 
at a fixed price, 
irrespective of the 
market price. 



18 bragging. 

19 peacock 

20 by myself. 

21 in a complaining 
way. 

22 ridge. 

23 par Dieu. 



24 shortened from 
Benedicite ! bless 
me! 

za mean. 

26 spiteful. 

27 eyes. 

28 we poor married 



men endure much 
woe. 

29 bestead. 

30 thereto. 

31 know. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



21 



Be well ware of wedding, and think in 

your thought : 
*'Had I wist" is a thing it serves of 

nought ; 
Miekle still raouniing has wedding home 

brought, 
And griefs, 
With many a sharp shower. 
For thou may catch in an hour 
That shall [savor] full sour 
As long as thou lives. 

For, as ever read I epistle, I have one to 

my fere ^- 
As sharp as a thistle, as rough as a briar ; 
She is browed like a bristle, with a sour 

[looking] ^^ cheer; 
Had she once wet her whistle she could 
sing full clear 
Her pater-noster. 
She is as great as a whale. 
She has a gallon of gall ; 
By him that died for us all, 

I would I had run till I had lost 
her! 

1 Shep. God look over the row ! full deafly 

ye stand. 

2 Shep. Yea, the devil in thy maw, so 

tariying ! 

Saw thou anywhere of Daw? 

1 Shep. Yea, on a lea ^* land 
Heard I him blow ; he comes here at 

hand. 
Not far; 
Stand still. 

2 Shep. Why? 

1 Shep. For he comes, hope I. 

2 Shep. He will make us both a lie. 

But if ^^ we beware. 

[Enter Thind Shepherd.'] 

3 Shep. Christ's cross me speed, and 

Saint Nicholas ! 
Thereof had I need, it is worse than it 

was. 
Whoso could, take heed, and let the 

world pass: 
It is ever in dread and brittle as glass. 

And slithers.^" 
This world fared never so. 
With marvels mo and mo. 
Now in weal, now in woe. 

And all-thing writhes.^^ 



Was never since Noah's flood such floods 

seen, 
Winds and rains so rude, and storms so 

keen; 
Some stammered, some stood in doubt, as 

I ween ; 
Now God turn all to good! I say as I 

mean. 

For ponder : 
These floods so they drown 
Both in fields and in town, 
And bear all down. 

And tliat is a wonder. 

We that walk in the nights, our cattle to 

keep, 
We see sudden sights, when other men 

sleep. 
Yet methink my heart lights — I see 

shrews ^^ peep. 
Ye are two tall wights : ^^ I will give my 

sheep 
A turn. 
But full ill have I meant. 
As I walk on this bent,'*" 
I may lightly repent. 

My toes if I spurn. *^ 

Ah, sir, God you save, and master mine ! 
A drink fain would I have, and some- 
what to dine. 

1 Shep. Christ's curse, my knave, thou art 

a lither hind ! *- 

2 Shep. What, the boy list ^^ rave! 

Abide unto syne ; ** 

We have made it.*'' 
Ill thrift on thy pate! 
Through the shrew came late, 
Yet is he' in stale 

To dine, if he had it. 

3 Shep. Such servants as I, that sweats 

and swinks,'*'"' 

Eats our bread full drv, and that me for- 
thinks ; "^ 

We are oft wet and weary when master- 
men winks,*^ 

Yet comes full lately both dinners and 
drinks. 

But naitly *"> 

Both our dame and our sire. 

When we have run in the mire, 

They can nip at our hire,^° 

And pay us full lately. 



32 mate. 

33 MS. loten. 

34 fallow. 

35 unless. 



36 is slippery, unre- 
liable. 

37 is awry. 

38 knaves. 



39 stout fellows. 

40 heath. 

41 if I stumble. 

42 lazy servant. 



43 pleases to. 

44 wait till later. 
4r) i e. our meal. 
46 work. 



47 repents. 

48 sleep. 

40 thoroughly. 
50 take a bit off our 
wages. 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



But hear my truth, master, for the fare 

that ye make, 
I shall do thereafter work as I take ; ^^ 
I shall do a little, sir, and among ^- ever 

lake,s3 

For yet lay my supper never on my 
stomach 

In fields. 
Whereto should I threap f^* 
With my staff can I leap, 
And men say "light cheap 

Litherly foryields." •'•' 

/ Shep. Thou were an ill lad to ride 
a-wooing 
With a man that had but little of spend- 
ing. 

2 Shep. Peace, boy, I bade; no more 

jangling. 
Or I shall make thee full rad,'^^ by the 

heaven's king, 

With thy gauds ! ^ ' 
Where are our sheep, boy, we scorn? 

3 Shep. Sir, this same day at morn 
I them left in the corn. 

When they rang Lauds ; ^^ 

They have pasture good, they can not go 
wrong. 

1 Shep. That is right. By the rood, these 

nights are long ! 
Yet I would, ere we yode,^** one gave us a 
song. 

2 Shep. So I thought as I stood, to mirth 

us among.®" 

3 Shep. I grant. 

1 Shep. Let me sing the tenory. 

2 Shep. And I the treble so high. 

3 Shep. Then the mean falls to me; 

Let see how ye chant."^ 

Enter Mak, with a cloak thrown over his 
smock. 

Mak. Now, Lord, for thy names seven. "- 
that made both moon and stars, 
Well more than I can neven,®^ thy will. 

Lord, of me tharns ; '^* 
I am all uneven,®^ that moves oft my 

harns ; ""^ 
Now would God I were in heaven, for 
there weep no bainis 
So still ! 



1 Shep. Who is that pipes so poor? 
Mak. Would God ye wist how I fared ! 

Lo, a man that walks on the moor, 
And has not all his will ! 

2 Shep. Mak, where has thou gone? Tell 

us tidings. 

3 Shep. Is he come? Then each one take 

heed to his thing. 
{Takes his cloak from him.) 
Mak. What ! I be a yeoman, I tell you, 
of the king; 
The self and the same, sent "^ from a 
great lording, 
And such. 
Fie on you ! Go hence 
Out of my presence ! 
I must have reverence. 
Why, who be I? 

1 Shep. Why make ye it so quaint? 

Mak, ye do wrong. 

2 Shep. But, Mak, list ye saint ?«« j 

trow that ye long. 

3 Shep. I trow the shrew can paint, the 

devil might him hang! 
Mak. I shall make complaint, and make 
you all to thwang."" 
At a word. 
And tell even how ye doth. 

1 Shep. But, Mak, is that sooth? 
Now take out that southern tooth,''° 

And set in a turd ! 

2 Shep. Mak, the devil in your eye! a 

stroke would I lend you. 

3 Shep. Mak, know ye not me? By God, 

I could teen ^^ you. 
Mak. God look you all three! methought I 
had seen you. 
Ye are a fair company. 

1 Shep. Can ye now mean you?'^^ 

2 Shep. Shrew, jape ! '^^ 
Thus late as thou goes, 
What will men suppose? 
And thou has an ill noise '^* 

Of stealing of sheep. 

Mak. And I am true as steel, all men wit ! 

But a sickness I feel, that holds me full 
hot, 

My belly fares not well, it is out of es- 
tate. 



r>i i.e. I '11 work as 
I 'm paid. 

52 now and then. 

53 play. 

54 argue. 

55 a cheap bargain 
yields poorly. 

56 afraid. 



5 7 tricks. 

5S an early morning 

service of the 

church. 
59 went. 
i''0 for mirth among 

us. 
61 (Tlie song is 



wanting.) 

62 The seven sacred 
names of God in 
rabbinical litera- 
ture. 

63 name. 

64 lacks; i.e. thy 
will toward me 



leaves something 
to be desired. 

65 upset. 

66 brains. 

67 lit. messenger; 
MS. sond. 

68 play the saint. 

69 be flogged. 



you talk like a 
711 i.e. which makes 
south of England 
man. deceitfully. 
71 hurt, beat. 
7 2 remember. 

73 joke on. 

74 reputation. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



23 



3 Sliep. Seldom lies the devil dead by tlie 

Mak. Therefore 

Full sore am I and ill, 
If I stand stone still; 
I eat not a needle 

This month and more. 

1 Shep. How fares thy wife"? By my 

hood, how fares she? 
3Iak. Lies weltering, '^^ by the rood, by the 
fire, lo ! 
And a house full of brewed "' she drinks 

well too; 
111 speed other good that she will do 

But so! 
Eats as fast as she can. 
And each year that comes to man, 
She brings forth a lakin,'^* 
And some years two. 

But were I not more gracious, and richer 

by far, 
I were eaten out of house and of harbor; 
Yet is she a foul dowse,'''" if ye come 

near. 
There is none that trows nor knows a 

worse 

Than ken I. 
Now will ye see what I proffer? 
To give all in nw coffer 
To-morn ®° next to offer ^^ 
Her head-mass penny. 

2 Shep. I wot so f orwaked ^- is none in 

this shire : 
I would sleep if I took less to my hire. 

3 Shep. I am cold and naked, and would 

liave a fire. 

1 Shep. I am weary, for-raked,^^ and run 

in the mire. 
Wake thou ! 

2 Shep. Nay, I will lie down -by, 
For 1 must sleep, truly. 

3 Shep. As good a man's son was I 

As any of you. 

But, Mak, come hither! between shall 
thou lie down. 
Mak. Then might I let ^■^ you bcdene **° of 
that ye would round,®^ 
No di'ead. 
From my top to my toe 



Manus tuas commendo, 
Pvntio Pilato! 

Christ's cross me speed ! 

Then he rises, while the shepherds are 

asleep, and says: 
Now were time for a man that lacks what 

he would. 
To stalk privily then unto a fold, 
And nimbly to work then, and be not too 

bold, 
For he might aby ^^ the bargain, if it 
were told. 

At the ending. 
Now were time for to reel ; ^^ 
But he needs good counsel 
That fain would fare well. 

And has but little spending. 

But about you a circle as round as a 

moon, 
Till I have done that I will, till that it 

be noon, 
That ye lie stone-still, till that I have 

done. 
And I shall say there-till of good words 

a few 

On height ; «" 
Over your heads my hand I lift. 
Out go your eyes, fordo your sight ! °° 
But yet I must make better shift. 
And it be right. 

Lord, Avhat, they sleep hard ! that may ye 

all hear. 
Was I never a shepherd, but now will I 

lere.^i 
If the flock be scared, yet shall I nip 

near. 
How ! Draw hitherward ! now mends 
our cheer 

From sorrow. 
A fat sheep, I dare say, 
A good fleece, dare I lay. 
Eft quite "- when I may. 

But this will I borrow. 

[Exit, with sheep.] 

[Scene 2. Mak at the door of his house.] 

Mak. How, Gill, art thou in"? Get us 

some light. 
Wife. Who makes such din this time of 

the night ■? 



T5 a proverb, imply- 
ing suspicion of 
Mak : it 's not 
safe to trust ap- 
pearances. 

76 lounging. 

77 i.e. ale. 



7S plavthing, i.e. 

baby. 
"!> dear, donee; 
^ironical. 
80 tomorrow; MS. 

inserts at befoi'e 

next. 



81 to pay for her 
funeral service. 

82 worn out with 
watching. 

S3 worn out with 

walking. 
St hinder. 



85 altogether. 

so whisper ; two 

lines Seem to be 
missing here. , 

87 pay dearlv for. 

ss set about" the 
business. 

89 aloud. 



!)!) This is excellent 
fooling : Mak pre- 
tends to cast a 
charm over the 
sleeping shep- 

herds. 

91 learn. 

92 repay. 



24 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



I am set for to spin ; I hope not I might 
Rise a penny to win. I shrew them on 
height 
So fares! 
A housewife that has been 
To be raced thus between ! 
Here may no note ^^ be seen 

For such small chares.^* 

Mak. Good Avif e, open the heck ! ^^ Sees 

thou not what I bring? 
Wife. I may thole ""^ thee draw the sneck."^ 

Ah, come in, my sweeting! 
Mak. Yea, thou there not reck of my long 

standing. 
Wife. By the naked neck art thou like for 

to hang! 
Mak. Do way ! 

I am worthy my meat, 
For in a strait can I get 
More than they that swink and sweat 
All the long day. 

Thus it fell to my lot. Gill, I had such 
grace. 
Wife. It were a foul blot to be hanged 

for the case. 
Mak. I have scaped, Gillot, oft as hard a 

glace.^* 
Wife. But so long goes the pot to the 
water, men says, 
At last 
Comes it home broken. 
Mak. Well know I the token, 
But let it never be spoken. 

But come and help fast. 

I would he were slain, I list well eat : 
This twelvemonth was I not so fain of 
one sheep-meat. 
Wife. Come they ere he be slain, and hear 

the sheep bleat — 
Mak. Then might I be ta'en : that were a 
cold sweat! 
Go spar ^^ 
The gate door. 
Wife. Yes, Mak, 

For and they come at thy back — 
Mak. Then might I aby, for all the pack. 
The devil of the worse ! ^ 

Wife. A good bourd -' have I spied, since 
thou can none : 
Here shall we him hide till they be gone, 
In my cradle abide — let me alone — 



And I shall lie beside in childbed and 
groan. 
Mak. Thou rede ! ^ 

And I shall say thou was lighted * 
Of a knave child this night. 
Wife. Now, well is me ! Day bright, 
That ever I was bred ! 

This is a good guise and a far cast ; 
Yet a woman's advice helps at the last ! 
I wot never who spies; again go thou 
fast ! 
Mak. But I come ere they rise, else blows 
a cold blast ! 
I will go sleep. 

[Scene 3. Mak returns to the Shepherds.] 

Yet sleeps all this meinie,^ 
And I shall go stalk privily. 
As it had never been I 

That carried their sheep. 

1 Shep. Resurrex a mortruis! ^ have hold 

my hand ! 

Judas carnas dominus! I may not well 
stand. 

My foot sleeps, by Jesus ! and I Avater 
fasting. 

I thought that we laid us full near Eng- 
land. 

2 Shep. Ah, yea! 

Lord, what, I have slept well! 
As fresh as an eel. 
As light I me feel 

As leaf on a tree. 

3 Shep. Benste "^ be herein ! So my 

[body] quakes. 
My heart is out of skin, what-so it makes. 
Who makes all this din? So my brows 

black ! 
To the door will I win. Hark, fellows, 

wake ! 

We were four: 
See ye anywhere of Mak now? 

1 Shep. We were up ere thou. 

2 Shep. Man, I give God a vow, 

Yet yede ^ he nowhere. 

3 Shep. Methought he was lapt in a wolf- 

skin. 
1 Shep. So are many happed now : 
namely, within. 



93 work. 


97 latch. 


94 jobs. 


98 blow. 


95 door. 


99 shut. 


96 allow. 


1 then might I have 



a devil of a time 
from the whole 
pack (roughly). 
2 trick. 



3 advise well. 

4 delivered. 

5 company. 

6 Mock Latin here 



and in following 
line. 

7 God's blessing. 

8 went. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



25 



3 Shep. When we had long napped, me- 
thought with a gin " 
A fat sheep he trapped, but he made no 
din. 
2 Shep. Be still! 

Thy dream makes thee wood,^° 
It is but phantom, by the rood. 

1 Shep. Now God turn all to good. 

If it be his will ! 

2 Shep. Rise, Mak, for shame! thou lies 

right long. 
Mak. Now Christ's holy name be us 
among ! 
What is this? For Saint James, I may 

not well go! 
I trow I be the same. Ah, my neck has 
lain wrong 
Enough, 
Mickle thank, since yester-even ! 
Now, by Saint Stephen, 
I was flayed ^^ with a sweven ! ^- 
My heart out of-slough ^^ 

I thought Gill began to croak, and travail 

full sad, 
Well near at the first cock, of a young 

lad 
For to mend our flock. Then be I never 

glad ; 
I have tow on my rock,^^ more than ever 

I had. 

Ah, my head ! 
A house full of young tharms,^^ 
The devil knock out their harns ! ^'^ 
Woe is him has many bairns, 

And thereto little bread ! 

I must go home, by your leave, to Gill, 

as I thought. 
I pray you look my sleeve, that I steal 

nought : 
I am loth you to grieve, or from you take 

aught. 

[Exit Mak.] 

3 Shep. Go forth, ill might thou cheve ! ^^ 

Now would I we sought. 
This morn. 
That we had all our store. 

1 Shep. But I will go before. 
Let us meet. 

2 Shep. Where"? 

9 trick. 

10 mad. 

11 frightened. 

12 dream. 

13 jumped out of my 
breast ( ? ) . 



3 Shep. At the crooked thorn. 

[Scene 4. Mak's house.'] 

Mak. {Knocking.) Undo this door! who 

is here"? How long shall I stand? 
Wife. Who makes such a bere?^^ — Now 

walk in the waniand ! ^^ 
Mak. Ah, Gill, what cheer?— It is I, Mak, 

your husband. 
Wife. Then may we see here the devil in 
a band, 

Sir Guile ! =« 
Lo, he comes with a late,^^ 
As he were holden in the throat. 
I may not sit at my note ^^ 
A hand-long while. 

Mak. Will ye hear what fare she makes 
to get her a gloze ? -^ 
And does nought but lakes,-'' and claws 
her toes. 
Wife. Why, who wanders, who wakes, 
who comes, who goes? 
Who brews, who bakes? What makes 
me thus hose? 
And then 
It is ruth -^ to behold. 
Now in hot, now in cold; 
Full woful is the household 
That wants a woman. 

But what end hast thou made with the 
herds,-« Mak? 
Mak. The last word that they said when I 
turned my back. 
They would look that they had their 

sheep, all the pack. 
I hope they will not be well paid when 
they their sheei"* lack, 
Pardie ! 
But howso the game goes, 
To me they will suppose,^'' 
And make a foul noise, 

And cry out upon me. 

But thou must do as thou hight,^^ 
Wife. I accord me thereto: 

I shall swaddle him right in my cradle. 

If it were a greater sleight, yet could I 
help till.2« 

I will lie down straight ; come hap ^° me. 
Mak. I will. 



to 



14 distaff; more 
provide for. 

15 bellies, i.e. chil 
dren. 

Ifi orains. 
17 thrive. 



18 noise. 

19 waning of 
moon — an 
lucky season. 

20 The meaning of 
these two lines is 



the 
un- 



not clear; appar- 25 pity, 

ently something 26 shepherds, 

uncomplimentary. 27 suspect. 

21 noise. 28 promised. 

22 work. 29 toward our pur- 

23 excuse. pose. 

24 plays. 30 wrap up. 



26 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Wife. Behind ! 

Come Coll and his marvow,^^ 

They will nip us full narrow. 
Mak. But I may cry out "Harrow !" •''- 
The sheep if they find. 

Wife. Hearken ay when they call: they 
will come anon. 
Come and make ready all, and sing by 

thine own; 
Sing "Lullay!" thou shall, for I must 

groan. 
And cry out by the wall on Mary and 
John, 

[Full] ^^ sore. 
Sing "Lullay" on fast 
When thou hears at the last; 
And but I play a false cast, 
Trust me no more. 

[Scene 5. The fields.] 

3 Sliep. Ah, Coll, good morn! Why 
sleeps thou not"? 

1 Shep. Alas, that ever was I born ! We 

have a foul blot ! 
A fat wether have we lorn.^* 
3 Shep. Marry, Gods forbid! 

2 Shep. Who should do us that scorn? 

That were a foul spot. 
1 Shep. Some shrew.^^ 

I have sought with my dogs, 
All Horbui-y Shrogs,^^ 
And of fifteen hogs 

Found I but one ewe. 

3 Shep. Now trow me if ye will : by Saint 

Thomas of Kent,^'^ 
Either Mak or Gill was at that assent ! 

1 Shep. Peace, man, be still ! I saw when 

he went. 
Thou slanders him ill ; thou ought to re- 
pent, 

Good speed. 

2 Shep. Now as ever might I thee,^^ 
If I should even here die, 

I would say it were he 

That did that same deed. 

3 Shep. Go we thither, I rede, and run 

on our feet. 
Shall I never eat bi'ead, the sooth till I 
wit. 



1 Shep. Nor drink in my head with him 

till I meet. 
2 . Shep. I will rest in no stead ^^ till that 
I him greet, 
My brother. 
One I will hight : ^° 
Till I see him in sight 
Shall I never sleep one night 
There *^ I do another. 

[Scene 6. The Shepherds come to Mak's 
house. 1 

3 Shep. Will ye hear how they hack ! *- 
our sire *^ list croon. 

1 Shep. Heard I never none crack so 

clear out of tune. 
Call on him. 

2 Shep. Mak! undo your door soon. 
Mak. Who is it that spake, as it were 

noon, 

On loft? 4* 
Who is that, I say"? 

3 Shep. Good fellows, were it day! 
Mak. As far as ye may. 

Good, speak soft, 

Over a sick woman's head that is at 

malease ; *^ 
I had liefer be dead or she had any 
disease. 
Wife. Go to another stead; I may not 
well quease.*® 
Each foot that ye tread goes through 
my nose. 
So high! 
1 Shep. Tell us, Mak, if ye may, 

How fare ye, I say? 
Mak. But are ye in this town to-day? 
Now how fare ye? 

Ye have run in the mire, and are wet yet ; 
I shall make you a fire, if ye will sit. 
A nurse would I hire ; think ye one yet.*'' 
Well quit is my hire — *^ my dream, this 
is it— *» 

A season. 
I have bairns, if ye knew, 
Well more than enow; 
But we must drink as we brew, 

And that is but reason. 

I would ye dined ere ye yode; methink 
that ye sweat. 



31 mate. 

32 a call for help. 

33 Ms. for. 

34 lost. 

35 knave. 

30 Horbury Thick- 
ets ; Horburj' is a 
village near 



Wakefield. The 
reference helps to 
localize the 

Townelev plavs at 
Wakefield. 
37 Thomas a Becket, 
buried in Canter- 
bury Cathedral, 



in Kent. 

38 thrive. 

39 place. 

40 one thing I prom- 
ise. 

41 where. 

42 sing; the shep- 
herds hear Mak 



and Gill singing 
their pretended 
lullabv. 

43 i.e. Mak. 

44 loudly. 

45 in distress. 

46 meaning un- 
known (N. E. 



D.) ; perhaps 

wheeze, breathe ? 

47 i.e. tell me of one 
if you can. 

48 I am well paid. 

49 i.e., this is iust 
what I dreamed. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



27 



2 Shep. Nay, neither mends our mood,^° 

drink nor meat. 
Mak. Why, sir, ails you aught but good ? 

3 Shep. Yea, our sheep that we get. 
Are stolen as they yode; our loss is 

great. 
Mak. Sirs, drink ! 
Had I been there. 
Some should have bought it full sore. 

1 Shep. Mari-y, some men trows that ye 

were, 

And that us forthinks.^^ 

2 Shep. Mak, some men trows that it 

should be ye. 

3 Shep. Either ye or your spouse; so say 

we. 
Mak. Now if ye have suspicion to Gill or 
to me. 
Come and rip our house, and then may 
ye see 

Who had her, 
If I any sheep fot,^^ 
Either cow or stot,^^ 
And Gill, my wife, rose not 
Here since she laid her. 

As I am both true and leal, to God here 

I pray. 
That this be the first meal that I shall 
eat this day. 
1 Shep. Mak, as I have seel,^* advise thee, 
I say; 
He learned timely to steal, that could 
not say nay. 
Wife. I swelt l'^^ 

Out, thieves, from my won ! ^^ 
Ye come to rob us, for the nonce. 
Mak. Hear ye not how she groans'? 
— Your hearts should melt. 

Wife. Out, thieves, from my baim ! Nigh 

him not there ! 
Mak. Wist ye how she had fared, your 
hearts would be sore. 
Ye do wrong, I you warn, that thus 

comes before 
To a woman that has fared — but I say 
no more ! 
Wife. Ah, my middle! 
I pray to God so mild. 
If ever I you beguiled. 
That I eat "this cliild 

That lies in this cradle. 



Mak. Peace, woman, for God's pain, and 
cry not so : 
Thou spills thy brain, and makes me full 
woe. 

2 She J). I trow our sheep be slain. What 

find ye two? 

3 Shep. All work we in vain ; as well may 

we go. 

But, hatters," 
I can find no flesh. 
Hard nor nesh,^^ 
Salt nor fresh. 

But two toom ^^ platters : 

Quick *'" cattle but this, tame nor wild, 
None, as have I bliss, as loud as he 

smiled. 
Wife. No, so God me bless, and give me 

joy of my child ! 

1 Shep. We have marked amiss; I hold 

us beguiled. 

2 Shep. Sir, done! 

Sir, Our Lady him save! 
Is your child a knave? '^^ 
Mak. Any lord might him have, 
This child to his son. 

When he wakens he kips,''- that joy is to 
see. 

3 Shep. In good time to his hips, and in 

seel ! *53 
But who were his gossips,^* so soon 
ready? 
Mak. So fair fall their lips ! 

1 Shep. Hark now, a lie! 
Mak. So God them thank. 

Parkin, and Gibbon Waller, I say, 
And gentle John Home, in good fay,*'^ 
He made all the garray,'''' 

With the great shank. ®^ 

2 Shep. Mak, friends will we be, for we 

are all one. 
Mak. We ! *'^ now I hold for me, for 
amends get I none. 
Farewell all three ! all glad were ye gone. 
[They leave the house.] 

3 Shep. Fair words may there be, but 

love is there none 
This year. 

1 Shep. Gave ye the child anything? 

2 Shep. I trow, not one farthing. 

3 Shep. Fast again will I fling. 

Abide ye me there. 

[He returns to the house.] 



50 helps our case. 

51 makes us repent. 

52 fetched. 

53 steer. 



54 bliss. 

55 faint. 

56 house 
text). 



(Pl. 



57 an exclamation. 

58 soft. 
nn empty. 
00 living. 



61 boy. 

02 snatches. 

03 good luck to him ! 
64 godparents. 



05 faith. 

OG commotion. 

07 long legs. 

68 an exclamation. 



28 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Mak, take it to no grief, if I come to thy 
bairn. 
Mak. Nay, thou does me great reprief,^" 

and foul has thou fared. 
3 Shep. The child will it not grieve, that 
little day-star. 
Mak, with your leave, let me give your 
bairn 

But sixpence. 
Mak. Nay, do way : '^^ he sleeps. 
3 Shep. Methink he peeps. 
Mak. When he wakens he weeps. 
I pray you go hence. 

[First and Second Shepherds return.] 
3 Shep. Give me leave him to kiss, and 

lift up the clout. 
What the devil is this'? He has a long 

snout ! 

1 Shep. He is marked amiss. We wait 

ill about. 

2 Shep. Ill spun weft, I wis, ay comes 

foul out. 
Aye, so"? 
He is like to our sheep! 

3 Shep. How, Gib, may I peep'? 

1 Shep. I trow, kind ''^ will creep 

Where it may not go.^- 

2 Shep. This was a quaint gaud,'^^ and a 

far cast ; 
It was a high fraud. 

3 Shep. Yea, sirs, was 't. 
Let burn this bawd, and bind her fast. 
A false scold hangs at the last ; 

So shall thou. 
Will ye see how they swaddle 
His four feet in the middle'? 
Saw I never in a cradle 

A horned lad ere now. 

Mak. Peace, bid I! What, let be your 
fare ! 
I am he that him gat, and yond woman 
him bare. 

1 Shep. What devil shall he hight,^* Mak? 

Lo, God, Mak's heir ! 

2 Shep. Let be all that. Now God give 

him care, 
I say. 
Wife. A pretty child is he. 
As sits on a woman's knee; 
A dilly-down, pardie. 

To ffar ''^ a man laugh. 



3 Shep. I know him by the ear-mark — 

that is a good token. 
Mak. I tell you, sirs, hark, his nose was 

broken. 
Sithen ^^ told me a clerk that he was for- 

spoken.'^'^ 

1 Shep. This is a false work — I would 

fain be wroken : ''^ 
Get a weapon ! 
Wife. He was taken by an elf,''^^ 
I saw it myself; 
When the clock struck twelve. 
Was he forshapen.^° 

2 Shep. Ye two are well feoffed sam ^^ in 

a stead. 
1 Shep. Since they maintain their theft, 

let do them to dead.®- 
Mak. If I trespass eft, gird *^ off my 
head ! 
With you will I be left.«* 
1 Shep. Sirs, do my rede : 

Foi- this trespass, 
We will neither ban nor flyte ^^ 
Fight nor chide. 
But have done as tight, 

And cast him in canvas. 
[They toss Mak in a sheet.] 

[Scene 7. The fields.] 

1 Shep. Lord, what! I am sore, in point 

for to burst ; 
In faith, I may no more ; therefore will I 
rest. 

2 Shep. As a sheep of seven score he 

weighed in my fist. 
For to sleep anywhere, methink that I 
list. 

3 Shep. Now I pray you. 
Lie down on this green. 

1 Shep. On these thieves yet I mean.^*^ 
3 Shep. Whereto should ye tene'?^'^ 
Do as I say you. 

An Angel sings '^Gloria in Excelsis" ; then 
let him say: 
Rise, herdmen hend,*® for now is he born 
That shall take from the fiend that «" 

Adam had lorn : 
That warlock ^'^ to shend,^i ^\^[^ jiig.}jt jg 
he bom. 



09 injury. 

70 have done, quit. 

Ti nature. 

72 walk; this was a 
fommon proverb, 
here signifying 
that nature will 



show itself 
true colors. 

73 trick. 

74 be named. 
7.5 make. 

70 afterwards. 
77 bewitched. 



78 revenged. 

79 i.e. by the fairies, 
and a changeling 
substituted. 

80 changed in shape. 

81 agreed together. 



82 have them put to 
death. 

83 strike. 

84 I shall be in 
your power. 

85 curse nor 
wrangle. 



80 consider. 

87 grieve. 

88 gracious. 

89 that which. 

90 fiend. 

91 overthrow. 



THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 



29 



God is made your friend now at this 
morn. 

He behests ^- 
To Bedlem ^^ go see, 
There lies that free ^^ 
In a crib full poorly, 

Betwixt two beasts. 

Shep. This was a quaint steven ^^ that 

ever yet I heard. 
It is a marvel to neven,"^ thus to be 

scared. 
Shep. Of Grod's son of heaven, he spake 

upward. 
All the wood in a levin,^^ methought that 

he gard ^® 
Appear. 
Shep. He spake of a bairn 
In Bedlem, I you warn. 
Shep. That betokens yond star; 
Let us seek him there. 

Shep. Say, what was his song? Heard 

ye not how he cracked it, 
Three breves to a long? ^^ 
Shep. Yea, many, he hacked ^ it. 

Was no crochet wrong-, nor nothing that 

lacked it. 
Shep. For to sing us among, right as he 

knaeked - it, 
I can. 
Shep. Let see how ye croon. 
Can ye bark at the moon"? 
Shep. Hold your tongues, have done ! 
Shep. Hark after, then. 



2 Shep. To Bedlem he bade that we 

should gang ; ^ 
I am full feared that we tarry too long. 

3 Shep. Be merry and not sad ; of mirth 

is our song, 
Everlasting glad to meed may we fang * 
Without noise. 

1 Shep. Hie we thither forthy,^ 
If we be wet and weary, 

To that child and that lady : 

We have it not to lose. 

2 Shep. We find by the prophecy — let be 

your din ! — 
Of David and Isaiah, and more than I 

mind. 
They prophesied by clergy, that in a 

virgin 



Should he light and lie, to slocken ^ our 
sin 

And slake it, 
Our kind from woe; 
For Isaiah said so, 
Ecce virgo 

Concipiet a child that is naked. 

Shep. Full glad may we be and abide 

that day. 
That lovely to see that all mights may.'^ 
Lord, well were me for once and for ay. 
Might I kneel on my knee some word for 

to say 

To that child. 
But the angel said 
In a crib was he laid. 
He was poorly arrayed, 

Both meek ^ and mild. 

Shep. Patriarchs that have been, and 

prophets befoi^e, 
They desired to have seen this child that 

is born. 
They are gone full clean ; that have they 

lorn. 
We shall see him, I ween, ere it be mora, 

To token.9 
When I see him and feel, 
Then wot I full well 
It is true as steel 

That prophets have spoken : 

To so poor as we are that he would ap- 

l^ear, 
First find, and declare by his messenger. 
Shep. Go we now, let us fare ; the place 

is us near. 
Shep. I am ready and yare,^" go we in 

fere ^^ 

To that bright.i2 

Lord, if thy will it be. 
We are lewd,^^ all three; 
Thou grant us somekind glee, 
To comfort thy wight. 

[Scene 8. The stable in Bethlehem.] 

Shep. Hail, comely and clean! hail, 

young child ! 
Hail, Maker, as I mean, of a maiden so 

mild ! 
Thou hast waried,^* I ween, the warlock 

so wild. 



!i2 commands. 
03 Bethlehem. 

94 noble (child). 

95 voice. 

96 name 

97 in a flash of 
lightning. 



98 made. 

99 three short notes 
to one long note. 

1 sang. 

2 trilled. 

3 go. 

4 everlasting "*■ glad- 



ness may we take 
as our reward. 

5 therefore. 

6 do away with. 

7 to see that lovely 

one that shall 
have all power. 



8 Ms. tnener ; Kitt- 

redge's emenda- 
tion. 

9 for evidence. 

10 prepared. 

11 together. 

12 supply "one" or 



"child." 

13 ignorant. 

14 banned. 



30 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



The false guiler of teen/^ now goes he 




I bring thee but a ball; 


beguiled. 




Have and play thee with all. 


Lo, he merries ! ^^ 




And go to the tennis. 


Lo, he laughs, my sweeting! 






A welfare ^^ meeting! 


Mary. The Father of Heaven, God om- 


I have holden my highting.^^ 




nipotent. 


Have a bob of cherries ! 




That set all on seven,-* his son has he 
sent. 


2 Shep. Hail, sovereign savior, for thou 




My name could he neven,-^ and alighted 


has us sought! 




ere he went. 


Hail, freely 13 f ood =° and flower, that 




I conceived him full even, through might, 


all-thing has wrought! 




as he meant ; 


Hail, full of favor, that made all of 




And now he is born. 


nought ! 




He keep you from woe ! 


Hail ! I kneel and I cower. A bird have 




I shall pray him so; 


I brought 




Tell forth as ye go. 


To my bairn. 




And mind on this mom. 


Hail, little tiny mop,-i 






Of our creed thou art crop ! -^ 


1 


Shep. Farewell, lady, so fair to behold, 


I would drink in thy cup. 




With thy child on thy knee. 


Little day-star! 


2 


Shep. But he lies full cold. 
Lord, well is me! now we go, thou be- 


3 Shep. Hail, darling dear, full of god- 




hold. 


head ! 


3 


Shep. Forsooth, already it seems to be 


I pray thee be near, when that I have 




told 


need. 




Full oft. 


Hail! sweet is thy cheer! My heart 


1 


Shep. What grace we have found ! 


would bleed 


2 


Shep. Come forth, now are we won.^^ 


To see thee sit here in so poor weed, 


3 


Shep. To sing are we bound : 


With no pennies. 




Let take on loft.-'^ 


Hail ! put forth thy dall ! -^ 




[Exeunt.'] 



15 woe. 

Ifi is merry. 

17 happy. 

18 kept my promise. 



m noble. 

20 child (that which 
is fed ) . 

21 moppet, darling. 



22 flower. 

23 hand. 

24 completed the 
work of creation 



in seven days. 

25 did he name. 

26 successful in our 
quest. 



27 let it ring on 
high. 



THE MORALITY 



EVERYMAN 



The morality is, by the most recent and 
most exact definition (W. R. Mackenzie in 
The English Moralities) "a play allegorical 
in structure, which has for its main object 
the teaching of some lesson for the guidance 
of life, and in which the principal characters 
are personified abstractions or highly uni- 
versalized types." It will be readily seen 
that the morality differs from the miracle in 
several important respects. Whereas in the 
typical miracle, the writer found his ma- 
terial arranged to his hand and took his plot, 
his chief characters, and sometimes the basis 
for his dialogue, from the Bible narrative, 
the author of the morality, though he fre- 
quently had recourse for plot to the moral 
allegories of which the Middle Ages were so 
fond, was compelled to rely more upon his 
own invention. The purpose of the miracle 
was to familiarize the audience with Bible 
history and the doctrines of the church ; the 
morality was equally didactic but its teach- 
ing was more abstract. The people of the 
miracle were historical and real, in the sense 
that they stepped straight out of the Bible 
to the stage, where, to be sure, they were 
sometimes joined by such thoroughly Elig- 
lish figures as those of the Second Shepherds' 
Play ; the personages of the morality were 
virtues and vices acting in accordance with 
their names, or types of humanity in general, 
and thus by nature had somewhat less of 
individuality and human appeal. In one re- 
spect, however, the conception of character in 
the morality is stronger than that in the 
miracle. The morality is based on the idea 
that character is not static, but subject to 
change and development; the element of con- 
flict between vice and virtue, wisdom and 
folly, at the heart of the morality, is of the 
very essence of drama. 

Though the morality is a younger type 
than the miracle, it must not be thought of 
as an evolution from the older didactic 
drama. It was in all probability of inde- 
pendent origin, springing up apparently about 
the beginning of the fifteenth century. The 
oldest surviving example is The Castle of 
Perseverance, dating from about 1400. Four 
other moralities are assigned to the fifteenth 
century; during the sixteenth the type at- 
tained considerable popularity, and the 
middle fifty years of that century may be 
called the morality's heyday. 

The morality plays may be classified in 
several groups on the basis of allegorical 



31 



structure, as follows (the classification is 
Mackenzie's) : 1, those which depict a conflict 
between virtues and vices for supremacy, or 
for the possession of man; 2, those which 
illustrate a special text; 3, those which give 
warning of the summons of death; 4, those 
which take one side of a religious or political 
controversy. Of the first and largest class, 
The Castle of Perseverance is a good example : 
the seven cardinal virtues defend the castle 
and its lord Mankind against the attack of 
the seven deadly sins. Not all the warfare 
of the morality stage symbolized the struggle 
everlasting of man's spiritual nature; John 
Bedford's excellent Wit and Science, wherein 
Science (Learning) and Idleness are at odds 
over the young gallant Wit, is one of several 
plaj's in which the strife is intellectual rather 
than spiritual. Such plays, in their pur- 
pose to popularize the new learning, show 
the spirit of the Renascence; advocates and 
opponents of the Reformation also discov- 
ered that the stage could be made to serve 
for propaganda, and there result such morali- 
ties, in the fourth of our classes, as Lynd- 
say's political Satire of the Three Estates 
and Bishop Bale's violently anti-papal Kyng 
Jolvan. The second class, (which may be 
typified by All for Money, illustrating the text 
" The love of money is the root of all evil "), 
is small and imimportant; the third is even 
smaller, comprising but two plays, but of 
these one is the finest of all the moralities, 
Everyman. 

To revert to our definition, it is evident 
that Everyman is allegorical in structure, 
and that it teaches a lesson for the guidance 
of life. Apart from the general didacticism, 
there are passages upholding specific doc- 
trines and practices of the church — e.g., 
Everyman's confession and penance (pp. 
40-1 ) , the enumeration of the seven sacra- 
ments, the praise of the priesthood immedi- 
ately following. These passages, which con- 
vey the specific ecclesiastical moral of the 
efficacy of the sacraments, doubtless point 
to clerical composition. Of the characters, 
God is individual, with nothing of the typi- 
cal or abstract about him, Everyman is a 
highly universalized type, Friendship, Kin- 
dred and Cousin are also types, while the 
others are abstractions. Only Everyman 
hims3lf possesses much vitality, but the de- 
velopment of his character is done with force 
and skill. The way in which his first gay 
nonchalance shades into a daAvning compre- 



32 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



hension of his danger as he comes to under- 
stand the seriousness of Death's summons, 
his increasing panic as one after another of 
his false friends deserts him, until he breaks 
out in an appeal of genuine terror — 

Good Deeds, I pray you, help me in this need, 
Or else I am for ever damned indeed — 

his relief when Knowledge promises to stand 
by him, his pious assurance of well-being 
after he has received the sacraments, and the 



fresh access of fear when his bodily faculties 
leave him fainting on the brink of the grave 
— this true picture of human life is presented 
with grim earnestness, yet with a sympathy 
which grips the heart. The real power of 
Everyman lies in its universal appeal — it 
comes home to men's business and bosoms. 
The modern revival of the play gave con- 
vincing proof that the morality was not the 
lifeless shell it has often been made out, and 
rendered quite intelligible the hold it had 
upon sixteenth-century audiences. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



God. 


Goods. 


Discretion. 


Death. 


Good Deeds. 


Five-Wits. 


Everyman. 


Knowledge. 


Angel. 


Fellowship. 


Confession. 


Messenger. 


Kindred. 


Beauty. 


Doctor. 


Cousin. 


Strength. 





Here heginneth a treatise how the High 
Father of Heaven sendeth Death to sum- 
mon every creature to come and give ac- 
count of their lives in this world and is 
in manner of a moral play. 

Messenger. I pray you all give your audi- 
ence, 

And hear this matter with reverence, 

By figure ^ a, moral play : 

The Summoning of Everyman called it is, 

That of our lives and ending shows 

How transitory we be all day. 

This matter is wondrous precious, 

But the intent of it is more gracious, 

And sweet to bear away. 

The story saith : — Man, in the beginning. 

Look well, and take good heed to the 
ending. 

Be you never so gay; 

Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet, 

Which in the end eauseth the soul to 
weep. 

When the body lieth in clay. 

Here shall you see how Fellowship and 
Jollity, 

Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty, 

Will fade from thee as flower in May. 

For ye shall hear, how our heaven king 

1 in form. 



Calleth Eveiyman to a general reckon- 
ing: 
Give audience, and hear what he doth say. 

God speaketh. 

God. I perceive here in my majesty, 

How that all creatures be to me unkind, 

Living without dread in worldly pros- 
perity ; 

Of ghostly - sight the people be so blind. 

Drowned in sin, they know me not for 
their God; 

In worldly liches is all their mind. 

They fear not my righteousness, the 
sharp rod ; 

My law that I showed, when I for them 
died, 

They forget clean, and shedding of my 
blood red; 

I hanged between two, it cannot be de- 
nied ; 

To get them life I suffered to be dead; 

I healed their feet, with thorns hurt was 
my head ; 

I could do no more than I did truly. 

And now I see the people do clean for- 
sake me: 

They use the seven deadly sins damn- 
able, 

2 spiritual. 



THE MOEAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



33 



As pride, covetise, wrath, and lechery, 
Now in the world be made commenda- 
ble, 
And thus they leave of ang-els the heav- 
enly comi^any; 
Every man liveth so after his own pleas- 
ure, 
And yet of their life they be nothing 

sure. 
I see the more that I them forbear 
The worse they be from year to year; 
Ail that liveth appaireth ^ fast ; 
Therefore I will in all the haste 
Have a reckoning of every man's per- 
son. 
For and "* I leave the people thus alone 
In their life and wicked tempests. 
Verily they will become much worse than 

beasts. 
For now one would by envy another up 

eat; 
Charity they all do clean forget. 
I hoped well that every man 
In my glory should make his mansion. 
And thereto I had them all elect; 
But now I see, like traitors deject. 
They thank me not for the pleasure that 

I to them meant. 
Nor yet for their being that I them have 

lent. 
I proffered the people great multitude of 

mercy. 
And few there be that ask it heartily; 
They be so cumbered with worldly riches, 
That needs on them I must do justice, 
On every man living without fear. 
Where art thou. Death, thou mighty mes- 
senger *? 
Death. Almighty God, I am here at your 
will, 
Your commandment to fulfil. 
God. Go thou to Everyman, 
And show him in my name 
A pilgrimage he must on him take. 
Which he in no wise may escape ; 
And that he bring' with him a sure reck- 
oning: 
Without delay or any tarrying. 
Death. Lord, I will in the world go run 
over all, 
And cruelly out search both great and 

small. 
Every man will I beset that liveth beastly 
Out of God's laws, and dreadeth not 

folly. 
He that loveth riches I will strike with 
my dart, 



His sight to blind, and from heaven to 
depart,^ 

Except that alms be his good friend, 

In hell for to dwell, world without end. 

Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking; 

Full little he thinketh on my coming; 

His mind is on fleshly lusts and his treas- 
ure, 

And great pain it shall cause him to en- 
dure 

Before the Lord, Heaven King. 

Enter Everyman. 

Everyman, stand still! Whither art 

thou going 
Thus gaily"? Hast thou thy Maker for- 
got? 
Everyman. Why askest thou? 

Wouldest thou wit "? ® 
Death. Yea, sir, I will show you; 
In great haste I am sent to thee 
From God, out of his majesty. 
Every. What, sent to me? 
Death. Yea, certainly. 

Though thou have forgot him here. 
He thinketh on thee in the heavenly 

sphere. 
As, ere we depart, thou shalt know. 
Every. What desireth God of me? 
Death. That shall I show thee: 
A reckoning he will needs have, 
Without any longer respite. 
Every. To give a reckoning longer leisure 
I crave ; 
This blind matter troubleth my wit. 
Death. On thee thou must take a long 
journey ; 
Therefore thy book of count with thee 

thou bring. 
For turn again thou can not by no way; 
And look thou be sure of thy reckoning, 
For before God thou shalt answer, and 

show 
Thy many bad deeds and good but a few, 
How thou hast spent thy life, and in what 

wise, 
Before the chief lord of paradise. 
Have ado that we were in that way. 
For, wit thou well, thou shalt make none 
attorney.''^ 
Every. Full unready I am such reckoning 
to give. 
I know thee not ; what messenger art 
thou? 
Death. I am Death, that no man dreadeth. 
For every man I rest,^ and no man spare; 



S decays. 



4 if. 



B separate. 



6 know. 



7 advocate. 



8 arrest. 



34 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



For it is God's commandment 
That all to me should be obedient. 
Every. O Death, thou comest when I had 

thee least in mind ! 
In thy power it lieth me to save; 
Yet of my good ^ will I give thee, if thou 

will be kind, 
Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have, 
And defer this matter till another day. 
Death. Evei-yman, it may not be by no 

way. 
I set not by gold, silver, nor riches, 
Nor by pope, emperor, king, duke, nor 

princes ; 
For and I would receive gifts great. 
All the world I might get, 
But my custom is clean contrary. 
I give thee no respite; come hence, and 

not tarry. 
Every. Alas, shall I have no longer 

respite ? 
I may say Death giveth no warning. 
To think on thee, it maketh my heart 

sick, 
For all unready is my book of reekon- 

But twelve year and I might have abid- 
ing, 
My counting book I would make so cleai", 
That my reckoning I should not need to 

fear. 
Wherefore, Death, I pray thee, for God's 

mercy. 
Spare me till I be provided of remedy. 
Death. Thee availeth not to cry, weep, 

and pray. 
But haste thee lightly that thou were 

gone that journey, 
And prove thy friends if thou can. 
For, wit thou well, the tide abideth no 

man, 
And in the world each living creature 
For Adam's sin must die of nature. 
Every. Death, if I should this pilgrimage 

take. 
And my reckoning surely make, 
Show me, for saint ^° charity. 
Should I not come again shortly? 
Death. No, Everyman ; and thou be once 

there. 
Thou mayst never more come here. 
Trust me verily. 
Every. gracious God, in the high seat 

celestial. 
Have mercy on me in this most need ! 
Shall I have no company from this vale 
terrestrial 



Of mine acquaintance that way me to 

lead? 
Death. Yea, if any be so hardy. 

That would go with thee and bear thee 

company. 
Hie thee that thou were gone to God's 

magnificence. 
Thy reckoning to give before his pres- 
ence. 
What, weenest thou thy life is given thee. 
And thy worldly goods also"? 
Every. I had wend " so, verily. 
Death. Nay, nay ; it was but lent thee ; 
For as soon as thou art gone. 
Another a while shall have it, and then 

go therefrom, 
Even as thou hast done. 
Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast 

thy wits five. 
And here on earth will not amend thy 

life! 
For suddenly I do come. 
Every. wretched caitiff, whither shall I 

flee, 
That I might scape this endless sorrow? 
Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-mor- 
row, 
That I may amend me 
With good advisement. 
Death. Nay, thereto I will not consent. 
Nor no man will I respite ; 
But to the heart suddenly I shall smite 
Without any advisement. 
And now out of thy sight I will me hie; 
See thou make thee ready shortly, 
For thou maj'st say this is the day 
That no man living may scape away. 
Every. Alas! I may well weep with sighs 

deep; 
Now have I no manner of company 
To help me in my journey, and me to 

keep ; 
And also my writing is full unready. 
How shall I do now for to excuse me? 
I would to God I had never been gotten ! 
To my soul a full gTeat profit it had been, 
For now I fear pains huge and great. 
The time passeth; Lord, help, that all 

wrought ! 
For though I mourn it availeth nought. 
The day passeth, and is almost agone; 
I wot not well what for to do. 
To whom were I best my complaint to 

make ? 
What and I to Fellowship thereof spake, 
And showed him of this sudden chance? 
For in him is all mine affiance ; ^^ 



9 property. 



10 holy. 



11 thought. 



12 confidence. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



35 



We have in the world so many a day 
Been good friends in sport and play. 
I see him yonder, certainly; 
I trust that he will bear me company; 
Therefore to him will I speak to ease 

my sorrow. 
Well met, good Fellowship, and good 

morrow ! 
Fellowship speaketh. Everyman, good 

morrow ! By this day, 
Sir, why lookest thou so piteously? 
If any thing be amiss, I pray thee me 

say, 
That I may help to remedy. 
Every. Yea, good Fellowship, yea, 

I am in great jeopardy. 
Fellow. My true friend, show to me your 
mind; 
I will not forsake thee, to my life's end. 
In the way of good company. 
Every. That was well spoken, and lov- 
ingly. 
Fellow. Sir, I must needs know your 
heaviness ; 
I liave pity to see you in any distress. 
If any have you wronged ye shall re- 
venged be. 
Though I on the ground be slain for 

thee, 
Though that I know before that I should 
die. 
Every. Verily, Fellowship, gramercy.^^ 
Fellow. Tush ! by thy thanks I set not a 
straw. 
Show me your grief, and say no more. 
Every. If I my heart should to you break. 
And then you to turn your mind from 

me, 
And would not me comfort, when ye hear 

me speak, 
Then should I ten times sorrier be. 
Felloio. Sir, I say as I will do indeed. 
Every. Then be you a good friend at need. 

T have found you ti'ue here before. 
Fellow. And so ye shall evemnore; 
For, in faith, and thou go to hell, 
I will not forsake thee by the way. 
Every. Ye speak like a good friend, I be- 
lieve you well ; 
I shall deserve it, and I may. 
Felloxc. I speak of no deserving, by this 
day. 
For he that will say and nothing do 
Is not worthy with good company to go. 
Therefore show me the grief of your 
mind. 



13 thanks. 

14 God. 



15 frighten. 

16 living. 



17 loathsome 



As to your friend most loving and kind. 
Every. I shall show you how it is: 
Commanded I am to go a journey, 
A long way, hard and dangerous. 
And give a strait count without delay 
Before the high judge Adonai.^* 
Wherefore I pray you, bear me com- 
pany. 
As ye have promised, in this journey. 
Fellow. That is matter indeed ! Promise 
is duty. 
But and I should take such a voyage on 

me, 
I know it well, it should be to my pain ; 
Also it makes me afeard, certain. 
But let us take counsel here as well as 

we can, 
For your words would fear ^^ a strong 
man. 
Every. Why, ye said, if I had need. 
Ye would me never forsake, quick ^^ nor 

dead. 
Though it were to hell, truly. 
Fellow. So I said, certainly. 

But such pleasures be set aside, the sooth 

to say; 
And also, if we took such a journey, 
When should we come again 1 
Every. Nay, never again till the day of 

doom. 
Fellow. In faith, then will not I come 
there ! 
Who hath you these tidings brought*? 
Every. Indeed, Death was with me here. 
Fellow. Now, by God that all hath bought. 
If Death were the messenger. 
For no man that is living to-day 
I will not go that loath ^^ journey — 
Not for the father that begat me! 
Every. Ye promised other wise, pardie ! ^^ 
Felloio. I wot well I say so, truly; 

And yet if thou wilt eat, and drink, and 

make good cheer, 
Or haunt to women the lusty company, 
I would not forsake you while the day 

is eleai', 
Trust me verily ! 
Every. Yea, thereto ye would be ready; 
To go to mirth, solace, and play. 
Your mind will sooner apply. 
Than to bear me company in my long 
journey. 
Fellow. Now, in good faith. I will not ^^ 
that way. 
But and thou will murder, or any man 
kill, 

18 par Dieu. 19 have no desire. 



36 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



In that I will help thee with a good 
will ! 
Every. Oh, that is a simple advice indeed ! 

Gentle Fellow, help me in my necessity; 

We have loved long', and now I need; 

Ajid now, gentle Fellowshij?, remember 
me. 
Fellow. Whether ye have loved me or no, 

By Saint John, I will not with thee go ! 
Every. Yet I pray thee, take the labor 
and do so much for me 

To bring" me fonvard, for saint charity, 

And comfort me till I come without the 
town. 
Fellow. Nay, and thou would give me a 
new gown, 

I will not a foot with thee go; 

But and thou had tarried, I would not 
have left thee so. 

And as now, God speed thee in thy jour- 
ney! 

For from thee I will dej^art as fast as I 
may. 
Every. Whither away, Fellowshii? ? will 

thou forsake me"? 
Fellow. Yea, by my fay ! =» To God I be- 
take 2^ thee. 
Every. Farewell, good Fellowship; for 
thee my heart is sore. 

Adieu for ever, I shall see thee no more. 
Fellow. In faith, Everyman, farewell now 
at the end; 

For you I will remember that parting is 
mourning. 
Every. Alack! shall we thus depart in- 
deed 1 

Ah, Lady, help ! without any more com- 
fort, 

Lo, Fellowship foi'saketh me in my most 
need. 

For help in this world whither shall I 
resort"? 

Fellowship herebefore with me would 
merry make, 

And now little sorrow for me doth he 
take. 

It is said, in prosperity men friends may 
find. 

Which in adversity be full unkind. 

Now whither for succor shall I flee, 

Sith22 that Fellowship hath forsaken 
me? 

To my kinsmen I will ti'uly, 

Praying them to help me in my neces- 
sity; 



I believe that they will do so. 

For kind ^^ will creep where it may not 
go.24 

I will g'o say,^^ for yonder I see them 
go. 

Where be ye now, my friends and kins- 
men ? 
Kindred. Here be we now at your com- 
mandment. 

Cousin, I pray you show us your intent 

In any wise, and not spare. 
Cousin. Yea, Everyman, and to us declare 

If ye be disj^osed to go any whither, 

For wit you well, [we] will live and die 
together. 
Kin. In wealth and woe we will with you 
hold. 

For over his kin a man may be bold. 
Every. Gramercy, my friends and kins- 
men kind; 

Now shall I show you the grief of my 
mind. 

I was commanded by a messenger. 

That is an high king's chief officer: 

He bade me go a pilgrimage to my pain. 

And I know well I shall never come 
again ; 

Also I must give a reckoning strait, 

For I have a great enemy that hath me 
in wait,-*^ 

Which intendeth me for to hinder. 
Kin. What account is that which ye must 
render ? 

That would I know. 
Every. Of all my works I must show 

How I have lived and my days spent ; 

Also of ill deeds, that I have used 

In my time, sith life was me lent; 

And of all virtues that I have refused. 

Therefore I pray you go thither with me, 

To help to make mine account, for saint 
charity. 
Cous. What, to go thither? Is that the 
matter? 

Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread 
and water 

All this five year and more. 
Every. Alas, that ever I was born! 

For now shall I never be meriy 

If that you forsake me. 
Kin. Ah, sir, what, ye be a merry man ! 

Take good heart to you, and make no 
moan. 

But one thing I warn you, by Saint 
Anne, 



20 faith. 

21 commend. 

22 since. 

23 kinship. 



24 walk; the line is 
a proverbial ex- 
pression of the 
idea that blood-re- 



lationship will 
compel assistance, 
even though the 
latter be given 



unwillingly. Cf, 
Second Shep- 

herds' Play, p, 
28. 



25 assay, try. 

26 lies in wait for me. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



37 



As for me, ye shall go alone. 
Every. My Cousin, will yon not with me 

go"? 
Cous. No, by our Lady ! I have the 
cramp in my toe. 
Trust not to me, for, so God me speed, 
I will deceive you in your most need. 
Kin. It availeth not us to tiee.^''^ 

Ye shall have my maid with all my heart ; 
She loveth to go to feasts, there to be 

niee,-^ 
And to dance, and abroad to start : 
I will give her leave to help you in that 

journey, 
If that you and she may agree. 
Every. Now show me the very effect of 
your mind ; 
Will you go with me, or abide behind'? 
Kin. Abide behind'? yea, that will I and 
I may! 
Therefore farewell till another day. 
Every. How should I be merry or glad"? 
For fair promises men to me make, 
But when I have most need, they me for- 
sake. 
I am deceived; that maketh me sad. 
Cous. Cousin Everyman, farewell now. 
For verily I will not go with you. 
Also of mine own an unready reckoning 
I have to account; therefore I make 

tari-ying. 
Now, God keep thee, for now I go. 
Every. Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto *? 
Lo, fair words make fools fain ; 
They promise, and nothing will do cer- 
tain. 
My kinsmen promised me faithfully 
For to abide with me steadfastly, 
And now fast away do they flee : 
Even so Fellowship promised me. 
What friend were best me of to pro- 
vide? 
I lose my time here longer to abide. 
Yet in my mind a thing there is — 
All my life I have loved riches; 
If that my Good now help me might. 
He would make my heart full light. 
I will speak to him in this distress. — 
Where art thou, my Goods and Riches'? 
Goods. Who calleth me'? Everyman'? 
what hast thou haste'? 
I lie hei'e in corners, trussed and piled so 

high. 
And in chests I am locked so fast, 
Also sacked in bags, thou mayst see with 
thine eye. 



I cannot stir; in packs low I lie. 

What would ye have, lightly me say. 
Every. Come hither, Good, in all the haste 
thou may, 

For of counsel I must desire thee. 
Goods. Sir, and ye in the world have sor- 
row or adversity. 

That can I help you to remedy shortly. 
Every. It is another disease that grieveth 
me; 

In this world it is not, I tell thee so. 

I am sent for another way to go, 

To give a strait count general 

Before the highest Jupiter -^ of all. 

And all my life I have had joy and 
pleasure in thee. 

Therefore I pray thee go with me ; 

For, peradventure, thou mayst before 
God Almighty 

My reckoning help to clean and purify, 

For it is said ever among, 

That money maketh all right that is 
wrong. 
Goods. Nay, Everyman, I sing another 
song, 

I follow no man in such voyages; 

For and I went with thee. 

Thou shouldst fare much tlie worse for 
me; 

For because on me thou did set thy mind, 

Thy reckoning I have made blotted and 
blind, 

That thine account thou can not make 
truly ; 

And that hast thou for the love of me. 
Every. That would grieve me full sore, 

When I should come to that fearful an- 
swer. 

Up, let us go thither together! 
Goods. Nay, not so ; I am too brittle, I 
may not endure ; 

I will follow [no] man one foot, be ye 
sure. 
Every. Alas, I have thee loved, and had 
great pleasure 

All my life-days in good and treasure. 
Goods. That is to thy damnation without 
lesing,^'' 

For my love is contrary to the love ever- 
lasting. 

But if thou had me loved moderately 
during,^^ 

As ^~ to the poor give part of me, 

Then shouldst thou not in this dolor 
be. 

Nor in this great sorrow and care. 



27 entice. 
-8 wanton. 



29 A curious intrusion of the name 
of the pagan deity. 



30 lying. 

31 for a while. 



^2 in such a way as. 



38 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Every. Lo, now was I deceived ere I was 
ware. 
And all I may wite ^^ my spending of 
time. 
Goods. What, weenest thou that I am 

thine? 
Every. I had wend so. 
Goods. Nay, Everyman, I say no; 
As for a while I was lent thee, 
A season thou hast had me in prosper- 
ity- ... 
My condition is man's soul to kill ; 

If I save one, a thousand I do spill,^* 
Weenest thou that I will follow thee? 
Nay, from this world not verily. 
Every. I had wend otherwise. 
Goods. Therefore to thy soul Good is a 

thief; 
For when thou art dead, this is my 

guise "^ — 
Another to deceive in the same wise 
As I have done thee, and all to his soul's 

reprief.^^ 
Every. false Good, cursed thou be ! 
Thou traitor to God, that hast deceived 

me. 
And caught me in thy snare. 
Goods. Marry, thou brought thyself in 

care, 
Whereof I am glad, 
I must needs laugh, I cannot be sad. 
Every. Ah, Good, thou hast had long my 

heartly love; 
I gave thee that which should be the 

Lord's above. 
But wilt thou not go with me in deed? 
I pray thee truth to say. 
Goods. No, so God me speed, 

Therefore farewell, and have good day. 
Every. Oh, to whom shall I make my 

moan 
For to go with me in that heavy journey? 
First Fellowship said he Avould with me 

go; 
His words were very pleasant and gay. 
But afterward he left me alone. 
Then spake I to my kinsmen all in de- 
spair, 
And also they gave me words fair. 
They lacked no fair speaking, 
But all forsake me in the ending. 
Then went I to my Goods, that I loved 

best. 
In hope to have comfort, but there had 

I least; 
For my Goods sharply did me tell 



33 blame to. 



34 destroy. 

35 practice. 



3G reproof, shame 
37 by my advice. 



That he bringeth many into hell. 
Then of myself I was ashamed, 
And so I am worthy to be blamed ; 
Thus may I well myself hate. 
Of whom shall I now counsel take? 
I think that I shall never speed 
Till that I go to my Good-Deed. 
But alas, she is so weak. 
That she can neither go nor speak ; 
Yet will I venture on her now. — 
My Good-Deeds, where be you? 
Good-Deeds. Here I lie, cold in the 
ground ; 
Thy sins have me sore bound, 
That I cannot stir. 
Every. Good-Deeds, I stand in fear; 
I must you pray of counsel. 
For help now should come right well. 
Good-D. Everyman, I have understanding 
That ye be summoned account to make 
Before Messias, of Jerusalem King; 
And you do by me ^^ that journey with 
you will I take. 
Every. Therefore I come to you, my moan 
to make ; 
I pray you that ye will go with me. 
Good-D. I would full fain, but I cannot 

stand, verily. 
Every. Wliy, is there anything on you 

fallen'? 
Good-D. Yea, sir, I may thank you of 
all; 38 
If ye had perfectly cheered ^^ me. 
Your book of count now full ready had 

been. 
Look, the books of your works and deeds 

eke — 
Ah, see how they lie under the feet. 
To your soul's heaviness. 
Every. Our Lord Jesus, help me ! 
For one letter here I can not see. 
Good-D. There is a blind reckoning in 

time of distress ! 
Every. Good-Deeds, I pray you, help me 
in this need. 
Or else I am for ever damned indeed. 
Therefore help me to make reckoning 
Before the redeemer of all thing, 
That king is, and was, and ever shall. 
Good-D. Everyman, I am sorrv of your 
fall. 
And fain would I help you, and I were 
able. 
Every. Good-Deeds, your counsel I pray 

you give me. 
Good-D. That shall I do verily; 

38 for everything. 39 cherished. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



39 



Though that on my feet I may not go, 
I have a sister, that shall with you also, 
Called Knowledge, which shall with you 

abide, 
Tef^iielp you to make that dreadful reek- 
l/^ oning'. 

Knowledge. Everyman, I will go with 
thee, and be thy guide, 
In thy most need to go by thy side. 
Every. In good condition I am now in 
every thing. 
And am wholly content with this good 

thing; 
Thanked be God my Creator! 
Good-D. And when he hath brought you 
there. 
Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart. 
Then go you with your reckoning and 

your Good-Deeds together. 
For to make you joyful at heart 
Before the blessed Trinity. 
Every. My Good-Deeds, gramerey; 
I am well content, certainly. 
With your words sweet. 
Know. Now go we together lovingly. 
To Confession, that cleansing- river. 
Every. For joy I weep; I would we were 
there. 
But, I pray you, give me cognition *° 
Where dwelleth that holy man, Confes- 
sion. 
Knoiv. In the house of salvation: 
We shall find him in that place, 
That shall us comfort by God's grace. — 

Enter Confession. 

Lo, this is Confession. Kneel down and 
ask mercy. 

For he is in good conceit *^ with God 
almighty. 
Every. glorious fountain that all uu- 
eleanness doth clarify, 

Wash me from the spots of vice unclean, 

That on me no sin may be seen. 

I come with Knowledge for my redemp- 
tion, 

Redempt with heai'ty and full contrition ; 

For I am commanded a pilgTimage to 
take. 

And great accounts before God to make. 

Now, I pray you, Shrift,'*- mother of sal- 
vation, 

Help my good deeds for my piteous ex- 
clamation. 
Confession. I know your sorrow well, 
Everyman ; 



•10 knowledge. 



41 favor. 

42 absolution. 



Because with Knowledge ye come to me, 
I will you comfort as well as I can. 
And a precious jewel I will give thee, 
Called penance, voider ''^ of adversity ; 
Therewith shall your body chastised be, 
With abstinence and perseverance in 

God's service : 
Here shall you receive that scourge of 

me, 
Which is penance strong, that ye must 

endure, 
To remember thy Savior was scourged 

for thee 
With sharp scourges, and suffered it pa- 
tiently ; 
So must thou, ere thou scajie that pain- 
ful ijilgrimage. 
Knowledge, keep him in this voyage. 
And by that time Good-Deeds will be 

with thee. 
But in any wise, be sicker '^^ of mercy. 
For your time draweth fast ; and ye will 

saved be. 
Ask God mercy, and He will grant truly. 
When with the scourge of penance man 

doth him bind, 
The oil of forgiveness then shall he find. 
Every. Thanked be God for his gracious 
work. 
For now I will my penance begin ; 
This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart, 
Though the knots be painful and hard 
within. 
Knoiv. Everyman, look your penance that 
ye fulfil. 
What pain that ever it to you be. 
And Knowledge shall give you counsel 

at will, 
How your account ye shall make clearly. 
Every. O eternal God, heavenly figure, 
way of righteousness, goodly vision. 
Which descended down in a virgin pure 
Because he would Everyman redeem, 
Which Adam forfeited by his disobedi- 
ence, 
blessed Godhead, elect and high-divine. 
Forgive my grievous offence ; 
Here I cry thee mercy in this presence. 
ghostly treasui^e, ransomer and re- 
deemer, 
Of all the world hope and conductor, 
Mirror of joy, founder of mercy. 
Which illumineth heaven and earth 

thereby, 
Hear my clamorous complaint, though it 
late be ! 

43 MS. voice voider; probably a 44 sure, 

scribal error. 



40 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Receive my prayers; unworthy in this 

heavy life 
Though I be, a sinner most abominable, 
Yet let my name be wi-itten in Moses' 

table. 

Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing. 
Me for to help at my ending, 

And save me from the power of my 

enemy, 
For Death assaileth me strongly; 
And, Lady, that I may by means of thy 

prayer 
Of your Son's glory to be partner, 
By the means of his passion I it crave, 

1 beseech you, help my soul to save ! — 
Knowledge, give me the scourge of 

penance. 

My flesh therewith shall give acquaint- 
ance. 

I will now begin, if God give me grace. 
Know. Eyeryman, God give you time and 
space : 

Thus I bequeath you in the hands of our 
Savior, 

Now may you make your reckoning sure. 
Every. Li the name of the Holy Trinity, 

My body sore punished shall be : 
{Scourges himself.) 

Take this, body, for the sin of the flesh ; 

Also thou delightest to go gay and fresh. 

And in the way of damnation thou did 
me bring; 

Therefore suffer now strokes of punish- 
ing. 

Now of penance I will wade the water 
clear. 

To save me from purgatory, that sharp 
fire. 
Good-D. I thank God, now I can walk and 
go, 

And am delivered of my sickness and 
woe. 

Therefore with Everyman I will go, and 
not spare; 

His good works I will help him to de- 
clare. 
Know. Now, Everyman, be merry and 
glad ; 

Your Good-Deeds cometh now, ye may 
not be sad ; 

Now is your Good-Deeds whole and 
sound. 

Going upright upon the ground. 
Every. My heart is light, and shall bo 
evermore ; 

Now will I smite faster than I did be- 
fore. 



Good-D. Everyman, pilgrim, my special 
friend. 
Blessed be thou without end ; 
For thee is prepared the eternal glory. 
Ye have me made whole and sound. 
Therefore I will bide by thee in every 
stound.*^ 
Every. Welcome, my Good-Deeds! Now 
I hear thy voice, 
I weep for very sweetness of love. 
Know. Be no more sad, but ever rejoice : 
God seeth thy living in his throne 

above. 
Put on this gannent to tky behoof,'**^ 
Which is wet with your tears. 
Or else before God you may it miss, 
When ye to your journey's end come 
shall. 
Every. Gentle Knowledge, what do ye it 

call? 
Know. It is a garment of sorrow. 
From pain it will you borrow;*^ 
Contrition it is. 
That getteth forgiveness; 
It pleaseth God passing well. 
Good-D. Everyman, will you wear it for 
your healf 
(Everyman puts on rohe of contrition.) 
Every. Now blessed be Jesu, Mary's Son, 
For now have I on true contrition. 
And let us go now without tarrying. 
Good-Deeds, have we clear our reckon- 
ing 7 
Good-D. Yea, indeed I have [it] here. 
Every. Then I trust we need not fear. 
Now, friends, let us not part in twain. 
Know. Nay, Everyman, that will we not, 

certain. 
Good-D. Yet must thou lead with thee 

Three persons of great might. 
Every. Who should they be? 
Good-D. Discretion and Strength tliey 
hight,-'^ 

And thy Beauty may not abide behind. 
Know. Also ye must call to mind 

Your Five-wits as for your counsellors. 
Good-D. You must have them ready at all 

hours. 
Every. How shall I get them hither? 
Know. You must call them all together, 

And they will hear you incontinent. . 
Every. My friends, come hither and be 
present. 
Discretion, Strength, my Five-wits, and 
Beauty. 
Beauty. Here at your will we be all ready. 
What will ye that we should do? ' 



45 hour. 



4G benefit. 



47 redeem. 



48 are called. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



41 



Good-D. That ye would with Everyman 

8'°' ..... 
And help him in his pilgrimage. 

Advise 3'ou, will ye with him or not in 



that voyage 



Strength. We will bring him all thither, 

To his help and comfort, ye may believe 
me. 
Discretion. So will we go with him all to- 
gether. 
Every. Almighty God, loved miglit thou 
be, 

I give thee laud that 1 have hillier 
brought 

Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five- 
wit.s; lack I nought; 

And my Good-Deeds, with Knowledge 
clear. 

All be in my comijany at my will here; 

I desire no more to my business. 
Stren. And I, Strength, will by you stand 
in distress. 

Though thou would in battle fight on the 
ground. 
Five-Wits. And though it were through 
the world round. 

We will not depart for sweet nor sour. 
Beau. No more will I unto death's hour, 

Whatsoever thereof befall. 
Discr. Everyman, advise you first of all, 

Go with a good advisement and deliber- 
ation. 

We all give you virtuous monition 

That all shall be well. 
Every. My friends, hearken what I will 
tell : 

I pray God reward you in his heavenly 
sphere. 

Now hearken, all that be here, 

For I will make my testament 

Here before you all present. 

In alms half my good I will give with 
my hands twain 

In the way of charity, with good intent. 

And the other half still shall remain 

In quethe *^ to be returned there it ought 
to be. 

This I do in despite of the fiend of hell, 

To go quite out of his peril 

Ever after and this day. 
Know. Everyman, hearken what I say; 

Go to Priesthood, I you advise, 

And receive of him in any wise 

The holy sacrament and ointment to- 
gether, 

Then shortly see ye turn again hither; 

We will all abide you here. 

9 bequest. 



Five-W. Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye 

ready were. 
There is no emperor, king, duke, nor 

baron, 
That of God hath commission. 
As hath the least priest in the world 

being ; ^° 
For of the blessed sacraments pure and 

benign 
He beareth the keys, and thereof hath 

the cure 
For man's redemption, it is ever sure. 
Which God for our soul's medicine 
Gave us out of his heart with great 

pain. 
Here in this transitory life, for thee and 

me 
The blessed sacraments seven there be : 
Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood 

good, 
And the sacrament of God's precious 

fle.sh and blood, 
Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and 

penance ; 
These seven be good to have in remem- 
brance. 
Gracious sacraments of high divinity. 
Every. Fain would I receive that holy 

body. 
And meekly to my ghostly ^^ father I 

will go. 

Exit Everyman. 
Five-W. Everyman, that is the best that 

ye can do. 
God will you to salvation bring, 
For priesthood exceedeth all other thing; 
To us Holy Scripture they do teach, 
And convert man from sin, heaven to 

reach. 
God hath to them more power given. 
Than to any angel that is in heaven : 
With five words he may consecrate 
God's body in flesh and blood to make. 
And handleth his Maker between his 

hands. 
The priest bindeth and vmbindeth all 

bands. 
Both in earth and in heaven. 
Thou ministei's all the sacraments seven. 
Though we kiss thy feet thou were 

worthy. 
Thou art surgeon that cureth sin deadly: 
No remedy we find under God 
But all only priesthood. 
Everyman, God gave priests that dignity, 
And setteth them in his stead among us 

to be; 

r.o living. 5i spiritual. 



42 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Thus be they above angels in degree. 
Know. If priests be good, it is so surely. 
But when Jesus hanged on the cross with 

great smart, 
There he gave, out of his blessed heart, 
The same sacrament in great torment; 
He sold them not to us, that Lord om- 
nipotent. 
Therefore Saint Peter the apostle doth 

say 
That Jesus' curse have all they 
Which God their Savior do buy or sell. 
Or they for any money do take or tell.^- 
Sinful priests give the sinners example 

bad, 
Their children sit by other men's fires, I 

have heard, 
And some haunt women's company, 
With unclean life, as lusts of lechery; 
These be with sin made blind. 
Five-W. I trust to God no such may we 

find. 
Therefore let us priesthood honor, 
And follow their doctrine for our souls' 

succor ; 
We be their sheep, and they shepherds 

be, 
By whom we all be kept in surety. 
Peace, for yonder I see Everyman come, 
Which hath made true satisfaction. 

Be-enter Everyman. 
Good-D. Methink it is he indeed. 
Every. Now Jesu be your alder speed. ^'^ 
I have received the sacrament for my re- 
demption. 
And then mine extreme unction : 
Blessed be all they that counselled me to 

take it ! 
And now, friends, let us go without 

longer respite; 
I thank God that ye have tarried so long. 
Now set each of you on this rod ^* your 

hand. 
And shortly follow me. 
I go before, there I would be; God be 
your guide. 
Stren. Everyman, we will not from you 
go, 
Till ye have done this voyage long. 
Discr. I, Discretion, will bide by you also. 
Know. And though this pilgrimage be 
never so strong,''^ 
I will never part you from. 
Everyman, I will be as sure by thee 



not 



this 



As ever I did by Judas Maccabee. 
Every. Alas, I am so faint I may 
stand, 
My limbs under me do fold. 
Friends, let us not turn again to 

land. 
Not for all the world's gold, 
For into this cave must I creep. 
And turn to earth and there to sleep. 
Beau. What, into this grave f alas! 
Every. Yea, there shall ye consume more 

and less. 
Beau. And what, should I smother here? 
Every. Yea, by my faith, and never more 
apjDear. 
In this world live no more we shall, 
But in heaven before the highest Lord 
of all. 
Beau. I cross out all this! Adieu, by 
Saint John ! 
I take my tap in my lap and am gone.^'^ 
Every. What, Beauty, whither will ye? 
Beau. Peace! I am deaf, I look not be- 
hind me. 
Not and thou wouldest give me all the 
gold in thy chest. 
Every. Alas, whereto may I trust? 
Beauty goeth fast away from me. 
She promised with me to live and die. 
Stren. Everyman, I will thee also forsake 
and deny; 
Thy game liketh ^'^ me not at all. 
Every. Why, then ye will forsake me all ! 

Sweet Strength, tarry a little space. 
Stren. Nay, sir, by the rood of grace, 
I will hie me from thee fast. 
Though thou weep to ^^ thy heart to- 
brast.59 
Every. Ye would ever bide by me, ye said. 
Stren. Yea, I have you far enough con- 
veyed ; 
Ye be old enough, I understand. 
Your pilgrimage to take on hand. 
I repent me that I hither came. 
Every. Strength, you to displease I am to 
blame ; 
Will you break promise that is debt? 
Stren. In faith, I care not; 

Thou art but a fool to complain. 

You spend your speech and waste your 

brain ; 
Go, thrust thee into the ground ! 
Every. I had wend surer I should you 
have found. 
He that trusteth in his Strength, 



52 count. 

53 the help of you 
all. 



54 rood, cross. 

55 hard. 



56 proverbial ex- 

pression for a 
hasty departure ; 



literally tap is a 
bunch of tow for 
spinning. 



•'" pleaseth. 

5S till. 

DO break in pieces. 



THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 



43 



She him deceiveth at the length. 
Both Strength and Beauty forsake me. 
Yet they promised me fair and lovingly. 
Discr. Everyman, I will after Strength be 
gone. 
As for me I will leave you alone. 
Every. Why, Discretion, will ye forsake 

me"? 
Discr. Yea, in faith, I will go from thee, 
For when Strength goeth before 
I follow after evermore. 
Every. Yet, I pray thee, for the love of 
the Trinity, 
Look in my grave once piteously. 
Discr. Nay, so nigh will I not come. 

Farewell, every one ! 
Every. Oh, all thing faileth, save God 
alone. 
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion; 
For when Death bloweth his blast. 
They all run from me full fast. 
Five-W. Everyman, my leave now of thee 
I take; 
I will follow the other, for here I thee 
forsake. 
Every. Alas! then may I wail and weep, 

For I took you for my best friend. 
Five-W. I will no longer thee keep; 

Now farewell, and there an end. 
Every. Jesu, help ! all have forsaken 

me! 
Good-D. Nay, Everyman, I will bide with 
thee, 

I will not forsake thee indeed; 
Thou shalt find me a good friend at need. 
Every. Gramercy, Good-Deeds, now may I 
true friends see ; 
They have forsaken me every one, 
I loved them better than my Good-Deeds 

alone. 
Knowledge, will ye forsake me alsol 
Know. Yea, Everyman, when ye to death 
shall go ; 
But not yet for no manner of danger. 
Every. Gramercy, Knowledge, with all my 

heart. 
Know. Nay, yet I will not from hence 
depart, 
Till I see where ye shall be come. 
Every. Methink, alas, that I must be gone. 
To make my reckoning and my debts pay. 
For I see my time is nigh spent away. 
Take example, all ye that this do hear or 

see. 
How they that I love best do forsake me. 
Except my Good-Deeds that bideth truly. 

60 cf. note on Doctor at 



Good-D. All earthly things is but vanity : 
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion, do 

man forsake. 
Foolish friends and kinsmen that fair 

spake, 
All flee save Good-Deeds, and that am I. 
Every. Have mercy on me, God most 

mighty, 
And stand by me, thou Mother and Maid, 

holy Mary, 
Good-D. Fear not, I will speak for thee. 
Every. Here I cry God mercy. 
Good-D. Short our end, and minish our 

pain ; 
Let us go and never come again. 
Every. Into thy hands, Lord, my soul I 

commend, 
Receive it. Lord, that it be not lost ! 
As thou me boughtest, so me defend. 
And save me from the fiend's boast, 
That I may appear with that blessed 

host 

That shall be saved at the day of doom. 

In mcinus tuas — of mights most 

For ever — commendo spintum meum. 

{Dies.) 

Know. Now hath he suffered that we all 

shall endure; 
The Good-Deeds shall make all sure. 
Now hath he made ending; 
Methinketh that I hear angels sing 
And make great joy and melody, 
Where Eveiyman's soul received shall be. 
Angel. Come, excellent elect spouse to 

Jesu ; 
Here above thou shalt go, 
Because of thy singular virtue. 
Now the soul is taken the body from 
Thy reckoning is crystal-clear. 
Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere. 
Unto the which all ye shall come 
That live well before the day of doom. 
Doctor.^^ This moral men may have in 

mind ; 
Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and 

young, 
And forsake Pride, for he deceiveth you 

in the end. 
And remember Beauty, Five-wits, 

Strength, and Discretion, 
They all at the last do Eveiyman for- 
sake. 
Save his Good-Deeds, there doth he take. 
But beware, and they be small 
Before God, he hath no help at all. 
None excuse may be there for Everyman. 

end of Abraham and Isaac. 



44 



THE MIDDLE AGES 



Alas, bow shall he do then? 

For after death amends may no man 

make, 
For then mercy and pity do him forsake. 
If his reckoning be not clear when he 

doth come, 
God will say — Ite maledicti in ignem 

ceternum. 
And he that hath bis account whole and 

sound. 



High in heaven be shall be crowned; 
Unto which place God bring us all 

thither, 
That we may live body and soul together. 
Thereto help the Trinity ! 
Amen, say ye, for saint charity. 

FINIS 

Thus endeth this moral play of 
Everyman. 



11. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
JOHN LYLY 

MOTHER BOMBIE 



John Lyly (c. 1554-160G), a Kentishmaii, 
educated at Oxford (B.A. 1573; M.A. 1575), 
made a great reputation with his didactic 
romance Euphues: the Anatomy of Wit, 1579, 
and its sequel Euphues and his England, 
1580, which establislied in popular favor the 
artificial prose style called Euphuism. About 
1580 was acted his first play, Alexander and 
Campaspe, and he continued to write for the 
stage for some fifteen years. He applied for 
the Mastership of the Revels, but failed to 
win the post. Between 1589 and 1601 he was 
a member of four parliaments. His impor- 
tance in English literature lies in his con- 
tributions to the development of prose style 
and of refined cofliedy. 

By the time that John Lyly inaugurated, 
with Alexander and Campaspe, the great 
period of Elizabethan drama, the leaven of 
the Renascence had l)een at work in England 
for three quarters of a century. Although 
the miracle play readied its full develop- 
ment quite unaffected by the new learning, 
the morality and the secular interlude (the 
latter as practised by John Heywood 
between 1520 and 1540), however vernacular 
they may be in form and spirit, show that 
the English drama was responding to influ- 
ences from abroad. Both at court, where 
humanism took hold early and where transla- 
tions of Latin comedy were actually per- 
formed before 1525, and in the schools and 
colleges, where the plays of Plautus and Ter- 
ence were studied, acted, and used for 
models, the rediscovered classics inspired 
court entertainers and pedagogues to adapta- 
tion and imitation. To Nicholas Udall be- 
longs the honor of writing, probably during 
his term of mastership at Eton, 1534-41, the 
first regular English comedy, Ralph Roister 
Doister. In this play Udall, adapting the 
Miles (iloriosiis of Plautus to English life, 
brings to comedy a sense of form lacking in 
miracle, morality, and interlude. Even so 
native a product as (lammer (lurton's Needle, 
1552-3, a farce comedy of village life straight 
from the soil, was written by a fellow of 
Christ Church, Oxford, and exhibits in its 
division into acts and scenes the tendency to 
regularization. Tragedy, likewise, felt the 
classic infiuence: Gorboduc, 1562, is our first 
regular tragedy, English in subject-matter. 



but in manner patterned on the tragedies of 
Seneca. Tlie writers of the old didactic 
drama had vigor and sincerity and strong 
emotional appeal, but they had no master but 
experience, no critical facult}^ low artistic 
standards. To give it a permanent value the 
English drama needed conscious artists with 
professional pride and technical training. 
After some decades of experimental work like 
that named above, such an artist appeared in 
the person of Lyly. 

Lyly's university education and his con- 
nection with the court determined the style 
of his work. All but one of his eight plays 
employ classical material, and that one is 
done in the manner of Latin comedy. They 
are the work of a clever young college man, 
fired with enthusiasm by his reading of 
classical myth and Latin comedy, delighting 
in liis already established reputation as a 
witty master of prose, and ambitious to gain 
court favor. Edward Blount, who published 
six of Lyly's plays in 1632, called them 
" Court Comedies," and the term was well 
chosen. Tliey were well adapted to appeal 
to Elizabeth, learned, pleasure-loving, avid of 
flattery, and to her brilliant group of cour- 
tiers. Tliree of them deal in thinly veiled al- 
lusion with matters of court gossip : Endim- 
ion with the relations of Elizabeth with Mary, 
Queen of Scots, and her son James ; Hapho 
and Phao with the Due d'Alenc;on's vain ef- 
fort to win Elizabeth's hand in marriage; 
Midas with Piiilip of Spain and his ambition 
to win back England for Catholicism. Three 
others are pastoral comedies, using mj'tholog- 
ical story and figures, and adroitly flatter- 
ing the Queen. Alexander and Campaspe, 
presenting a romantic, pseudo-historical epi- 
sode in the life of Alexander the Great, is 
seemingly without ulterior purpose, as is the 
rustic farce-comedy. Mother Bombie. Allus- 
ive, witty, reflecting in tone the politeness of 
court manners, these plays were admirably 
adapted for their time and audience, and 
justify Lyly's reputation as our first dram- 
atist to write plays of real artistic value. 

The play which follows is unique in Lyly's 
work in that it presents English life and 
English people unhampered by mythological 
accessories. The scene is laid in Rochester, 
in Lyly's owh county of Kent. The occa- 
sional local allusions and the introduction of 



45 



46 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



homely figures like the village wise-woman, 
the hackneyman, and the fiddlers, add a pleas- 
ant touch of realism. In structure, however, 
the play is obviously modeled upon the 
Terentian comedy. No direct source has been 
found; indeed, the balanced complication of 
plot is more suggestive of invention than of 
borrowing. But the material, love-plots of 
children against their parents, aided by rog- 
uish servants, and the solution, by revela- 
tion of a long-concealed substitution of one 
pair of children for another, are reminiscent 
of Latin comedy. Then, too, in its approxi- 
mation to the unities of time, place, and 
action, the play shows Lyly's classical train- 
ing; although tlie theory of the unities was 
first formulated by the Italian critic Castel- 
vetro in 1570, it is based on the usual prac- 
tice of the Greek and Roman dramatists. 
The time is limited to two days in all, a 
reasonably close approach to the norm of 
Latin comedy. Unity of place is strictly ob- 
served, all the action occurring in an open 
square, about which are located the dwell- 
ings of the chief characters and the tavern. 
The only episode which can be objected to as 
in any way extraneous is the comic business 
of the hackneyman's suit against Dromio, 
surely no very serious interruption of the 
main action. As an early example, then, of 
classical method applied to English stutt', the 
play is historically important. 

Mother Bombie is the most complicated in 
structure of Lyly's plays. There are three 
main lines of action — the love-affair of 
Candius and Livia, opposed by their parents 
and forwarded by the pages; the proposed 
matches between Candius and Silena on the 
one hand, and Aceius and Livia on the other, 
furthered by the parents, real or supposed, 
thwarted by the pages, and nearly resulting 
in the betrothal of Aceius and Silena; the 
love-story of Msestius and Serena, appar- 
ently hopeless of fulfilment, but ending hap- 
pily in the revelation that they are not 
brother and sister, a discovery which legiti- 
mizes their union and renders impossible that 
of the foolish children. The tangling of 
these threads is done with no small skill, but 
the complication would be difficult for an 
audience to follow were it not for the con- 
stant comments on tlie situation of tlie mo- 
ment that Lyly puts into the mouths of the 
actors. Soliloquy and aside are used to their 
full capacity. The plotting is meclianical 
even to the paralleling of one scene by another 
in a manner recalling the use of balance and 
antithesis in one of Lyly's Euphuistic sen- 
tences. The first five scenes will serve for 
illustration. In scene one Memphio informs 
his servant Dromio of his desire to match his 
foolish son Aceius to the daughter of his 
neighbor Stellio, and bids Dromio set about 
the matter. In scene two Stellio informs his 
servant Riscio of his desire to match his 
foolish daughter Silena to the son of his 



neighbor Memphio, and entrusts the manage- 
ment of the affair to Riscio. In scene three 
Prisius and Sperantus agree that their chil- 
dren must not marry, and the plan of Sper- 
antus to marry his son Candius to Stellio's 
daughter finds correspondence in tlie plan of 
Prisius to marry his daughter Livia to Mem- 
phio's son. The love-scene between Candius 
and Livia is witnessed by the fathers, who 
cap the lovers' speeches with antiphonal com- 
ments, and each of whom, after disclosing 
himself, dismisses his offspring with a long 
reproof. In the first scene of act two 
Dromio and Riscio echo each other's very 
words as they reveal the parts they are to 
play, while Halfpenny and Lucio are no 
sooner desired than they appear, and the four 
depart into the tavern to lay out their cam- 
paign of cozenage. The scene following pre- 
sents the four scheming fathers entering 
severally in search of their respective serv- 
ants, and, after soliloquies of one pattern, 
disappearing into the tavern door which has 
already welcomed the boys. Like the Eu- 
phuistic sentence, nothing could be more pol- 
ished in its way, or more artificial. 

The double disguising in act four Lyly 
brings off with fair success. The approval 
of the betrothal of Candius and Livia by 
their fathers, the latter under the impres- 
sion that they are witnessing the plighting 
of Aceius and Silena, is truly comic and 
well managed. Tlie corresponding situation, 
which brings the climax of the complication 
in the unmasking of Aceius and. Silena by 
their fathers is almost too intricate to be 
quite effective; Lyly evades rather than 
solves his difficulty by huddling his main 
group off the stage before he has begun to 
get out of the situation all the fun there 
is in it. The denouement is brought about, 
as usual with Lyly, in brusk and mechani- 
cal fashion ; here the confession of Vicinia 
corresponds to the oracle which brings the 
solution in the three allegorical plays, and 
to the dens ex machina of the pastoral 
comedies. 

Lyly's curious method of group rather than 
individual characterization is well exempli- 
fied in Mother Bomhie. Here we have four 
old men, four knavish pages, three young 
couples, three fiddlers, three village types, two 
old women. The groups are somewhat dis- 
tinguished one from another, but inside the 
group distinction is almost lacking. Mem- 
phio and Stellio are rich, Prisius and Sper- 
antus are poor ; their occupations vary ; but 
beyond these trivial differences they all act 
and speak alike. The same is true of the 
pages, except that, as is customary in plays 
written for boys to perform, the sliarpest 
wit is given to the smallest boy, in this 
case Halfpenny. Such lack of individuality 
makes us feel about Lyly's people that they 
are puppets cleverly manipulated, not well 
rounded human beings. Candius and Livia, 



JOHN LYLY 



47 



MsEstius and Serena, are unsatisfactory lov- 
ers, because the artiticiality of their handling 
and their speech forbids real passion. As 
for Accius and Silena, idiocy seems to us 
scarcely to furnisli material for real comedy, 
but fools and madmen were regarded as legiti- 
mate game in an age when people of fashion 
found amusement in visiting the inmates of 
13edlam. Mother Bombie is interesting as a 
type of the wise-woman, who appears in later 
Elizabethan inlays, but, except in so far as 
her oracular utterance urges Vicinia to con- 
fession, she has no influence on the action. 

Curious to a modern reader are the parade 
of schoolboy learning in the Latin quotations 
and the intolerable punning, more often sim- 
ulating than attaining wit. Here again we 



must remember that taste changes and make 
allowance for the author, a product of 
Renascence culture, and a conscious stylist, 
delighting in the use of language for its own 
sake, and writing for an audience which en- 
joyed hearing him " torture one poor word 
ten thousand ways." In general, the style 
of the play is less Euphuistic tlian that of 
its predecessors. Lyly tended more and more 
in his play-writing to abandon the niceties 
of Euphuism for a more natural style, and 
Mother Bombie, written about 1590, belongs 
to his later work. Moreover, Mother Bomhie 
seems not to have been performed at court, 
as the earlier plays had been, and the delicate 
sentence structure of Endimion was perhaps 
not altogether suited for a popular audience. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



By JOHN LYLY 

NAMES OF THE CHAEACTERS 



Memphio, an avaricious old man. 

Stellio, a icealthy husbandman. 

Prisius, a fuller. 

Sperantus, a farmer. 

Candius, son to Sperantus. 

M^STius, son to Memphio; supposed son to 

Vicinia. 
Accius, supposed son to Memphio. 
Dromio, a boy, servant to Memphio. 
Riscio, a boy, servant to Stellio. 
Halfpenny, a boy, servant to Sperantus. 
Lucio, a boy, servant to Prisius. 
Synis, ^ 

Nasutus, I tJtree fiddlers. 
Bedunenus, J 

ACT L 

Scene 1. 
Enter Memphio and Dromio. 

Mem. Boy, there are three things that 
make my life miserable : a threadbare 
purse, a curst ^ wife, and a fool to my 
heir, 

Dro. Why then, sir, there are three medi- 
cines for these three maladies : a pike- 
staff to take a purse on the highway, a 
holly wand to brush eholer from my mis- 
tress' tongue, and a young wench for my 
young master; so that as your worship 
being wise begot a fool, so he, being a 
fool, may tread out a wise man. 

Mem. Aye; but, Dromio, these medicines 
bite hot on - great mischiefs ; for so 

1 shrewish. 



Hackneyman, 

Sergeant. 

Scrivener. 

Livia, daughter to Prisius. 

Serena, daughter to Stellio; supposed daugh- 
ter to Vicinia. 

Silena, supposed daughter to Stellio. 

Vicinia, a nurse, mother to Accius and 
Silena. 

Mother Bombie, a fortune-teller. 

Rixula, a girl, servant to Prisius. 

Scene — Rochester : an open square or street. 



might I have a rope about my neck, 
horns upon my head, and in my house a 
litter of fools. 

Dro. Then, sir, you had best let some wise 
man sit on your son, to hatch him a good 
wit; they say if ravens sit on hens' eggs, 
the chickens will be black, and so forth. 

Blem. Why, boy, my son is out of the 
shell, and is grown a pretty cock. 

Dro. Carve him, master, and make him a 
capon, else all your breed will prove cox- 
combs. 

Mem. I marvel he is such an ass; he takes 
it not of his father. 

Dro. He may for any thing you know. 

Mem. Why, villain, dost thou think me a 
fool? 

Dro. no, sir; neither are you sure that 
you are his father. 

2 are closely akin to. 



48 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mem. Rascal, dost thou imagine thy mis- 
tress naught of her body? ^ 

Dro. No, but fantastical of her mind; and 
it may be when this boy was begotten she 
thought of a fool, and so conceived a 
fool, yourself being very wise, and she 
surpassing honest. 

Mem. It may be; for I have heard of an 
Ethiopian, that thinking of a fair pic- 
ture, brought forth a fair lady, and yet 
no bastard. 

Dro. You are well read, sir ; your son may 
be a bastard, and yet legitimate; your- 
self a cuckold, and yet my mistress vir- 
tuous; all this in conceit. 

Mem,. Come, Dromio, it is my grief to 
have such a son that must inherit my 
lands. 

Dro. He needs not, sir ; I '11 beg him for 
a fool.* 

Mem. Vile boy ! thy young master ? 

Dro. Let me have in ^ a device. 

Mem. I '11 have thy advice, and if it 
fadge,*' thou shalt eat till thou sweat, play 
till thou sleep, and sleep till thy bones 
ache. 

Dro. Aye, marry, now you tickle me, I am 
both hungry, gamesome, and sleepy, and 
all at once. I '11 break this head against 
the wall, but I '11 make it bleed good 
matter. 

Mem. Then this it is; thou knowest I have 
but one son, and he is a fool. 

Dro. A monstrous fool! 

Mem. A wife, and she an arrant scold. 

Dro. Ah, master, I smell your device; it 
will be excellent ! 

Mem. Thou canst not know it till I tell it. 

Dro. I see it through your brains. Your 
hair is so thin, and your skull so trans- 
parent, I may sooner see it than hear it. 

Mem. Then, boy, hast thou a quick wit, 
and I a slow tongue. But what is't? 

Dro. Many, either you would have your 
wife's tongue in your son's head, that he 
might be a prating fool ; or his brains in 
her brain pan, that she might be a fool- 
ish scold. 

Mem. Thou dreamest, Dromio ; there is no 
such matter. Thou knowest I have kept 
him close, so that my neighbors think hiin 
to be wise, and her to be temperate, be- 
cause they never heard them speak. 

Dro. Well"? 
Mem. Thou knowest that Stellio hath a 



good farm and a fair daughter; yea, so 
fair that she is mewed up,'' and only 
looketh out at the windows, lest she 
should by some roisting courtier be 
stolen away. 

Dro. So, sir. 

Mem. Now if I could compass a match be- 
tween my son and Stellio's daughter, by 
conference of us parents, and without 
theirs, I should be blessed, he cozened,® 
and thou forever set at liberty. 

Dro. A singailar conceit. 

Mem. Thus much for my son. Now for 
my wife: I would have this kept from 
her, else shall I not be able to keep my 
house from smoke ; for let it come to one 
of her ears, and then woe to both mine ! 
I would have her go to my house into the 
country whilst we conclude this, and this 
once done, I care not if her tongue never 
have done. These if thou canst effect, 
thou shalt make thy master happy. 

Dro. Think it done; this noddle shall coin 
such new device as you shall have your 
son married by to-morrow. 

Mem. But take heed that neither the 
father nor the maid speak to my son, for 
then his folly will mar all. 

Dro. Lay all the care on me. Suhlevaho 
te onere: I will rid you of a fool. 

Mem. Wilt thou rid me for a fool? 

Dro. Tush ! quarrel not. 

Mem. Then for the dowry, let it be at 
least two hundred ducats, and after his 
death the farm. 

Dro. What else? 

Mem,. Then let us in, that I may furnish 
thee with some better counsel, and my 
son with better apparel. 

Dro. Let me alone. — (Aside.) I lack 
but a wag more to make of my counsel, 
and then you shall see an exquisite cozen- 
age, and the father more fool than the 
son. — But hear you, sir; I forgot one 
thing. 

Mem. What's that? 

Dro. Nay; Expellas furca licet, usque re- 
cur ret. ^ 

Mem. What 's the meaning? 

Dro. Why, though your son's folly be 
thrust up with a pair of hoi'us on a fork, 
yet being natural, it will have his ^° 
course. 

Mem. I pray thee, no more, but about it. 

Exeunt. 



3 unchaste. the profit 

4 beg to be appoint- managing 

ed his guardian property). 

(so that I can get & suggest. 



from 
his 



6 succeed. 

7 confined ; hawks 

were kept in a 
mews. 



8 cheated. from its course, 

9 From Horace (Ep. but it will always 

I. X. 24) : "You return." 

may drive nature lo its. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



49 



Scene 2. 
Enter Stellio and Riscio. 

Stel. Riscio, my daughter is passing ami- 
able, but very simple. 

Bis. You mean a fool, sir. 

Stel. Faith, I imply so much. 

Ris. Then I apply it fit : the one she takes 
of her father, the other of her mother; 
now you may be sure she is your own. 

Stel. I have penned her up in a chamber, 
having only a window to look out, that 
youths, seeing her fair cheeks, may be 
enamored before they hear her fond ^^ 
speech. How likest thou this head"? ^- 

Bis. There is very good workmanship in 
it, but the matter is but base; if the 
stuff had been as good as the mold, 
your daughter had been as wise as she 
is beautiful. 

Stel. Dost thou think she took her fool- 
ishness of me? 

Bis. Aye, and so cunningly that she took 
it not from you. 

Stel. Well, Quod natura dedit, tollere 
nemo potest.^^ 

Bis. A good evidence to prove the fee- 
simple ^^ of your daughter's folly. 

Stel. Why? 

Bis. It came by nature, and if none can 
take it away, it is perpetual. 

Stel. Nay, Riscio, she is no natural fool, 
but in this consisteth her simplicity, that 
she thinketh herself subtle; in this her 
rudeness, that she imagines she is 
courtly ; in this the overshooting of her- 
self, that she overweeneth of herself. 

Bis. Well, what follows? 

Stel. Riscio, this is my plot. Memphio 
hath a pretty stripling to his son, whom 
with cockering ^^ he hath made wanton : 
his girdle must be warmed, the air must 
not breathe on him, he must lie abed till 
noon, and yet in his bed break his fast ; 
that which I do to conceal the folly of 
my daughter, that doth he in too much 
cockering of his son. Now, Riscio, how 
shall I compass a match between my 
girl and his boy? 

Bis. Why, with a pair of compasses; and 
bring them both into the circle, I'll war- 
rant they '11 match themselves. 

Stel. Tush ! plot it for me that never 
speaking to one another, they be in love 
one with another. I like not solemn 



wooing, it is for courtiers; let country 
folks believe others' reports as much as 
their own opinions. 

Bis. then, so it be a match you care not. 

Stel. Not I, nor for a match neither, were 
it not I thirst after my neighbor's farm. 

Bis. {Aside.) A very good nature. — 
Well, if by flat wit I bring this to pass, 
what 's my reward ? 

Stel. Whatsoever thou wilt ask. 

Bis. I '11 ask no more than by my wit I 
can get in the bargain. 

Stel. Then about it. 

Exit. 

Bis. If I come not about ^^ you, never 
trust me. I '11 seek out Dromio, the coun- 
sellor of my conceit. Exit. 



Scene 3. 
Enter Prisius and Sperantus. 

Pris. It is unneighborly done to suffer 
your son since he came from school to 
spend his time in love; and unwisely 
done to let him hover over my daughter, 
who hath nothing to her dowry but her 
needle, and must prove a sempster; nor 
he anything to take to but a grammar, 
and cannot at the best be but a school- 
master. 

Sper. Prisius, you bite and Avhine, wring 
me on the withers, and yet wince your- 
self; it is you that go about to match 
your girl with my boy, she being more 
fit for seams than for marriage, and he 
for a rod than a wife. 

Pris. Her birth requires a better bride- 
groom than such a gToom. 

Sper. And his bringing up another-gate ^'' 
marriage than such a minion. 

Pris. Marry, gup ! ^^ I am sure he hath 
no better bread than is made of wheat, 
nor worn finer cloth than is made of wool, 
nor learned better manners than are 
taught in schools. 

Sper. Nor your minx had no better grand- 
father than a tailor, who (as I have 
heard) was poor and proud; nor a bet- 
ter father than yourself, unless your 
wife borrowed a better, to make her 
daughter a gentlewoman. 

Pris. Twit not me with my ancestors, nor 
my wife's honesty; if thou dost — 

{Threatening him.) 



11 foolish, 

12 Possibly Stellio 
shows Riscio a 



portrait of his 13 "What nature has 14 title, 
daughter. given, no one can !•''> petting. 

take away." 16 get the better of. 



17 another kind of. 

18 go up, hold on ! 



50 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Sper. Hold thy hands still, thou hadst 
best; and yet it is impossible, now I 
remember, for thou hast the palsy. 

Pris. My hands shake so that wert thou 
in place where,^^ I would teach thee to 
cog.-° 

Sper. Nay, if thou shake thy hands, I 
warrant thou canst not teach any to cog. 
But, neighbor, let not two old fools fall 
out for two young wantons. 

Pris. Indeed, it beeometh men of our ex- 
perience to reason, not rail; to debate 
the matter, not to combat it. 

Sper. Well, then, this I'll tell thee 
friendly. I have almost these two years 
cast in my head how I might match my 
princox -^ with Stellio's daughter, whom 
I have heard to be veiy fair, and know 
shall be very rich : she is his heir ; he 
dotes, he is stooping old, and shortly 
must die. Yet by no means, either by 
blessing or cursing, can I win my son to 
be a wooer, which I know proceeds not 
of bash fulness but stubbornness, for he 
knows his good ; though I say it, he hath 
wit at will; as for his personage, I care 
not who sees him ; I can tell you he is 
able to make a lady's mouth water if she 
wink not. 

Pris. Stay, Sperantus, this is like my 
case, for I have been tampering as long 
to have a marriage committed between 
my wench and Memphio's only son : 
they say he is as goodly a youth as one 
shall see in a summer's day, and as neat 
a stripling as ever went on neat's 
leather; his father will not let him be 
forth of his sight, he is so tender over 
him; he yet lies with his mother for 22 
catching cold. Now my pretty elf, as 
proud as the day is long, she will none 
of him ; she forsooth will choose her own 
husband : made marriages prove mad 
marriages; she will choose with her eye, 
and like with her heart, before she con- 
sent with her tongue; neither father nor 
mother, kith nor kin, shall be her carver 
in 23 a husband, she will fall to where 
she likes best; and thus the chick scarce 
out of her shell cackles as though she had 
been trodden with an hundred cocks, and 
mother of a thousand eggs. 

Sper. Well then, this is our best, seeing 
we know each other's mind, to devise to 
govern our own children; for my boy, 
I '11 keep him to his books, and study 
shall make him leave to love ; I '11 break 



him of his will, or his bones with a 
cudgel. 
Pris. And I '11 no more dandle my daugh- 
ter; she shall prick on a clout-* till her 
fingers ache, or I '11 cause her leave to 
make my heart ache. But in good time, 
though with ill luck, behold if they be 
not both together; let us stand close and 
hear all, so shall we prevent all. 

{They stand aside.) 



Enter Candius and Livia. 



take 



Sper. (Aside.) This happens pat: 
heed you cough not, Prisius. 

Pris. (Aside.) Tush! spit not you; and 
I '11 warrant, I, my beard is as good as a 
handkerchief. 

Liv. Sweet Candius, if thy father should 
see us alone, would he not fret? The old 
man methinks should be full of fumes. 

Can. Tush ! let him fret one heart-string 
against another, he shall never trouble 
the least vein of my little finger. The 
old churl thinks none Avise unless he have 
a beard hang dangling to his waist. 
When my face is bedaubed with hair as 
his, then perchance my conceit may stum- 
ble on his staidness. 

Pris. (Aside.) Aye? In what book read 
you that lesson? 

Sper. (Aside.) I know not in what book 
he read it, but I am sure he was a knave 
to learn it. 

Can. I believe, fair Livia, if your sour 
sire should see you with your sweetheart 
he would not be very patient. 

Liv. The care is taken. I '11 ask him 
blessing as a father, but never take coun- 
sel for an husband ; there is as much odds 
between my golden thoughts and his 
leaden advice, as between his silver hairs 
and my amber locks. I know he will 
cough for anger that I yield not, but he 
shall cough me a fool for his labor.^^ 

Sper. (Aside to Pris.) Where picked 
your daughter that work, out of broad- 
stitch? 

Pris. (Aside.) Out of a flirt's sampler. 
But let us stay the end; this is but the 
beginning; you shall hear two children 
well brought up ! 

Can. Parents in these days are grown 
peevish : they rock their children in their 
cradles till they sleep, and cross them 
about their bridals till their hearts ache. 
Marriage among them is become a mar- 



is a more 

place. 
20 lie ; cog 



fitting 



ningly used just 
below in its first 
sense of cheating 



at dice, for which 
a steady hand 
would be needed. 



21 pert boy. 

22 for fear of. 

23 provider of. 



24 sew cloth. 

25 be only a fool for 
his pains. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



51 



ket. What will you give with your 
daughter? What jointure will you make 
for your son*? And many a match is 
broken off for a penny more or less, as 
though they could not afford their chil- 
dren at such a price, when none should 
cheapen such ware but affection, and 
none buy it but love. 

Sper. (Aside.) Learnedly and scholar-like. 

Liv. Indeed our parents take great care to 
make us ask blessing and say grace when 
we are little ones, and growing to years 
of judgment, they deprive us of the great- 
est blessing and the most gracious things 
to our minds, the liberty of our minds; 
they give us pap with a spoon before we 
can speak, and when we speak for that 
we love, pap with a hatchet f^ because 
their fancies being grown musty with 
hoary age, therefore nothing can relish in 
their thoughts that savors of sweet 
youth; they study twenty years together 
to make us grow as straight as a wand, 
and in the end by bowing us, make us 
crooked as a cammock.-'^ For mine own 
part, sweet Candius, they shall pardon 
me, for I will measure my love by mine 
own judgment, not my father's purse or 
peevishness. Nature hath made me his 
child, not his slave; I hate Memphio and 
his son deadly, if I wist he would place 
his affection by his father's appointment. 

Pris. (Aside.) Wittily but uncivilly! 

Can. Be of that mind still, my fair Livia; 
let our fathers lay their purses together, 
we our hearts : I will never woo where I 
cannot love. Let Stellio enjoy his 
daughter. But what have vou wrought 
here"? 

Liv. Flowers, fowls, beasts, fishes, trees, 
plants, stones, and what not. Among 
iflowers, cowslips and lilies, for our 
names Candius and Livia. Among 
fowls, turtles -^ and sparrows, for our 
truth and desires. Among beasts, the 
fox and the ermine, for beauty and pol- 
icy. And among fishes, the cockle and 
the tortoise, because of Venus. Among 
trees, the vine wreathing about the elm, 
for our embracings. Among stones, As- 
beston, which being hot, will never be 
eold,-^ for our constancies. Among 
plants, thyme and heartsease, to note 



that if we take time we shall ease our 
hearts. 

Pris. (Aside.) There's a girl that knows 
her liripoop.^° 

Sper. (Aside.) Listen, and you shall 
hear my sou's learning. 

Liv. What book is thaf? 

Can. A fine pleasant poet, who entreateth 
of the art of love, and of the remedy. 

Liv. Is there art in love? 

Can. A short art and a certain: three 
rules in three lines. 

Liv. I pray thee, repeat them. 

Can. Principio quod amare velis reperire 
lahora, 
Proximus hide labor est placidam exorare 

puellam, 
Tertius ut longo tempore diiret amor.^^ 

Liv. I am no Latinist, Candius; you must 
construe it. 

Can. So I will, and pace ^- it too ; thou 
shalt be acquainted with case, gender and 
number. First, one must find out a mis- 
tress whom before all others he voweth 
to serve. Secondly, that he use all the 
means that he may to obtain her. And 
the last, with deserts, faith, and secrecy, 
to study to keep her. 

Liv. What 's the remedy ? 

Can. Death. 

Liv. What of all the book is the con- 
clusion 1 

Can. This one verse: Non caret effectu 
quod voluere duo. 

Liv. What's that? 

Can. Where two are agreed, it is impossi- 
ble but they must speed. 

Liv. Then cannot we miss; therefore give 
me thy hand, Candius. 

Pris. (Advancing.) Soft, Livia. take me 
with you ; ^^ it is not good in law with- 
out witness. 

Sper. And as I remember, there must be 
two witnesses. God give you joy, Can- 
dius; I was worth the bidding to dinner, 
though not worthy to be of the counsel. 

Pris. I think this hot love hath provided 
but cold cheer. 

Sper. Tush ! in love is no lack. But blush 
not, Candius, you need not be ashamed of 
your cunning; you have made love a 
book-case, and spent your time well at 
school learning to love by art and hate 



26 A proverbial ex- 
pression for the 
rough perform- 
ance of necessary 
service, such 



children ; Lyly so 
entitled one of his 
pamphlets, an at- 
tack on a political 
opponent. 



the feeding of 27 a crooked stick. 



28 turtledoves, tak- 
en as types of con- 
stancy, as spar- 
rows were of las- 
civiousness. 

29 A bit of Lyly's 



pseudo-science. 
30 "Properly the de- 
gree of knowledge 
that would qualify 
one to wear a liri- 
poop {liripipium.) 



or scarf as doc- 
tor." (Bond). 

31 Ovid. Ars Amat. 
i. 35-38. 

32 parse. 

33 let me understand 



52 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



against nature. But I perceive the 
worser child the better lover. 
Pris. And my minion hath wrought well, 
where every stitch in her sampler is a 
pricking stitch at my heart. You take 
your pleasure on parents : they are peev- 
ish, fools, churls, overgrown with igno- 
rance, because overworn with age; little 
shalt thou know the case of a father be- 
fore thyself be a mother, when thou shalt 
breed thy child with continual pains, and 
bringing it forth with deadly pangs, 
nurse it with thine own paps, and nour- 
ish it up with motherly tenderness; and 
then find them to curse thee with their 
hearts, when they should ask blessing on 
their knees, and the collop ^^ of thine 
own bowels to be the torture of thine 
own soul; with tears trickling down thy 
cheeks, and. drops of blood falling from 
thy heart, thou wilt in uttering of thy 
mind wish them rather unborn than un- 
natural, and to have had their ci-adles 
their graves rather than thy death their 
bridals. But I will not dispute what 
thou shouldst have done, but correct what 
thou hast done; I perceive sewing is an 
idle exercise, and that every day there 
come more thoughts into thine head than 
stitches into thy work ; I '11 see whether 
you can spin a better mind than you have 
stitched, and if I coop you not up, then 
let me be the capon. 
Sper. As for you, sir boy, instead of 
poring on a book, you shall hold the 
plough ; I '11 make repentance reap what 
wantonness hath sown. But we are both 
well serv'ed : the sons must be masters,^^ 
the fathers gaffers ; ^^ what we get to- 
gether with a rake, they cast abroad with 
a fork, and we must weary our legs to 
purchase our children arms.^^ Well, 
seeing that booking is but idleness, I '11 
see whether threshing be any occupation ; 
thy mind shall stoop to my fortune or 
mine shall break the laws of nature. 
How like a micher ^'^ he stands, as though 
he had truanted from honesty ! Get thee 
in, and for the rest let me alone. In, 
villain ! 
Pris. And you, pretty minx, that must be 
fed with love upon sops,^^ I '11 take an 
order to cram you with soitows. Get 
you in, without look or reply. 

Exeunt Candius and Livia. 



Sper. Let us follow, and deal as rigor- 
ously with yours as I will with mine, and 
you shall see that hot love will soon wax 
cold. I '11 tame the proud boy, and send 
him as far from his love as he is from 
his duty. 

Pris. Let us about it, and also go on with 
matching them to our minds; it was 
happy that we prevented that by chance 
which we could never yet suspect by cir- 
cumstance. Exeunt. 

ACT IL 

Scene 1. 

Enter at opposite sides Dromio and 
Riscio. 

Dro. Now if I could meet with Riscio it 

were a world of waggery. 
Bis. Oh, that it were my chance, Ohviam 

dare Dromio, to stumble upon Dromio, 

on whom I do nothing but dream. 
Dro. His knavery and my wit should make 

our masters, that are wise, fools; their 

children, that are fools, beggars; and us 

two, that are bond, free. 
Bis. He to cozen and I to conjure would 

make such alterations that our masters 

should serve themselves; the idiots, tlieir 

children, serve us; and we to wake our 

wits between them all. 
Dro. Hem quam opportune: look if he 

drop not full in my dish ! 
Bis. Lupus in fahula! Dromio, embrace 

me ! hug me ! kiss my hand ! I must 

make thee fortunate. 
Dro. Riscio, honor me ! kneel down to me ! 

kiss my feet ! I must make thee blessed. 
Bis. My master, old Stellio, hath a fool to 

his daughter. 
Dro. Nay; my master, old Memphio, hath 

a fool to his son. 
Bis. I must convey ^^ a contract. 
Dro. And I must convey a contract. 
Bis. Between her and Mem^Dhio's son, 

without speaking one to another. 
Dro. Between him and Stellio's daughter, 

without one speaking to the other. 
Bis. Dost thou mock me, Dromio"? 
Dro. Thou dost me else. 
Bis. Not I; for all this is true. 
Dro. And all this. 
Bis. Then are we both driven to our wits' 

ends, for if either of them had been wise 



34 piece. 

35 gentlemen 
commoners. 



36 coats of arms, 
token of gentility. 

37 truant. 



38 sops, sweet cakes 
dipped in wine, 



was a luxurious 
dish. 
39 arrange secretly. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



53 



we might have tempered ; if no marriage, 
yet a close '*° mamage. 

Dro. Well, let us sharpen our accounts; 
there 's no better grindstone for a young 
man's head than to have it whet upon an 
old man's purse. Oh, thou shalt see my 
knavery shave like a razor ! 

Ris. Thou for the edge, and I the point, 
Avill make the fool bestride our mistress' 
backs, and then have at the bag with the 
dudgeon haft,*^ that is, at the dudgeon 
dagger, by which hangs his tantony *- 
pouch. 

Dro. These old huddles have such strong 
purses with locks, when they shut them 
they go off like a snaphance.*^ 

Bis. The old fashion is best : a purse with 
a ring round about it, as a circle to curse 
a knave's hand from it. But, Dromio, 
two they say may keep counsel if one be 
away; but to convey knavery, two are 
too few and four too many. 

Dro. And in good time, look where Half- 
penny, Sperantus' boy, cometh; though 
bound up in decimo sexto *** for carriage, 
yet a wit in folio for cozenage. 

Enter Halfpenny. 

Single Halfpenny, what neAvs are now 

current? 
Half. Nothing but that such double coi- 

strels ''^ as you be are counterfeit. 
Bis. Are you so dapper? We '11 send you 

for an halfpenny loaf. 
Half. I shall go for silver though, when 

you shall be nailed up for slips. *^ 
Dro. Thou art a slipstring,*'^ I '11 warrant. 
Half. I hope you shall never slip string-, 

but hang steady. 
Bis. Dromio, look here; now is my hand 

on my halfpenny. 
Half. Thou liest ; thou hast not a farthing 

to lay thy hands on : I am none of thine. 

But let me be wagging; my head is full 

of hammers,*^ and they have so malletted 

my wit that I am almost a malcontent. 
Dro. Why, what's the matter? 
Half. My master hath a fine scholar to his 

son, Prisius a fair lass to his daughter. 
Dro. Well ! 

Half. They two love one another deadly. 
Bis. In good time ! 



Half. The fathers have put them up,^^ 
utterly disliking the match, and have ap- 
pointed the one shall have Memphio's 
son, the other Stellio's daughter; this 
works like wax, but how it will fadge in 
the end, the hen that sits next the cock 
cannot tell. 

Bis. If thou have but any spice of knavery 
we '11 make thee happy. 

Half. Tush ! doubt not of mine ; I am as 
full for my pitch °° as you are for yours ; 
a wren's egg is as full of meat as a goose 
egg, though there be not so much in it; 
you shall find this head well stuffed, 
though there went little stuff to it. 

Dro. Laudo ingenium, I like thy sconce ; ^^ 
then hearken. Memphio made me of his 
counsel about marriage of his son to 
Stellio's daughter; Stellio made Riscio 
acquainted to plot a match with Mem- 
phio's son. To be short, they be both 
fools. 

Half. But they are not fools that be 
short ; if I thought thou meantest so, 
Senties qui vir aim, thou shouldst have a 
crow to pull.''^ 

Bis. Be not angry. Halfpenny ; for fel- 
lowship we will be all fools, and for gain 
all knaves. But Avhy dost thou laugh? 

Half. At mine own conceit and quick cen- 
sure. 

Bis. What's the matter? 

Half. Suddenly meth ought you two were 
asses, and that the least ass was the more 
ass. 

Bis. Thou art a fool; that cannot be. 

Half. Yea, my young master taught me to 
prove it by learning, and so I can out of 
Ovid by a verse. 

Bis. Prithee, how? 

Half. You must first for fashion's sake 
confess yourselves to be asses. 

Dro. Well ! 

Half. Then stand you here, and you there. 

Bis. Go to ! 

Half. Then this is the verse as I point it : 
Cum mala per longas invaluere moras.^^ 
So you see the least ass is the more ass. 

Bis. We '11 bite thee for an ape if thou 
bob us like asses. But to end all, if thou 
wilt join Avith us we will make a match 
between the two fools, for that must be 
our task ; and thou shalt devise to couple 



4 secret. 

41 A purse was car- 
ried hanfring from 
the ffirdle, and 
sometimes a dag- 
ger was thrust 
through the 

straps. 



42 short for St. An- 
thony ; meaning 
obscure. 

4.') firelock musket. 

44 Halfpenny was 
evidently a very 
small boy. 



4.5 knaves. 

4G counterfeits. 

47 one who deserves 
to be hanged. 

48 I 'ui hammering 
out a device. 

40 confined them. 



50 degree. 

51 headpiece, i.e. 
wit. 

52 a bone to pick 
with me. 

53 Ovid Rem. Am. 
92. The only ex- 



cuse 
pun 



for a poor 
consists 

Halfpenny's 
pointing at his 
fellows as he pro- 
nounces long-as 
and mor-aa. 



54 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Candius and Livia by overreaching their 
fathers. 
Half. Let me alone, Non enirn men pigra 
juvenilis : there 's matter in this noddle. 

Enter Lucio. 

But look where Prisius' boy comes, as fit 
as a pudding for a dog's mouth. 

Luc. Pop three knaves in a sheath, I '11 
make it a right Tunbridge case and be 
the bodkin. 

Ris. Nay, the bodkin is here already; you 
must be the knife. 

Tlalf. I am the bodkin ; look well to your 
ears, I must bore them. 

Dro. Mew ^* thy tongue or we '11 cut it 
out ; this I speak representing the person 
of a knife, as thou didst that in shadow 
of a bodkin. 

Luc. I must be gone. Taedet, it irketh; 
Oportet, it behoveth. My wits work 
like barm, alias yeast, alias sizing, alias 
rising, alias God's good. 

Half. The new wine is in thine head, yet 
was he fain to take this metaphor from 
ale; and now you talk of ale, let us all 
to the wine. 

Bro. Four makes a mess, and we have a 
mess of masters that must be cozened; 
let us lay our heads together, they are 
married and cannot. 

Half. Let us consult at the tavern, where, 
after to the health of Memphio, drink 
we to the life of Stellio; I carouse to 
Prisius, and brineh ^^ you Mas.^*^ Sper- 
antus ; we shall cast up our accounts and 
discharge our stomachs, like men that can 
digest anything. 

Luc. I see not yet what you go about. 

Dro. Lucio, that can pierce a mud wall of 
twenty foot thick, would make us believe 
he cannot see a candle through a paper 
lanthorn ; his knavery is beyond Ela, and 
yet he says he knows not Gam ut.^'' 

Luc. I am ready ; if any cozenage be ripe, 
I '11 shake the tree. 

Half. Nay, I hope to see thee so strong to 
shake three trees ^^ at once. 

Dro. We burn time, for I must give a 
reckoning of my day's work; let us close 
to the bush ^^ ad deliberandum. 

Half. Indeed, Inter pocula philosophan- 
dum: it is good to plea among pots. 



Ris. Thine will be the worst; I fear we 
shall leave a halfpenny in hand. 

Half. Why sayest thou that? Thou hast 
left a print deeper in thy hand ^° already 
than a halfpenny can leave, unless it 
should sing worse than an hot iron. 

Luc. All friends, and so let us sing; 'tis 
a pleasant thing to go into the tavern 
clearing the throat. 

Song. 

Omnes. lo Bacchus! To thy table 
Tliou call'st every drunken rabble; 
We already are stiff drinkers, 
Then seal us for thy jolly skinkers.si 
Dro. Wine, O Wine! 

O juice divine ! 
How dost thou the nowl ^- refine ! 
Ris. Plump tliou mak'st men's ruby faces, 

And from girls canst fetch embraces. 
Half. By thee our noses swell 

With sparkling carbuncle. 
the dear blood of grapes 
Turns us to antic shapes. 
Now to show tricks like apes; 
Now lion-like to roar ; 
Now goatishly to whore; 
Now hoggishly i' th' mire; 
Now flinging hats i' th' fire. 
lo Bacchus! At thy table 



Luc. 



Dro. 

Ris. 

Half. 

Luc- 

Omnes 



Make us of thy reeling rabble. 

Exeunt into tavern. 



Scene 2. 
Enter Memphio. 

Mem. 1 marvel I hear no news of Dromio ; 
either he slacks the matter or betrays his 
master. I dare not motion anything to 
Stellio till I know what my boy hath 
done ; I '11 hunt him out ; if the loiter- 
sack ^^ be gone springing into a tavern 
I '11 fetch him reeling out. 

Exit into tavern. 

Enter Stellio. 

Stel. Without doubt Riscio hath gone be- 
yond himself in casting beyond the 
moon.^* I fear the boy be run mad with 
studying, for I know he loved me so well 
that for my favor he will venture to run 
out of his wits; and, it may be, to quicken 
his invention, he is gone into this Ivy- 



54 hold. 

55 pledge. 

56 master. 

57 "Vt and la were 
respectively the 
lowest and high- 
est in the Hex- 
achord, or scale 



of six notes, whose 
names were de- 
rived from the 
initial syllables 
in the lines of a 
Latin hvinn to St. 
John." " (Bond.) 



The implication 
is that Lucio, 
though a past 
master of knav- 
ery, does not ad- 
mit knowing any- 
thing of it. 



58 1. e. the gallows. 

59 An ivy bush was 
the sign of a 
tavern. 

60 Felony was pun- 
ished by brand- 
ing in the hand. 



61 drawers of wine; 
hence topers. 

62 head. 

63 loiterer. 

64 proverbial for an 
impossible de- 
sign. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



55 



bush, a notable nest for a grape owl. 
I '11 ferret him out, yet in the end use 
him friendly; I cannot be merry till I 
hear what 's done in the marriages. 

Exit into tavern. 

Enter Prisius. 

Pris. I think Lucio be gone a-squirreling, 
but I '11 squirrel him for it ; I sent him 
on my errand, laut I must go for an an- 
swer myself. I have tied ui:» the loving 
worm my daughter, and will see whether 
fancy can worm fancy out of her head. 
This green nosegay ^^ I fear my boy liath 
smelt to, for if he get but a penny in his 
purse he turns it suddenly into argentum 
potabile; ^^ I must search every place for 
him, for I stand on thorns till I hear 
what he hath done. 

Exit into tavern. 

Enter Sperantus. 

Sper. Well, be as may be is no banning. 
I think I have charmed my young mas- 
ter : a hungry meal, a ragged coat, and a 
dry cudgel have put him quite beside his 
love and his logic too. Besides his pigs- 
nie ^^ is put up, and therefore now I '11 
let him take the air and follow Stellio's 
daughter with all his learning, if he mean 
to be my heir. The boy hath wit sans 
measure, more than needs ; cat's meat and 
dog's meat enough for the vantage. 
Well, without Halfpenny all my wit is 
not worth a dodkin ; ^^ that mite is 
miching ®^ in this gTove, for as long as 
his name is Halfpenny he will be ban- 
queting for the other halfpenny. 

Exit into tavern. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Candius. 

Can. He must needs go that the devil 
drives! A father? A fiend! that seeks 
to place affection by appointment, and to 
force love by compulsion. I have sworn 
to woo Silena, but it shall be so coldly" 
that she shall take as small delight in my 
words as I do contentment in his com- 
mandment. I '11 teach him one school 
trick in love. But behold ! who is that 
Cometh out of Stellio's house? It should 
seem to be Silena by her attire. 



Enter Silena. 



By her face I am sure it is she. fair 
face ! lovely countenance ! How now, 
Candius, if thou begin to slip at beauty 
on a sudden, thou wilt surfeit with ca- 
rousing it at the last. Remember that 
Livia is faithful; aye, and let thine eyes 
witness Silena is amiable. Here shall I 
please my father and myself: I will 
learn to be obedient, and come what will, 
I '11 make a way ; if she seem coy I '11 
practise all the art of love; if I find her 
coming,'^" all the pleasures of love. 

Sil. My name is Silena; I care not who 
know it, so I do not. My father keeps 
me close, so he does; and now I have 
stolen gut, so I have, to go to old Mother 
Bombie to know my fortune, so I will ; 
for I have as fair a face as ever trod on 
shoe sole, and as free a foot as ever 
looked with two eyes. 

Can. (Aside.) What? I think she is 
lunatic or foolish. Thou art a fool, Can- 
dius : so fair a face cannot be the scab- 
bard of a foolish mind ; mad she may be, 
for commonly in beauty so rare there 
falls passion's extreme. Love and beauty 
disdain a mean, not therefore because 
beauty is no virtue, but because it is hap- 
piness; and we scholars know that virtue 
is not to be praised, but honored. I will 
put on my best gi'ace. — (To Silena.) 
Sweet wench, thy face is lovely, thy body 
comely, and all that the eyes can see, en- 
chanting. You see how, unacquainted, I 
am bold to board ''^ you. 

Sil. My father boards me already; there- 
fore I care not if your name were Geof- 
frey. 

Can. She raves, or overreaches. — I am 
one, sweet soul, that loves you, brought 
hither by report of your beauty, and here 
languisheth with your rareness. 

Sil. I thank you that you would call. 

Can. I will always call on such a saint 
that hath power to release my sorrows; 
yield, fair creature, to love. 

Sil. I am none of that sect. 

Can. The loving sect is an ancient sect, 
and an honorable, and therefore love 
should be in a person so perfect. 

Sil. Much ! 72 

Can. I love thee much ; give me one word 
of comfort. 

Sil. V faith, sir, no ! and so tell your mas- 
ter. 



05 i. e. the ivy bush. 

B6 aurtim potabile, 
gold liquefied in 
oil, was much es- 



teemed as a cor- 
dial in the old al- 
chemical pharma- 
copcBia. 



67 pig's eye, a term 69 loitering, 
of endearment. 70 responsive. 

68 a small Dutch 71 accost, 
coin. 



72 an exclamation 
of contempt. 



56 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Can. I have no master, but come to make 
choice of a mistress. 

Sil. Ah ha! are you there with your 
bears'? "^ 

Can. (Aside.) Doubtless she is an idiot 
of tbe newest cut. I '11 once more try 
her. — I have loved thee long, Silena. 

Sil. In your tother hose. 

Can. (Aside.) Too simple to be natural, 
too senseless to be artificial. — You said 
you went to know your fortune : I am a 
scholar, and am cunning in palmistiy. 

Sil. The better for you, sir. Here 's my 
hand ; what 's o'clock 1 

Can. The line of life is good, Venus' 
mount very perfect : you shall have a 
scholar to your first husband. 

Sil. You are well seen ''* in crane's dirt, 
your father was a poulter. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Can. Why laugh you*? 

Sil. Because you should see my teeth. 

Can. (Aside.) Alas, poor wench, I see 
now also thy folly; a fair fool is like a 
fresh weed, pleasing leaves and sour 
juice. I will not yet leave her; she may 
dissemble. — I cannot choose but love 
thee. 

Sil. I had thought to ask you. 

Can. Nay then, farewell; either too proud 
to accept, or too simple to understand. 

Sil. You need not be so crusty, you are 
not so hard baked. 

Can. Now I perceive thy folly, who hath 
raked together all the odd blind phrases 
that help them that know not how to dis- 
course; but when they cannot answer 
wisely, either with gibing cover their 
rudeness, or by some new-coined byword 
bewray their peevishness. I am glad of 
this ; now shall I have color to refuse the 
match,' and my father reason to accept of 
Livia. I will home and repeat to my 
father our wise encounter, and he shall 
perceive there is nothing so fulsome as 
a she fool. 

Exit. 

Sil. Good God! I think gentlemen had 
never less wit in a year. We maids are 
mad wenches; we gird them and flout 
them out of all scotch and notch, ''^ and 
they cannot see it. I will know of the 
old woman whether I be a maid or no, 
and then if I be not I must needs be a 
man. (Knocks at Mother Bombie's 
door.) God be here! 

Enter Mother Bomhie. 

73 is that what you are after ? 74 skilled. 



Bom. Who 's there ? 

Sil. One that would be a maid. 

Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou 

shouldst be, and a shame thou art not. 
Sil. They say you are a witch. 
Bom. They lie ; I am a cunning woman. 
Sil. Then tell me something. 
Bom. Hold up thy hand ; not so high. — 

Thy father knows thee not; 
Thy mother bare thee not; 
Falsely bred, truly begot ; 
Choice of two husbands, but never 

tied in bands. 
Because of love and natural bonds. 

Sil. I thank you for nothing, because I 
understand nothing: though you be as 
old as you are, yet am I as young as I 
am, and because that I am so fair, there- 
fore are you so foul; and so farewell, 
frost, my fortune naught me cost. . 

Exit. 
Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou 
know thy hard fortune, but in the end 
thou shalt, and that must bewray what 
none can discover. In the mean season 
I will profess cunning for all comers. 

Exit. 

Scene 4. 

Enter Dromio, Riscio, Lucio, Halfpenny. 

Dro. We were all taken tardy. 

Eis. Our masters will be overtaken '^^ if 
they tarry. 

Half. Now must every one by wit make 
an excuse, and every excuse must be 
cozenage. 

Luc. Let us remember our complot. 

Dro. We will all plod on that; oh, the 
wine hath turned my wit to vinegar. 

Ris. You mean 't is sharp. 

Half. Sharp ? I '11 warrant 't will serve 
for as good sauce to knavery as — 

Luc. As what? 

Half. As thy knaveiy meat for his wit. 

Dro. We must all give a reckoning for 
our day's travel. 

Eis. Tush ! I am glad we scaped the reck- 
oning for our liquor. If you be exam- 
ined how we met, swear by chance, for so 
they met and therefore will believe it; if 
how much we drunk, let them answer 
themselves: they know best because they 
paid it. 



75 beyond measure. 



76 i, e. by drink. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



57 



Half. We must not tarry : abeundum est 
mihi; I mixst go and east this matter in a 
corner. 

Dro. I prae, sequar; a bowl, and I '11 come 
after with a broom. Every one remem- 
ber his cue. 

Ris. Aye, and his k,^^ or else we shall 
thrive ill. 

Half. When shall we meet? 

Ris. Tomorrow, fresh and fasting. 

Dro. Fast eating our meat, for we have 
drunk for tomorrow, and tomorrow we 
must eat for today. 

Half. Away, away; if our masters take 
us here, the matter is marred. 

Luc. Let us every one to his task. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 5. 

Enter MempMo, Stellio, Prisius, 
Sperantus. 

Mem. How luckily we met on a sudden in 
a tavern, that drunk not together almost 
these thirty years. 

Stel. A tavern is the rendezvous, the ex- 
change, the staple ^^ for good fellows ; I 
have heard my great-grandfather tell how 
his great-gTand father should say that it 
was an old proverb when his great-grand- 
father was a child that it was a good 
Avind that blew a man to the wine. 

Pris. The old time was a good time ! Ale 
was an ancient drink, and accounted of 
our ancestors authentical ; Gascon wine 
was liquor for a lord, sack a medicine 
for the sick, and I may tell you, he that 
had a cup of red wine to his oystei's was 
hoisted in the Queen's subsidy book."^ 

Sper. Aye, but now you see to what loose- 
ness this age is grown : our boys carouse 
sack like double beer, and say that which 
doth an old man good can do a young 
man no harm; old men, say they, eat pap, 
why should not children drink sack"? 
Their white heads have cozened time out 
of mind our young years. 

Mem. Well, the world is wanton since I 
knew it first : our boys put as much now 
in their bellies in an hour as would 
clothe their whole bodies in a year: we 
have paid for their tippling eight shil- 
lings, and as I have heard, it was as much 
as bought Rufus, sometime king of this 
land, a pair of hose. 



Pris. Is't possible? 

Stel. Nay, 't is true ; they say ale is out 
of request, 't is hogs' porridge, broth for 
beggars, a caudle for constables, watch- 
men's mouth glue; the better it is, the 
more like bird lime it is, and never makes 
one staid but in the stocks. 

Mem. I '11 teach my wag-halter to know 
grapes from barley. 

Pris. And I mine to discern a spigot from 
a faucet. 

Sper. And I mine to judge the difference 
between a black bowl and a silver goblet. 

Stel. And mine shall learn the odds be- 
tween a stand ^^ and a hogshead ; yet I 
cannot choose but laugh to see how my 
wag answered me when I struck him for 
drinking sack. 

Pris. Why, what said he"? 

Stel. ^'Master, it is the sovereignest drink 
in the world, and the safest for all times 
and weathers; if it thunder, though all 
the ale and beer in the town turn, it will 
be constant; if it lighten, and that any 
fire come to it, it is the aptest wine to 
burn, and the most wholesomest when 
it is burnt. ^^ So much for summer. If 
it freeze, why, it is so hot in operation 
that no ice can congeal it ; if it rain, 
why, then he that cannot abide the heat 
of it, may put in water. So much for 
winter." And so ran his way, but I '11 
overtake him. 

Sper. Who would think that my hop on 
my thumb. Halfpenny, scarce so high as 
a pint pot, would reason the matter"? 
But he learned his lear ^- of my son, his 
young master, whom I have brought up 
at Oxford, and I think must learn here 
in Kent at Ashford. 

Mem. Why, what said he? 

Sper. He boldly rapped it out. Sine 
Cerere et Baceho friget Venus : ^^ without 
wine and sugar his veins would wax cold. 

Mem. They were all in a pleasant vein ! 
But I must be gone, and take account of 
my boy's business ; farewell, neighbors, 
God knows when we shall meet again. — 
{Aside.) Yet I have discovered^* noth- 
ing: my wine hath been my wit's friend. 
I long to hear what Dromio hath done. 

Exit. 

Stel. I cannot stay, but this good fellow- 
ship shall cost me the setting on at our 
next meeting. — (Aside.) I am glad I 
blabbed nothing of the marriage; now I 



77 punningly on cue, 
7S meeting place. 
79 ' 'hoisted into the 



list of wealthy 
persons who 

might be called 



on for a royal 
loan." (Bond.) 
80 cask. 



81 heated. 

82 learning. 

83 a Latin proverb. 



84 revealed. 



58 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



hope to compass it. I know my boy hath 
been bungling about it. 

Exit. 

Pris. Let us all go, for I must to my 

clothes that hang on the tenters.^^ 

(Aside.) My boy shall hang with them, 

if he answer me not his day's work. 

Exit. 
Sper. If all be gone, I '11 not stay. Half- 
penny, I am sure, hath done me a penny- 
worth of good, else I '11 spend his body in 
buying a rod. 

Exit. 



ACT IIL 

Scene 1. 

Enter Mcestius and Serena. 

McBS. Sweet sister, I know not how it 
Cometh to pass, but I find in myself pas- 
sions more than brotherly. 

Ser. And I, dear brother, find my thoughts 
entangled with affections beyond nature, 
which so flame into my distempered head 
that I can neither without danger smother 
the fire, nor without modesty ^^ disclose 
my fury. 

M(ES. Our parents are pooi', our love un- 
natural; what then can happen to make 
us happy? 

Ser. Only to be content with our father's 
mean estate, to combat against our own 
intemperate desires, and yield to the suc- 
cess of fortune, who, tlaough she hath 
framed us miserable, cannot make i;s 
monstrous. 

M(ES. It is good counsel, fair sister, if the 
necessity of love could be relieved by 
counsel. Yet this is our comfort, that 
these unnatural heats have stretched 
themselves no further than thoughts. 
Unhappy me, that they should stretch so ! 

Ser. That which nature warranteth laws 
forbid. Strange it seemeth in sense that 
because thou art mine, therefore thou 
must not be mine. 

M^es. So it is, Serena; the nearer we are 
in blood, the further we must be from 
love, and the greater the kindred, the less 
the kindness must be ; so that between 
brothers and sisters superstition hath 
made affection cold, between strangers 
custom hath bred love exquisite. 

Ser. They say there is hard by an old 
cunning woman who can tell fortunes, ex- 



pound dreams, tell of things that be lost, 
and divine of accidents to come; she is 
called the good woman, who yet never 
did hurt. 

Mces. Nor any good, I think, Serena. Yet 
to satisfy thy mind we will see what she 
can say. 

Ser. Good brother, let us. 

Mces. Who is within'? 

Enter Mother Bomhie. 

Bom. The dame of the house. 

M(Es. She might have said the beldam, for 
her face and years and attire. 

Ser. Good mother, tell us, if by your cun- 
ning you can, what shall become of my 
brother and me. 

Bom. Let me see your hands, and look on 
me steadfastly with your eyes. 
You shall be married tomorow hand in 

hand, 
By the laws of God, nature, and the land; 
Your parents shall be glad, and give you 

their land. 
You shall each of you displace a fool, 
And both together must relieve a fool. 
If this be not true, call me old fool. 

M(ES. This is my sister, marry we cannot; 
our parents are poor and have no land 
to give us; each of us is a fool to come 
for counsel to such an old fool. 

Ser. These doggerel rhymes and obscure 
words coming out of the mouth of such a 
weather-beaten witch are thought divina- 
tions of some holy spirit, being but 
dreams of decayed brains ; for mine own 
part, I would thou mightest sit on that 
stool till he and I marry by law. 

Bom. I say Mother Bombie never speaks 
but once, and yet never spake untruth 
once. 

Ser. Come, brother, let us to our poor 
home ; this is our comfoi't, to bewray our 
passions since we cannot enjoy our love. 

Mces. Content, sweet sister, and learn of 
me hereafter that these old saws of such 
old hags are but false fires to lead one 
out of a plain path into a deep pit. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. 

Enter Dromio and Riscio. 

Dro. Ingenium quondam fuerat pretiosus 
auro: the time was when wit would work 
like wax and crock up ^'^ gold like honey. 



85 frames for stretching cloth. 



86 shamefacedness. (Bond.) 



87 collect. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



59 



Bis. At nunc barbaries grandis habere 
nihil: but now wit and honesty buy noth- 
ing in the market. 

Dro. What, Riscio, how sped'st thou after 
„ thy potting? 

Ris. Nay, my master rung all in the tav- 
ern, and thrust all out in the house. But 
how sped'st thouf 

Dro. I? It were a day's work to dis- 
course it. He spake nothing but sen- 
tences,®^ but they were vengible long ones, 
for when one word was out he made pause 
of a quarter long till he spake another. 

Ris. Why, what did he in all that time"? 

Dro. Break interjections like wind, as 
eJio! ho! to! 

Ris. And what thou? 

Dro. Answer him in his own language, as 
evax! vaJi ! hui! 

Ris. These were conjunctions rather than 
interjections. But what of the plot? 

Dro. As we concluded, I told him that I 
understood that Silena was very wise and 
could sing exceedingly; that my device 
was, seeing Accius his son a proper youth 
and could also sing sweetly, that he 
should come in the nick when she was 
singing, and answer her. 

Ris. Excellent ! 

Dro. Then he asked how it should be de- 
vised that she might come abroad ; I told 
him that was east ®^ already by my 
means : then the song being ended, and 
they seeing one another, noting the ap- 
parel, and marking the personages, he 
should call in his son for fear he should 
overreach his speech. 

Ris. Very good ! 

Dro. Then that I had gotten a young gen- 
tleman that resembled his son in years 
and favor, that having Accius' apparel 
should eoui-t Silena ; whom she, tending 
wise, would after that by small entreaty 
be won without more words, and so the 
marriage clapped up by this cozenage, 
and his son never speak word for him- 
self. 

Ris. Thou boy ! So have I done in every 
point, for the song, the calling her in, 
and the hoping that another shall woo 
Accius, and his daughter wed him. I 
told him this wooing should be tonight, 
and they early married in the morning, 
without any words saving to say after 
the priest. 

Dro. All this fadges well; now if Half- 
penny and Lucio have played their parts 



we shall have excellent sport — and here 
they come. How wrought the wine, my 
lads? 



Enter Halfpenny and Lucio. 

Half. How? Like wine, for my body 
being the rundlet ^° and my mouth the 
vent, it wrought two days over, till I had 
thought the hoops of my head would have 
flown asunder. 

Ltic. The best was our masters were as 
well whittled as we, for yet they lie by it. 

Ris. The better for us! We did but a 
little parboil our livers ; they have sod °^ 
theirs in sack these forty j^ears. 

Half. That makes them spit white broth 
as they do. But to the purpose: Can- 
dius and Livia will send their attires, you 
must send the apparel of Accius and Si- 
lena ; they wonder wherefore, but commit 
the matter to our quadrupaiiite wit. 

Luc. If you keep promise to marry them 
by your device, and their parents con- 
sent, you shall have ten pounds apiece 
for your pains. 

Dro. If we do it not we are undone, for 
we have broached a cozenage already, 
and my master hath the tap in his hand 
that it must needs run out. Let them be 
ruled and bring hither their apparel, and 
we will determine ; the rest commit to 
our intricate considerations. Depart. 

Exeunt Halfpenny and Lucio. 

Enter Accius and Silena. 

Dro. Here comes Accius tuning his pipes. 
I perceive my master keeps touch. °- 

Ris. And here comes Silena with her wit 
of proof ; ^^ marry, it will scarce hold 
out question shot. Let us in to instruct 
our masters in the cue. 

Dro. Come, let us be jogging. But wer 't 
not a world to hear them woo one an- 
other? 

Ris. That shall be hereafter to make us 
sport, but our masters shall never know 
it. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Accius and Silena singing. 

Sil. O Cupid, monarch over kings, 

Wherefore hast thou feet and wings? 
It is to show how swift thou art, 
When thou wound'st a tender heart; 



8R maxims. 
89 planned. 



90 keg. 



91 soaked. 



92 keeps his promise. 



93 proof armor. 



60 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Thy wings being clipped, and feet 

held still, 
Thy bow could not so many kill. 
Ac. It is all one in Venus' wanton school 

Who highest sits, the wise man or 
the fool ; 

Fools in love's college 
Have far more knowledge 
To read a woman over, 
Than a neat prating lover. 

Nay, 't is contest 
That fools please women best. 

Enter Memphio and Stellio. 

Mem. Aecius, come in, and that quickly ! 
What! Walking without leave? 

Stel. Silena, I pray you look homeward ; 
it is a cold air, and you want your 
muffler. 

Exeunt Aecius and Silena. 

Mem. (Aside.) This is pat! If the rest 
proceed, Stellio is like to marry his 
daughter to a fool; but a bargain is a 
bargain. 

Stel (Aside.) This frames to my wish! 
Memphio is like to marry a fool to his 
son; Aecius' tongue shall tie all Meni- 
phio's land to Silena's dowry, let his 
father's teeth undo them if he can. But 
here I see Memphio; I must seem kind, 
for in kindness lies cozenage. 

Mem. (Aside.) Well, here is Stellio. 
I '11 talk of other matters, and fly from 
the mark I shoot at, lapwing-like flying 
far from the place where I nestle. — 
Stellio, what make you abroad"? I heard 
you were sick since our last drinking. 

Stel. You see reports are no truths; I 
heard the like of you, and we are both 
well. I perceive sober men tell most lies, 
for in vino Veritas; if they had drunk 
wine they would have told the truth. 

Mem. Our boys will be sure then never to 
lie, for they are ever swilling of wine. 
But, Stellio, I must strain courtesy with 
you; I have business, I cannot stay. 

Stel. In good time, Memphio, for I was 
about to crave your patience to depart; 
it stands me upon. — (Aside.) Per- 
haps I may move his patience ei'e it be 
long. 

Mem. (Aside.) Good silly Stellio; we 
must buckle shortly. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. 

Enter Halfpenny, Lucio, Rixula, with 
clothes belonging to Candius and Livia. 



Luc. Come, Rixula, we have made thee 

privy to the whole pack ; ^* there lay 

down the pack. 
Rix. 1 believe unless it be better handled 

we shall out of doors. 
Hcdf. I care not. Omnem solum forti 

patria: I can live in Christendom as well 

as in Kent. 
Luc. And I '11 sing Patria uhicunque bene: 

every house is my home where I may 

staunch hunger. 
Rix. Nay, if you set all on hazard, though 

I be a poor wench I am as hardy as you 

both. I cannot speak Latin, but in plain 

English, if anything fall out cross, I '11 

run away. 
Half. He loves thee well that would run 

after. 
Rix. Why, Halfpenny, there 's no goose 

so gray in the lake that cannot find a 

gander for her make.^^ 
Luc. I love a nut-brown lass : 't is good to 

recreate. 
Half. Thou meanest a brown nut is good 

to crack. 
Luc. Why, would it not do thee good to 

crack such a nut? 
Half. I fear she is worm-eaten within, slie 

is so moth-eaten without. 
Rix. If you take your pleasure of me, I '11 

in and tell your practices against your 

masters. 
Half. In faith, sour heart, he that takes 

his pleasure on thee is very pleasurable. 
Rix. You mean knavishly, and yet I hope 

foul water will quench hot fire as soon as 

fair. 
Half. Well then, let fair words cool that 

choler which foul speeches hath kindled; 

and because we are all in this case, and 

hope all to have good fortune, sing a 

roundelay, and we '11 help, — such as thou 

wast wont when thou beatedst hemp."'' 
Luc. It was crabs she stamped,^'^ and stole 

one away to make her a face. 
Rix. I agree, in hope that the hemp shall 

come to your wearing; a halfpenny halter 

may hang you both, that is. Halfpenny 

and you may hang in a halter. 
Half. Well brought about. 
Rix. 'T will when 't is about your neck. 
Luc. Nay, now she 's in, she will never 

out. 
Rix. Nor when your heads are in, as it is 

likely, they should not come out. But 

hearken to my song. 

Thetf sing. 



94 plot. 

95 mate. 



96 Beating hemp was the occupation of 
those confined in houses of correction. 



■ cral)-apples she 
pounded. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



61 



Song. 

Rix. Full hard did I sweat 

When hemp I did beat, 

Then thouglit I of nothing but hang- 
ing; 

The hemj) being spun, 

My beating was done; 

Then I wislied for a noise 98 

Of crack-halter boys, 

On those Iienipen strings to be 
twanging. 

Long looked I about, 

The city throughout — 

Boys. And found no such fiddling varlets. 
Rix. Yes, at last coming hither, 

I saw four together. 
Boys. May thy hemp choke such singing 

harlots. 
Rix. To whit, to wlioo, the owl does cry; 
Phip, phip, the sparrows as they fly; 
The goose does hiss, the duck cries quack, 
A rope the parrot, that holds tack oo 
Boys. The parrot and the rope be thine. 
Rix. The hanging yours, but the hemp 
mine 

Enter Dromio and Riscio, with clothes be- 
longing to Accius and Silena. 

Dro. Yonder stand the wags; I am come 

in g-ood time. 
Ris. All here before me! You make 

haste ! 
Rix. I believe to hanging, for I think you 

have all robbed your masters ; here 's 

every man his baggage. 
Half. That is, we are all with thee, for 

thou art a very baggage. 
Rix. Hold thy peace, or of mine honesty 

I '11 buy a halfpenny purse with thee. 
Dro. Indeed, that 's big enough to put thy 

honesty in. But come, shall we go about 

the matter *? 
Luc. Now it is come to the pinch, my 

heart pants. 
Half. I for my part am resolute, in 

utrumque paratus, ready to die or to run 

away. 
Luc. But hear me. I was troubled with a 

vile dream, and therefore it is little time 

spent to let Mother Bombie expound it; 

she is cunning in all things. 
Dro. Then will I know my fortune. 
Rix. And I '11 ask for a silver spoon which 

was lost last day, which I must pay for. 
Ris. And I '11 know what will become of 

our devices. 
Half. And I. 
Dro. Then let us all go quickly; we must 



not sleep in this business, our masters 
are so watchful about it. 

They knock at Mother Bombie's door. 
Enter Mother Bombie. 

Bom. Why do you rap so hard at the 
door? 

Dro. Because we would come in. 

Bom. Nay, my house is no inn. 

Half. Cross yourselves, how she looks ! 

Dro. Mark her not ; she '11 turn us all to 
apes. 

Bom. What would you with me'? 

Ris. They say you are cunning, and are 
called the good woman of Rochester. 

Bom. If never to do harm be to do good, 
I dare say I am not ill. But what 's the 
matter 1 

Luc. I had an ill dream, and desire to 
know the signification. 

Bom. Dreams, my son, have their weight ; 
though they be of a troubled mind, yet 
are they signs of fortune. Say on. 

Luc. In the dawning of the day, for about 
that time by my starting out of sleep I 
found it to be, methought I saw a stately 
piece of beef, with a cape cloak of cab- 
bage, embroidered with pepper; having 
two honorable pages with hats of mustard 
on their heads; himself in great pomp 
sitting upon a cushion of white brewis ^ 
lined with brown bread. Methought be- 
ing powdei'ed,^ he was much troubled 
with the salt rheum ; and therefore there 
stood by him two great flagons of sack 
and beer, the one to dry up his rheum, 
the other to quench his choler. I, as one 
envying his ambition, hungering and 
thirsting after his honor, began to pull 
his cushion from under him, hoping by 
that means to give him a fall ; and with 
putting out my hand awaked, and found 
nothing in all this dream about me but 
the salt rheum. 

Dro. A dream for a butcher. 

Luc. Soft, let me end it. Then I slVim- 
bered again, and methought there came 
in a leg of mutton. 

Dro. What ! All gross ^ meat *? A rack * 
had been dainty. 

Luc. Thou fool, how could it come in, un- 
less it had been a leg? Methought his 
hose were cut and drawn out with pars- 
ley. I thrust my hand into my pocket 
for a knife, thinking to box ^ him, and 
so awaked. 

Bom. Belike thou went supperless to bed. 



98 band of musi- 
cians. 



99 is appropriate. 



1 meat broth, with 
bread soaked in it. 



2 salted. 

3 common. 



4 neck of mutton. 

5 hamstring. 



62 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Luc. So I do every night but Sundays. 
Prisius hath a weak stomach, and there- 
fore we must starve. 

Bom. Well, take this for answer, though 
the dream be fantastical : 
They that in the morning sleep dream of 

eating- 
Are in danger of sickness or of beating, 
Or shall hear of a wedding fresh a-beat- 
ing.^ 

Luc. This may be true. 

Half. Nay then, let me come in with a 
dream, short but sweet, that my mouth 
waters ever since I waked. Methought 
there sat upon a shelf three damask 
prunes in velvet caps and pressed satin 
gowns, like judges ; and that there were 
a whole handful of currants to be ar- 
raigned of a riot, because they clung to- 
gether in such clusters ; twelve raisins of 
the sun ^ were empaneled in a jury ; and 
as a leaf of whole mace, which was 
bailiff, was eariying the quest ® to con- 
sult, methought there came an angry cook 
and gelded the jury of their stones, and 
swept both judges, jurors, rebels, and 
bailiff into a porridge pot. Whereat I, 
being melancholy, fetched a deep sigh 
that waked myself and my bedfellow. 

Dro. This was devised, not dreamt; and 
the more foolish, being no dr^am, for 
that dreams excuse the fantasticalness. 

Half. Then ask my bedfellow — you know 
him — who dreamt that night that the king 
of diamonds was sick. 

Bom. But thy years and humors, pretty 
child, are subject to such fancies, which 
the more unsensible they seem, the more 
fantastical they are ; therefore this dream 
is easy. 

To children this is given from the gods : 
To dream of milk, fruit, babies, and 

rods ; 
They betoken nothing but that wantons 
must have rods. 

T)ro. Ten to one thy dream is true; thou 
wilt be swinged. 

Rix. Nay, Gammer, I pray you tell me 
who stole my spoon out of the but- 
tery. 

Bom. Thy spoon is not stolen, but mislaid ; 
Thou art an ill housewife, though a good 

maid. 
Look for thy spoon where thou hadst like 
to be no maid. 

Bix. Body of me ! let me fetch the spoon ! 
I remember the place ! 



Luc. Soft, swift; the place, if it be there 

now, will be there tomorrow. 
Bix. Aye, but perchance the spoon will 

not. 
Half. Wert thou once put to if? 
Bix. No, sir boy, it was put to me. 
Luc. How was it missed"? 
Dro. I '11 warrant for want of a mist. 

But what's my fortune, mother? 
Bom,. Thy father doth live because he doth 
dye ; 

Thou hast spent all thy thrift with a 
die. 

And so like a beggar thou shalt die. 
Bis. I would have liked well if all the 

gerunds had been there, di, do, and dum; 

but all in die, that 's too deadly. 
Dro. My father indeed is a dyer, and I 

have been a dicer ; but to die a beggar, 

give me leave not to believe, Mother Bom- 

bie. And yet it may be : I have nothing 

to live by but knavery, and if the world 

grow honest, welcome beggary. But 

what hast thou to say, Riscio? 
Bis. Nothing till I see whether all this be 

true that she hath said. 
Half. Aye, Riscio would fain see thee 

beg. 
Bis. Nay, mother, tell us this: what is all 

our fortunes'? We are about a matter of 

ledgermain — how will it fadge? 
Bom. You shall all thrive like cozeners, 

That is, to be cozened by cozeners; 

All shall end well, and you be found 
cozeners. 
Dro. Gramercy, Mother Bombie; we are 

all pleased, if you were for your pains. 

{Offers her money.) 

Bom. I take no money but good words. 

Rail not if I tell true; if I do not, re- 
venge. Farewell. 

Exit. 
Dro. Now have we nothing to do but to go 

about this business. Accius' apparel let 

Candius put on, and I will array Accius 

with Candius' clothes. 
Bis. Here is Silena's attire; Lucio, put it 

upon Livia, and give me Livia's for Si- 

lena. This done, let Candius and Livia 

come forth, and let Dromio and me alone 

for the rest. 
Half. What shall become of Accius and 

Silena? 
Dro. Tush! their turn shall be next, all 

must be done orderly. Let 's to it, for 

now it works. 

Exeunt. 



6 under way. 



7 sun-dried. 



8 jury. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



63 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. 

Enter Candius and Livia in the clothes of 
Accius and Silena. 

Liv. This attire is very fit. But how if 
this make me a fool and Silena wise? 
You will then woo me and wed her. 

Can. Thou knowest that Accius is also a 
fool, and his raiment fits me, so that if 
apparel be infectious, I am also like to 
be a fool, and he wise. What would be 
the conclusion, I marvel. 

Enter Dromio and Eiscio. 

Liv. Here comes our counsellors. 

Dro. Well said; I perceive turtles fly in 
couples. 

Bis. Else how should they couple? 

Liv. So do knaves go double, else how 
should they be so cunning in doubling'? 

Can. Bona verba, Livia. 

Dro. I understand Latin; that is, Livia is 
a good word. 

Can. No, I bid her use good words. 

Eis. And what deeds? 

Can. None but a deed of gift. 

Eis. What gift? 

Can. Her heart. 

Dro. Give me leave to pose you, though 
you be a graduate; for I tell you we in 
Rochester spur so many hackneys that we 
must needs spur scholars, for we take 
them for hackneys. 

Liv. Why so, sir boy? 

Dro. Because I knew two hired for ten 
groats apiece to say service on Sunday, 
and that 's no more than a post-horse 
from hence to Canterbury. 

Bis. He knows what he says, for he once 
served the post-master. 

Can. Indeed, I think he served some post 
to his master. But come, Dromio, post ^ 
me. 

Dro. You say you would have her heart 
for a deed. 

Can. Well ? 

Dro. If you take her heart for cor, that 
heart in her body, then know this : Molle 
eius levibus, cor enim violabile telis; a 
woman's heart is thrust through with a 
feather. If you mean she should give a 
heart named cervus, then are you worse, 
for cornua cervus habet; that is to have 
one's heart grow out at his head, which 



will make one ache at the heart in their 
body. 

Enter Prisius and Sperantus. 

Liv. I beshrew your hearts, I hear one 
connng; I know it is my father by his 
coming. 
Can. What must we do? 

Dro. Why, as I told you, and let me alone 
with the old men. Fall you to your 
bridal. 

Pris. Come, neighbor, I perceive the love 
of our children waxeth key-cold. 

Sper. I think it was never but lukewarm. 

Pris. Bavins ^° will have their flashes and 
youth their fancies, the one as soon 
quenched as the other burnt. But who 
be these? 

Can. Here do I plight my faith, taking 
thee for the staff of my age, and of my 
youth the solace. 

Liv. And I voav to thee affection which 
nothing can dissolve, neither the length 
of time, nor malice of fortune, nor dis- 
tance of place. 

Can. But when shall we be married? 

Liv. A good question, for that one delay 
in wedding brings an hundred dangers in 
the church : we will not be asked,^^ and a 
license is too chargeable, and to tariy till 
tomorrow too tedious. 

Dro. There's a girl stands on pricks till 
she be married. 

Can. To avoid danger, charge, and tedi- 
ousness, let us now conclude it in the 
next church. 

Liv. Agreed. 

Pris. What be these that hasten so to 
marry ? 

Dro. Marry, sir, Accius, son to Memphio, 
and Silena, Stellio's daughter. 

Sper. I am sorry, neighbor, for our pur- 
poses are disappointed. 

Pris. You see marriage is destiny; made 
in heaven, though consummated on earth. 

Eis. How like you them? Be they not a 
pretty couple? 

Pris. Yes; God give them joy, seeing in 
spite of our hearts they must join. 

Dro. 1 am sure you are not angry, seeing 
things past cannot be recalled ; and being 
Avitnesses to their contract, will be also 
well-willers to the match. 

Sper. For my part, I wish them well. 

Pris. And I; and since there is no rem- 
edy, I am glad of it. 



9 pun on Dromio' s po/ie above. 



10 fagots. 



11 the banns will not be asked. 



64 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Bis. But will you never hereafter take it 
in dudgeon,^^ but use them as well as 
though yourselves had made the mar- 
riage ? 

Pris. Not I. 

Sper. Nor I. 

Dro. Sir, here 's two old men are glad 
that your loves, so long eontinvied, is so 
happily concluded. 

Can. We thank them; and if they will 
come to Meniphio's house, they shall take 
part of a bad dinner. — (Aside.) This 
cottons/^ and works like wax in a sow's 
ear. 

Exeunt Candius and Livia. 

Pris. Well, seeing our purposes are pre- 
vented, we must lay other plots, for Livia 
must not have Candius. 

Sper. Fear not, for I have sworn that 
Candius shall not have Livia. But let 
us not fall out because our children fall 
in. 

Pris. Wilt thou go soon to Memphio's 
house 1 

Sper. Aye, and if you will, let us, that we 
may see how the young couple bride it, 
and so we may teach our own. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. 

Enter Lticio and Halfpenny. 

Luc. By this time I am sure the wags 
have played their parts; there rests noth- 
ing now for us but to match Accius and 
Silena. 

Half. It was too good to be true, for we 
should laugh heartily, and without laugh- 
ing my spleen would split. But whist ! 
here comes the man, — 

Enter Accius in Candius' clothes. 

and yonder the maid. Let us stand aside. 

Enter Silena in Livia' s clothes. 

Ac. What means my father to thrust me 
forth in another Ijoy's coat. I '11 war- 
rant 't is to as much purpose as a hem 
in the forehead.^* 

Half. There was an ancient proverb 
knocked in the head. 

Ac. I am almost come into my nonage, 



and yet I never was so far as the prov- 
erbs of this city. 
Luc. There 's a quip for the suburbs of 

Rochester. 
Half. Excellently applied. 
Sil. Well, though this furniture ^^ make 

me a sullen dame, yet I hope in mine own 

I am no saint. 
Half. A brave fight is like to be between 

a cock with a long comb and a hen with 

a long leg. 
Luc. Nay, her wits are shorter than her 

legs. 
Half. And his comb longer than his wit. 
Ac. I have yonder uncovered a fair girl; 

I '11 be so bold as spur ^® her what might 

a body call her name. 
Sil. I cannot help you at this time ; I pray 

you come again tomorrow. 
Half. Aye, mari-y, sir ! 
Ac. You need not be so lusty, you are not 

so honest. 
Sil. I ciy you mercy, I took you for a 

joint stool. ^'^ 
Luc. Here 's courting for a conduit or a 

bakehouse. 
Sil. But what are you for a man? Me- 

thinks you look as pleaseth God. 
Ac. What, do you give me the boots'? ^^ 
Half. Whither will they? Here be right 

cobbler's cuts ! 
Ac. I am taken with a fit of love ; have 

you any mind of marriage? 
Sil. I had thought to have asked you. 
Ac. Upon what acquaintance? 
Sil. Who would have thought it? 
Ac. Much in my gascoigns, more in my 

round hose ; ^^ all my father's are as 

white as daisies, as an egg full of 

meat. 
Sil. And all my father's plate is made of 

crimson velvet. 
Ac. That 's brave with bread ! 
Half. These two had wise men to their 

fathers. 
Luc. Why? 
Half. Because when their bodies were at 

work about household stuff their minds 

were busied about commonwealth matters. 
Ac. This is pure lawn; what call you this, 

a pretty face to your hair? 
Sil. Wisely! You have picked a raisin 

out of a frail 2° of figs. 
Ac. Take it as you list; you are in your 

own clothes. 



12 be offended. 

13 succeeds. 

14 Accius and Si- 
lena are made to 
talk almost pure 



nonsense through 
the scene, 
in clothing. 

16 ask. 

17 a proverbial ex- 



pression of scorn. 

18 mock me. 

19 ' 'Gaskins were 
loose, wide 
breeches ; the 



round hose fitted 
the leg closely. 
The latter would 
therefore indicate 
a closer degree of 



acquaintance o 
favor." (Bond.) 
20 wicker basket. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



65 



Sil. Saving a reverence,-^ that's a lie! 

My clothes are better — my father bor- 
rowed these. 
Ac. Long may he so do. I could tell that 

these are not mine, if I would blab it 

like a woman. 
Sil. I had as lief you should tell them it 

snowed. 
Luc. Come, let us take them off, for we 

have had the cream of them. 
Half. I warrant if this be the cream, the 

milk is very flat. Let us join issue with 

them. 
Lttc. To have such issue of our bodies, is 

worse than have an issue in the body. 

(To Silena.) God save you, pretty 

mouse. 
Sil. Yon may command and go without. 
Half. There 's a gleek 22 for you ; let me 

have my gird.-^ — [To Silena.) On thy 

conscience, tell me what 'tis o'clock? 
Sil. I ciy you mercy, I have killed your 

cushion. 
Half. I am paid,^* and struck dead in the 

nest. I am sure this soft youth, who is 

not half so wise as you are fair, nor you 

altogether so fair as he is foolish, will 

not be so captious. 
Ac. Your eloquence passes my recognos- 

cence. 

Enter Memphio and Stellio, heliind. 

Luc. I never heard that before; but shall 
we two make a match between you"? 

Sil. I 'II know first who was his father. 

Ac. My father •? What need you to care? 
I hope he was none of yours ! 

Half. A hard question, for it is odds but 
one begat them both ; he that cut out the 
upper leather, cut out the inner, and so 
with one awl stitched two soles together. 

Stel. (Aside to Luc.) What is she? 

Luc. 'T is Prisius' daughter. 

Stel. In good time; it fadges. 

Mem. (Aside to Half.) What is he? 

Half. Sperantus' son. 

Mem. So? 'T will cotton. 

Ac. Damsel, I pray you, how old are you? 

Mem. (Aside.) My son would scarce 
have asked such a foolish question. 

Sil. I shall be eighteen next bear-baiting. 

Stel. (Aside.) My daughter would have 
made a wiser answer. 

Half. (To Luc.) how fitly this comes 
off! 



Ac. My father is a scold; what's yours? 
Mem. My heart throbs, — I 'II look "him in 

the face; and yonder I espy Stellio. 
Stel. ]\Iy mind misgives me, — but whist ! 

yonder is Memphio. 
Ac. (To Mem.) In faith, I perceive an 

old saw and a rusty : no fool to the old 

fool. I pray you, Avherefore was I 

thrust out like a scarecrow in this simili- 
tude? 
Mem. ]\Iy son ! And I ashamed ! Dro- 

mio shall die ! 
SiJ. Father, are you sneaking behind? I 

pray you, what must I do next? 
Stel. My daughter! Riscio, thou hast 

cozened me ! 
Luc. Now begins the game. 
Mem. How came you hither? 
Ac. Many, by the way from your house 

hither. 
Mem. How chance in this attire? 
Ac. How chance Dromio bid me? 
Mem.. Ah, thy son will be begged for a 

concealed fool ! -^ 
Ac. Will I? r faith, sir, no. 
Stel. Wherefore came you hither, Silena. 

without leave? 
Sil. Because I did, and I am here because 

I am. 
Stel. Poor wench, thy wit is improved -^ 

to the uttermost. 
Half. Aye, 't is an hard matter to have a 

wit of the old rent, every one racks "^"^ 

his commons so high. 
Mem. (Aside.) Dromio told me that one 

should meet Stellio's daughter and court 

her in person of my son. 
Stel. (Aside.) Riscio told me one should 

meet Memphio's son, and plead in place 

of my daughter. 
Mem. (Aside.) But alas! I see that my 

son hath met with Silena himself, and 

bewrayed his folly. 
Stel. (Aside.) But I see my daughter 

hath prattled with Accius, and discov- 
ered ^^ her simplicity. 
Luc. A brave cry to hear the two old 

nmles weep over the two young fools. 
WIem. Accius, how likest thou Silena? 
Ac. I take her to be pregnant. 
Sil. Truly, his talk is very personable. 
Stel Come in, girl; this gear must be 

fetched aboiit.-^ 
Mem. Come, Accius, let us go in. 
Luc. (To Stel.) Nay, sir, there is no 

harm done ; they have neither bought nor 



21 begging your par- 
don ; from the 
Latin salva rev- 
erentia, and used 
apologetically be- 



fore strong or in- 
decent language. 

22 scoff. 

23 taunt. 

24 paid in full, dis- 



comfited. 

25 of. p. 48, n. 4. 

26 a secondary 
meaning, to raise 
the rent of, is 



punningly 



re- 28 revealed. 



ferred to in the 20 this matter must 



next speech. 
27 charges exorbi- 
tant rent for. 



be handled in 
roundabout fash- 
ion. 



60 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



sold; they may be twius for their wits 
and years. 

Mem. {To Half.) But why diddest thou 
tell me it was Sperantus' son? 

Half. Because I thought thee a fool to 
ask who thine own son was. 

Luc. {To St el.) And so, sir, for your 
daughter education hath done much; oth- 
erwise by nature they are soft-witted 
enough. 

Mem. Alas, their joints are not yet tied ; ^° 
they are not yet come to years and dis- 
cretion. 

Ac. Father, if my hands be tied shall I 
grow wise'? 

Half. Aye, and Silena too, if you tie them 
fast to your tongues. 

Sil. You may take your pleasure of my 
tongue, for it is no man's wife. 

Mem. Come in, Aeeius. 

Stel. Come in, Silena. I will talk with 
Memphio's son, but as for Riscio — ! 

Mem. As, for Dromio — ! 
Exeunt MempUio, Accius, Stellio, Silena. 

Half. Ass for you all four! 

Enter Dromio and Biscio. 

Dro. How goes the world now'? We have 
made all sure; Candius and Livia are 
married, their fathers consenting, yet not 
knowing. 

Luc. We have flat marred all ! Accius 
and Silena courted one another; their 
fathers took them napping, both are 
ashamed, and you both shall be swinged. 

Ris. Tush ! let us alone ; we will persuade 
them that all falls out for the best, for 
if underhand this match had been con- 
cluded, they both had been cozened, and 
now, seeing they find both to be fools, 
they maj' be both better advised. But 
why is Halfpenny so sad? 

Enter HacTcneyman and Sergeant. 

Half. Because I am sure I shall never be 

a penny. 
Bis. Rather pray there be no fall of 

money, for thou wilt then go for a g.^^ 
Dro. But did not the two fools currently ^- 

eourt one another? 
Luc. Very good words, fitly applied, 

brought in the nick. 
Serg. {Seizing Dro.) I arrest you. 
Dro. Me, sir? Why then didst not bring 

a stool with thee that I might sit down? 

30 their bones are 33 a coinage of Half- 35 pun on spur- 
not yet set. penny's: drunk- ask. 

31 the abbreviation enness. 36 as to a gentle- 
for farthing. 34 bale. man; or cheap 

32 readily. 37 whinny. 



Hack. He arrests you at my suit for a 

horse. 
Ris. The more ass he ! If he had arrested 

a mare instead of an horse it had been 

but a slight oversight; but to arrest a 

man that hath no likeness of a horse is 

flat lunacy or alecy.^^ 
Hack. Tush ! I hired him a horse. 
Dro. I swear then he was well ridden. 
Hack. I think in two days he was never 

baited. 
Half. Why, was it a bear thou rid'st on? 
Hack. I mean he never gave him bait. 
Luc. Why, he took him for no fish. 
Hack. I mistake none of you when I take 

you for fools! I say thou never gavest 

my horse meat. 
Dro. Yes, in four and forty hours I am 

stire he had a bottle ^* of hay as big as 

his belly. 
Serg. Nothing else? Thou shouldst have 

given him provender. 
Ris. Why, he never asked for any. 
Hack. Why, dost thou think a horse can 

speak ? 
Dro. No, for I spurred ^^ him till my 

heels ached and he said never a word. 
Hack. Well, thou shall j)ay sweetly for 

spoiling him ! It was as lusty a nag as 

any in Rochester, and one that would 

stand ujion no ground. 
Dro. Then is he as good as ever he was. 

I '11 warrant he '11 do nothing but lie 

down. 
Hack. I lent him thee gently.^^ 
Dro. And I restored him so gently that he 

neither would cry wyltie,^'' nor wag the 

talk 
Hack. But why didst thou bore him 

through the ears? 
Luc. It may be he was set on the pillory ^^ 

because he had not a true pace. 
Half. No, it was for tiring.^** 
Hack. He would never tire ; it may be he 

would be so weary he would go no further 

or so. 
Dro. Yes, he was a notable horse for serv- 

ice; he would tire and retire. 
Hack. Do you think I '11 be jested out of 

my horse? Sergeant, wreak thy office on 

him. 
Ris. Nay, stay, let him be bailed. 
Hack. So he shall when I make him a 

bargain. 
Dro. It was a very good horse. I must 



38 The ears of those 
condemned to the 
pillory were fre- 
quently cropped 
or bored as an 



additional 
ishment. 
39 adorning. 



pun- 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



67 



needs confess ; and now hearken to his 
qualities, and have patience to hear them, 
since I must pay for him. He would 
stumble three hours in one mile : I had 
thought I had rode upon addices •*" be- 
tween this and Canterbury. If one gave 
him water, why, he would lie down and 
bathe himself like a hawk. If one ran 
him, he would simper and mump *''- as 
though he had gone a-wooing to a malt- 
mare ''- at Rochester ; he ti'otted before 
and ambled behind, and was so obedient 
that he would do duty every minute on 
his knees, as though every stone had been 
his father. 

Hack. I am sure he had no diseases. 

Dro. A little rheum or pose ; ^^ he lacked 
nothing but an handkercher. 

Serg. Come, what a tale of a horse have 
we here! I cannot stay; thou must with 
me to prison. 

Bis. If thou be a good fellow, hackney- 
man, take all our four bonds for tlie 
payment ; thou knowest we are town-born 
children, and will not shrink ** the city 
for a pelting *^ jade. 

Half. I '11 enter into a statute merchant '*" 
to see it answered. But if thou wilt have 
bonds thou shalt have a bushel full. 

Hack. Alas, poor ant ! Thou bound in n 
statute merchant f A brown thread will 
bind thee fast enough. But if you will 
be content all four jointly to enter into 
a bond, I will withdraw the action. 

Dro. Yes, I '11 warrant they will. How 
say you "? 

Half. I yield. 

Bis. And I. 

Luc. And I. 

Hack. Well, call the scrivener. 

Serg. Here's one hard by; I'll call him. 
{Knocks at Scrivener's door.) 

Bis. A scrivener's shop hangs to a ser- 
geant's mace like a burr to a frieze coat. 

Scriv. (Within.) What 's the matter? 

Hack. You must take a note of a bond. 

Dro. Nay, a pint of courtesy pulls on a pot 
of wine. In this tavern we '11 dispatch. 

Hack. Agreed. 

Exeunt all hut Biscio. 

Bis. Now if our wits be not in the wane, 
our knavery shall be at the full. They 
will ride them worse than Dromio rid his 
horse, for if the wine master their wits, 
you shall see them bleed their follies. 

Exit. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. 

Enter Dromio, Biscio, Lucio, and 
Hcdf penny. 

Dro. Every fox to his hole, the hounds 
are at hand. 

^Bis. The sergeant's mace lies at pawn for 
the reckoning, and he under the board to 
cast it up. 

Luc. The scrivener cannot keep his pen 
out of the pot; every goblet is an ink- 
horn, 

Hcdf. The hackneyman he whisks with his 
wand as if the tavern were his stable and 
all the servants his horses : 'Most there 
up, bay Richard !" — and white loaves are 
horsebread in his eyes. 

Dro. It is well I have my acquittance, and 
he such a bond as shall do him no more 
good than the bond of a fagot. Our 
knaveries are now come to the push, and 
we must cunningly dispatch all. We two 
will go see how we may appease our mas- 
ters, you two how you may conceal the 
late marriage; if all fall out amiss, the 
worst is beating, if to the best, the worst 
is liberty. 

Bis. Then let 's about it speedily, for so 
many irons in the fire together requii-e a 
diligent plumber. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. 

Enter Vicinia. 

Vic. My heart throbs, my ears tingle, my 
mind misgives me, since I hear such mut- 
tering of marriages in Rochester. My 
conscience, which these eighteen years 
hath been frozen with concealed *^ guilti- 
ness, begins now to thaw in open grief. 
But I will not accuse myself till T see 
more danger ; the good old woman Mother 
Bombie shall try her cunning upon me, 
and if I perceive my case is desperate 
by her, then will I rather prevent, al- 
though with shame, than report too late 
and be inexcusable. 

Knocks. Enter Mother Bombie. 

God speed, good mother. 
Bom. Welcome, sister. 
Vic. I am troubled in the night with 



40 adzes. 

41 grimace. 

4 2 brpwer's mare. 
43 cold. 



44 quit. 

45 paltry. 



46 a bond, acknowl- 
edged before the 
chief magistrate 
of a trading town, 



giving to the 


obliaror if he 


obligee power of 


forfeited. (N. E. 


seizure of the 


D.) 


land of * the 


47 Qq. coniealed. 



68 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



dreams, and in the day with fears; mine 
estate bare, which I cannot well bear, but 
my practices devilish, which I cannot re- 
call. If therefore in these same years 
there be any deep skill, tell what my for- 
tune shall be, and what my fault is. 

Bom. In studying to be over-natural 
Thou art like to be unnatural. 
And all about a natural,*^ 
Thou shall be eased of a charge, 
If thou thy conscience discharge. 
And this I commit to thy charge. 

Vic. Thou hast touched me to the quick, 
mother; I understand thy meaning, and 
thou well knoAvest my practice. I will 
follow thy comisel. But what will be the 
end ? ' 

Bom. Thou shalt know before this day 
end. Farewell. 

Exit. 

Vic. Now I perceive I must either bewray 
a mischief or suffer a continual incon- 
venience. I must haste homewards, and 
resolve to make all whole; better a little 
shame than an infinite grief. The 
strangeness will abate the fault, and the 
bewraying wipe it clean away. 

Exit. 

Scene 3. 
Enter Sijnis, Nasutus, and Bedunenus. 

Syn. Come, fellows, 't is almost day ; let 
us have a fit of mirth at Sperantus' door, 
and give a song to the bride. 

Nas. I believe they are asleep ; it were 
pity to awake them. 

Bed. 'T were a shame they should sleep 
the first night. 

Syn. But who can tell at which house they 
lie? At Prisius', it may be. We'll try 
both. 

Nas. Come, let 's draw like men. 

Syn. Now tune, tune, I say ! That boy, 
I think, will never profit in his fac- 
ulty : *^ he loses his rosin that his fiddle 
goes "cush ! cush !" like as one should go 
wet-shod ; and his month so dry that he 
hath not spittle for his pin ^° as I have. 

Bed. Marry, sir, you see I go wet-shod 
and dry-mouthed, for yet could I never 
get new shoes or good drink ; rather than 
I'll lead this life, I'll throw my fiddle 
into the leads for a hobbler.^^ 



Syn. Boy, no more words ! There 's a 
time for all things. Though I say it 
that should not, I have been a minstrel 
these thirty years, and tickled more 
strings than thou hast hail's, but yet was 
never so misused. 

Nas. Let us not brabble,^- but play; to- 
morrow is a new day. 

Bed. I am sorry I speak in your cast.^^ 
What shall we sing I 

Syn. "The Love-Knot," for that's best 
for a bridal. 

{They sing.) 
Good morrow, fair bride, and send you 
joy of your bridal. 

{Sperantus looks out.) 

Sper. What a mischief make the twan- 
glers here? We have no trenchers to 
scrape. It makes my teeth on edge to 
hear such grating. Get you packing, or 
I '11 make you wear double stocks,^* and 
yet you shall be never the warmer. 

Syn. We come for good will, to bid the 
bride and bridegroom God give them joy. 

Sper. Here 's no wedding. 

Syn. Yes, your son and Prisius' daughter 
were married ; though you seem strange, 
yet they rejDent it not, I am sure. 

Sper. My son, villain ! I had rather he 
were fairly hanged. 

Nas. So he is, sir; you have your wish. 

Enter Candius. 

Can. Here, fiddlers, take this, and not a 
word. Here is no wedding, it was at 
Memphio's house. Yet gramercy ; your 
music, though it missed the house, hit 
the mind; we were a-preparing our wed- 
ding gear. 

Syn. I cry you mercy, sir; I think it was 
Memphio's son that was married. 

Exit Candius. 

Sper. ho, the case is altered ! Go 
thither then, and be haltered for me. 

Nas. What's the alms? 

Syn. An angel. 

Bed. I '11 warrant there 's some work to- 
wards; ten shillings is money in master 
Mayor's purse.^^ 

Syn. Let us to Memphio's, and share 
equally; when we have done all, thou 
shalt have new shoes. 

Bed. Aye, such as they cry at the 'sizes : 
•'a mark in issues ! ^® and mark in is- 



his 



48 idiot. 

49 improve i 
profession. 

50 to make the pegs 



51 into the gutter 
for a mark to 
throw at. 

52 wrangle. 



of his instru- 53 cast was an ac- 



ment hold fast. 



tor's, part in 



hence, to 55 i e even to a rich 

in one's man. 

6 thirteen shil- 

lings four pence 
(a mark) in 
fines; there is 



play ; 
spealc 

cast is to inter- 
rupt. 
54 pun on stocks 
— stockings. 



probably, as Bond 
suggests, a bad 
pun on issues — 
his shoes. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



69 



sues !" — and yet I never saw so much 
leather as would piece one's shoes. 

Syn. No more ; there 's the money. 

Bed. A good handsel,^'' and I tlnnk the 
maidenhead of your liberality. 

Nas. Come, here's the house; what shall 
we singf 

Syn. You know Memphio is very rich and 
wise, and therefore let us strike the gen- 
tle stroke, and sing a catch. 

Song. 

All. The bride this night can catch no cold; 
A^o cold; the bridegroom's young, not old; 
Like ivy he her fast does hold, 
iS'.(/n.. And clips her, 

^as. And lips her, 

Bed. And flips her too. 

All. Then let them alone: they know what 

they do. 
Syn. At laugh and lie down if they play, 
^as. What ass against the sport can bra.v ? 
Bed. Such tick-tack has held many a day, 
Syn. And longer, 

tjas. And stronger; 

Bed. It still holds, too. 

All. Tlien let them alone; they know what 
they do. 

This night 
In delight 
Does thump away sorrow. 
Of billing 
Take your filling; 
So good morrow, good morroAV. 

Nas. Good morrow, mistress bride, and 
send you a huddle. ^^ 

Mem. {Above.) What crowding ^'^ knaves 
have we there? Case up your fiddles, or 
the constable shall cage you up ! What 
bride talk you off 

Syn. Here 's a wedding in Rochester, and 
't was told me first that Sperantus' son 
had married Prisius' daughter. We 
were there, and they sent us to your wor- 
ship, saying your son was matched with 
Stellio's daughter. 

Mem. Hath Sperantus that churl nothing 
to do but mock his neighbors'? I'll be 
even with him ! And get you gone, or I 
swear by the rood's body,^° I '11 lay you 
by the heels! 

Nas. Sing a catch ! Here 's a fair catch 
indeed ! Sing till we catch cold on our 
feet, and be called knave till our ears 
glow on our heads ! Your worship is 
wise, sir! 

Mem. Dromio, shake off a whole kennel 



of officers to punish these jarring rogues. 

I '11 teach them to stretch their dried 

sheeps' guts at my door, and to mock one 

that stands to be mayor. 
Bra. {Above.) I had thought they had 

been sticking of pigs, I heard such a 

squeaking. I go, sir. 
Syn. Let us be packing. 
Nas. Where is my scabbard? Every one 

sheathe his science. 
Bed. A bots on the shoemaker that made 

this boot for my fiddle; 'tis too strait, 
Syn. No more words; 'twill be thought 

they wei'e the four waits,*'^ and let them 

wring.*'- As for the wags that set us on 

work, we '11 talk with them. 

Exeunt. 
Enter Memphio and Dromio. 

Dro. They be gone, sir. 

Mem. If they had stayed, the stocks 
should have stayed them. But, sirrah, 
what shall we now do"? 

Dro. As I advised you, make a match, for 
better one house be cumbered with two 
fools than two, 

Mem. 'T is true ; for it being bruited that 
each of us have a fool, who will tender 
marriage to any of them, that is wise? 
Besides, fools are fortunate, fools are 
fair, fools are honest. 

Dro. Aye, sir, and more than that, fools 
are not wise; a wise man is melancholy 
for moonshine in the water, careful, 
building castles in the air, and commonly 
hath a fool to his heir. 

Mem. But what sayest thou to thy dame's 
chafing? 

Dro. Nothing, but all her dishes are 
chafing dishes. 

Mem. I would her tongue were in thy 
belly ! 

Dro. I had as lief have a raw neat's 
tongue in my stomach. 

Mem." Why? 

Dro. Marry, if the clapper hang within 
an inch of my heart, that ^^ makes mine 
ears burn a quarter of a mile off, do you 
not think it would beat my heart black 
and blue? 

Mem. Well, patience is a virtue, but 
pinching is worse than any vice ! I will 
break this matter to Stellio, and if he 
be willing this day shall be their wed- 
ding. 

Dro. Then this day shall be my liberty. 

Mem. Aye, if Stellio's daughter had been 



57 earnest money. 

58 embrace. 



59 fiddlins:. 
60 the body of Christ 



on the cross. 
01 singers. 



02 take the onus of it. 
63 i. e. clapper. 



70 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



wise, and by thy means cozened of a fool. 
Bro. Then, sir, I '11 revolt, and dash out 

the brains of your devices. 
Mem. Rather thou shalt be free. 

Exeunt. 
Enter Sperantus, Halfpenny, Prisiits, and 
Lucio. 

Sper. Boy, this smoke is a token of some 
fire; I like not the look of it. Where- 
fore should these minstrels dream of a 
marriage? 

Half. Alas, sir, they rustle into eveiy 
place. Give credit to no such words. 

Sper. I will to Prisius; I cannot be quiet 
— and in good time I meet him. Good 
morrow, neighbor. 

Pris. I cast the morrow in thy face, and 
bid good night to all neighborhood. 

Sper. This is your old trick, to pick one's 
purse and then to pick quarrels. I tell 
thee, I had rather thou shouldest rob my 
chest than embezzle my son. 

Pris. Thy son ! ]\Iy daughter is seduced ! 
For I hear say she is mamed, and our 
boys can tell. (To Luc.) How sayest 
thou"? Tell the truth, or I '11 grind thee 
to powder in my mill. Be they married '? 

Luc. True it is they were both in a church. 

Fris. That 's no fault ; the place is holy. 

Half. And there was with them a priest. 

Sper. Why, what place fitter for a priest 
than a church? 

Luc. And they took one another hj the 
hand. 

Pris. Tush ! that 's but conunon courtesy. 

Half. And the priest spake many kind 
words. 

Sper. That showed he was no dumb minis- 
ter. But what said they? Diddest thou 
hear any words between them? 

Luc. Faith, there was a bargain during 
life, and the clock cried, "God give them 
joy!" . 

Pris. Villain, they be married ! 

Half. Nay, I think not so. 

Sper. Yes, yes! "God give you .]oy '" is 
a binder. I '11 quickly be resolved. Cau- 
dius, come forth. 

Re-enter Candius. 

Pris. And I '11 be put out of doubt. 
Livia, come forth. 

Enter Livia. 

Sper. The micher hangs down his head ! 
Pr'is. The baggage begins to blush ! 



Half. Now begins the game! 

Luc. I believe it will be no game for us. 

Sper. Are you married, young master? 

Can. I cannot deny it, it was done so 
lately. 

Sijer. But thou shalt repent it was done 
so soon. 

Pris. Then 't is bootless to ask you, Livia. 

Liv. Aye, and needless to be angry. 

Pris. It shall pass anger; thou shalt find 
it rage. 

Liv. You gave your consent. 

Pris. Impudent giglot,^'* was it not 
enough to abuse me, but also to belie me? 

Can. You, sir, agreed to this match. 

Sper. Thou brazen-face boy, thinkest thou 
by learning to persuade me to that which 
thou speakest? Where did I consent, 
when, what witness? 

Can. In this place yesterday before Dro- 
mio and Riscio. 

Pris. I remember we heard a contract be- 
tween Memphio's son and Stellio's daugh- 
ter; and that our good wills being asked, 
which needed not. we gave them, which 
booted not. 

Can. 'T was but the apparel of Accius 
and Silena; we were the persons. 

Pris. villainy not to be borne! {To 
Luc.) Wast thou privy to this practice? 

Luc. In a manner. 

Pris. I'll pay thee after a manner! 

Sper. And you, oatmeal groat ! you were 
acquainted with this plot? 

Half. Accessoiy, as it were. 

Sper. Thou shalt be punished as princi- 
pal. Here comes Memphio and Stellio; 
they belike were privy, and all tlieir 
heads were laid together to grieve our 
hearts. 

Enter Mempliio, Stellio, Dromio, and 
Riscio. 

Mem. Come, Stellio, the assurance may be 
made tomorro.w, and our children assured 
today. 

Stel. Let the conveyance run as we agreed. 

Pris. You convey ^^ cleanly indeed, if 
cozenage be clean dealing, for in the ap- 
parel of your children you have con- 
veyed a match between ours which grieves 
us not a little. 

Mem. Nay, in the apparel of your chil- 
dren you have discovei'ed the folly of 
ours, which shames us overmuch. 

Stel. But 't is no matter ; though they be 
fools they are no beggars. 

65 steal. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



71 



/Sjjf/-. And though ours be disobedient, 
they be no fools. 

Dro. So now they tune their pipes. 

Bis. You shall hear sweet music between 
a hoarse raven and a screech owl. 

Mem. Neighbors, let us not vary ; our boys 
have played their cheating- parts. I sus- 
I^ected no less at the tavern, where our 
four knaves met together. 

Bis. If it were knavery for four to meet 
in a tavern, your worships wot well 
there were other four. 

Stel. This villain calls us knaves by craft. 

Luc. Nay, truly, I dare swear he used no 
craft, but means plainly. 

Sper. This is worse! Come, Halfpenny, 
tell the truth, and scape the rod. 

Half. As good confess here, being 
trussed,*^*^ as at home with my hose about 
my heels. 

Dro. Nay, I '11 tell thee, for 't will never 
become thee to utter it. 

Mem. Well, out with it ! 

Dro. Memphio had a fool to his son, 
which Stellio knew not; Stellio a fool to 
his daughter, unknown to Memphio ; to 
cozen each other, they dealt with their 
boys for a match ; Ave met with Lucio 
and Halfpenny, who told the love be- 
tAveen their masters' children — the youth 
deeply in love, the fathers unAvilling to 
consent. 

Bis. I'll take the tale by the end. Then 
Ave four met, which argued we were no 
mountains; and in a tavern we met, 
Avhich argued we were mortal ; and every 
one in his wine told his day's work, Avhich 
was a sign we forgot not our business; 
and seeing all our masters troubled with 
devices, we determined a little to trouble 
the water before they drank : so that in 
the attire of your children our masters' 
wise children bewrayed their good na- 
tures, and in the garments of our mas- 
ters' children yours made a marriage. 
This all stood upon us poor children and 
your young children, to sIioav that old 
folks may be overtaken by children. 

Pris. Here 's a children indeed ! I '11 
never forget it. 

Mem. I will ! Aecius, come forth. 

Stel. I forgiA'e all. Silena, come forth. 

Enter Aecius and Silena. 

Sper. Neighbor, these things cannot be re- 
called, therefore as good consent; seeing 
in all our purposes also we missed the 



mark, for they tAvo Avill match their chil- 
dren. 

Pris. Well, of that more anon; not so 
suddenly, lest our ungracious youths 
think Ave dare do no other. But in truth, 
their love stirs up nature in me. 

Mem. Come, Aecius, thou must be mar- 
ried to Silena. How art thou minded? 

Ac. What, for ever and evev°i 

Mem. Aye, Aecius, Avhat else? 

Ac. 1 shall never be able to abide it, it 
Avill be so tedious, 

Stel. Silena, thou must be betrothed to 
Aecius, and love him for thy husband. 

Sil. I had as lief haA'e one of clouts. 

Slcl. Why, Silena? 

Sil. Why, look hoAv he looks ! 

Ac. If you Avill not, another will. 

Sil. I thank you for mine old cap. 

Ac. And if you be so lusty, lend me two 
shillings. 

Pris. (To Sper.) We are happy Ave 
missed the foolish match. 

Mem. Come, you shall presently be con- 
tracted. 

Dro. Contract their Avits no moi-e; they be 
shrunk close already. 

Ac. Well, father, here's my hand; strike 
the bargain. 

Sil. Must he lie with me? 

Stel. No, Silena, lie by thee. 

Ac. 1 shall give her the humble-bee's kiss. 

Enter Ticinia, Mcestius, and Serena. 

Vic. I forbid the banns. 

Bis. What, dost thou think them rats, and 
fearest they shall be poisoned? 

Mem,. You, Vicinia? Wherefore? 

Vic. Hearken ! About eighteen years ago 
I nursed thee a son, Memphio, and thee 
a daughter, Stellio. 

Stel. True. 

Mem. True. 

Vic. I had at that time two children of 
mine own, and being poor, thought it 
better to change them than kill them. I 
imagined if by device I could thrust my 
children into your houses, they should be 
Avell brought up in their youth and Avisely 
provided for in their age. Nature 
wrought Avith me, and AA^hen they were 
weaned T sent home mine instead of 
yours, which hitherto you have kept ten- 
derly as yours. GroAving in years, I 
foimd the children I kept at home to 
love dearly, at first like brother and sis- 
ter, which I rejoiced at ; but at length 



i.e. before my breeches are taken down and I 'm spanked. 



72 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



too foi-ward in affection, which, although 
inwardly I could not mislike, yet openly 
I seemed to disallow. They increased in 
their loving humors; I ceased not to 
chastise them for their loose demeanors. 
At last it came to my ears that my son 
that was out with Memphio was a fool, 
that my daughter with Stellio was also 
unwise, and yet, being brother and sister, 
there was a match in hammering betwixt 
them. 

Mem. What monstrous tale is this? 

Stel. And I am sure incredible. 

Sper. Let her end her discourse. 

Ac. I '11 never believe it. 

Mem. Hold thy peace! 

Vic. My very bowels yearned within me 
that I should be author of such vile in- 
cest, an hindrance to lawful love. I 
went to the good old woman. Mother 
Bombie, to know the event of this prac- 
tice; who told me this day I might pre- 
vent the danger, and upon submission 
escape the punishment. Hither am I 
come to claim my children, though both 
fools, and to deliver yours, both lov- 
ing. 

Mem. Is this possible f How shall we be- 
lieve it? 

Stel. It cannot sink into my head. 

Vic. This trial cannot fail. Your son, 
Memphio, had a mole under his ear; I 
framed one under my child's ear by art ; 
you shall see it taken away with the juice 
of mandrage.*'^ Behold now for your 
son's! No herb can undo that nature 
hath done. Your daughter, Stellio, hath 
on her wrist a mole, which I counter- 
feited on my daughter's arm, and that 
shall you see taken away as the other. 
Thus you see I do not dissemble, hoping 
you will pardon me, as I have pitied 
them. 

Mem. This is my son ! f oi'tunate Mem- 
phio ! 

Stel. This is my daughter ! More than 
thrice happy Stellio ! 

Mcest. How happy is Mfestius, how 
blessed Serena, that being neither chil- 
dren to poor parents, nor brother and 
sister by nature, may enjoy their love by 
consent of parents and nature. 

Ac. Soft ! I '11 not swap my father for 
all this. 

Sil. What, do you think I '11 be cozened 
of my father? Methinks I should not. 
Mother Bombie told me my father knew 
me not, my mother bore me not, falsely 
bred, truly begot. A bots on Mother 
Bombie ! 



Dro. Mother Bombie told us we should be 
found cozeners, and in the end be cozened 
by cozeners; well fare Mother Bom- 
bie! 

Ris. I heard Mother Bombie say that thou 
shalt die a beggar; beware of Mother 
Bombie ! 

Pris. Why, have you all been with Mother 
Bombie? 

Luc. All, and as far as I can see, she fore- 
told all. . 

Mem. Indeed she is cunning and wise, 
never doing harm, but still practising 
good. Seeing these things fall out thus, 
are you content, Stellio, the match go 
forward ? 

Stel. Aye, with double joy, having found 
for a fool a wise maid, and finding be- 
tween them both exceeding love. 

Pris. Then to end all jars, our children's 
matches shall stand with our good liking. 
Livia, enjoy Candius. 

Sper. Candius, enjoy Livia. 

Can. How shall we recompense fortune, 
that to our loves hath added our parents' 
good wills? 

M(Est. How shall we requite fortune, that 
to our loves hath added lawfulness, and 
to our poor estate competent living? 

Mem. Vicinia, thy fact ^^ is pardoned, 
though the law would see it punished. 
We be content to keep Silena in the 
house with the new married couple. 

Stel. And I do maintain Accius in our 
house. 

Vic. Come, my children, though fortune 
hath not provided you lands, yet you see 
you are not destitute of friends. I shall 
be eased of a charge both in purse and 
conscience : in conscience, having re- 
vealed my lewd practice ; in purse, hav- 
ing you kept of alms. 

Ac. Come, if you be my sister it 's the 
better for you. 

Sil. Come, brother, methinks it 's better 
than it was; I should have been but a 
bald bride. I '11 eat as much pie as if 
I had been married. 

Mem. Let 's also forgive the knavery of 
our boys, since all turns to our good 
haps. 

Stel. Agreed ; all are pleased now the 
boys are unpunished. 

Enter Hackney man, Sergeant, and 
Scrivener. 

Hack. Nay, soft, take us with you, and 
seek redress for our wrongs, or we '11 
complain to the mayor. 

Pris. What's the matter? 



67 mandragora. 



MOTHER BOMBIE 



73 



Hack. I arrested Memphio's boy for an 
horse. After much mocking, at the re- 
quest of his fellow wags I was content 
to take a bond jointly of them all; they 
had me into a tavern ; there they made 
me, the scrivener, and the sergeant drunk, 
pawned his mace for the wine, and sealed 
me an obligation nothing to the purpose. 
I pray you, read it. 

Mem. What wags be these ! Why, by this 
bond you can demand nothing, and 
things done in drink may be repented in 
soberness, but not remedied. 

Dro. Sir, I have his acquittance; let him 
sue his bond. 

Hack. I '11 cry quittance Avith thee ! 

Serg. And I, or it shall cost me the laying 
on freely of my mace. 

Scriv. And I '11 give thee such a dash with 
a pen as shall cost thee many a pound, 
with such a Noverint '^^ as Cheapside ""^ 
can show none such. 

Half. Do your worst ; our knaveries will 
revenge it upon your children's children. 

Mem. Thou boy!* {To Hack.) We will 
pay the hire of the horse, be not angry. 
The boys have been in a men-y cozening 
vein, for they have served their masters 
of the same sort ; but all must be forgot- 



ten. Now all are content but the poor 
fiddlers ; they shall be sent for to the mar- 
riage, and have double fees. 

Dro. You need no more send for a fiddler 
to a feast than a beggar to a fair. 

Stel. This day we will feast at my house. 

Mem. Tomorrow at mine. 

Pris. The next day at mine. 

Sper. Then at mine the last day, and even 
so spend this week in good cheer. 

Dro. Then we were best be going whilst 
every one is pleased. And yet these cou- 
ples are not fully pleased till the priest 
have done his woi'st. 

Piis. Come, Sergeant, we '11 toss it ''^ this 
week, and make thy mace arrest a boiled 
capon. 

Serg. No more words at the wedding; if 
the mayor should know it, I were in dan- 
ger of mine office. 

Pi is. Then take heed how, on such as we 
are, you show a cast ''^ of your office. 

Half. If you mace us, we '11 pepper you. 

Ac. Come, sistei', the best is, we shall have 
good cheer these four days. 

Lt(e. And be fools for ever. 

Sil. That 's none of our ui^seekings. 

Exeunt. 



C9 the first word of 
the phrase with 
which deeds be- 



gan: "Know all 
men by these 
presents." 



70 the ecclesiastical of Canterbury 

court of appeal was held in Bow 
for the province Church, Cheap- 



side. 

71 toss cups, drink. 

72 specimen. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 



EDWARD II 



Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) was the 
son of a shoemaker of Canterbury, and went 
to the old King's School of that town. 
Thence in 1579 he went up to Cambridge on 
a scholarship which he held all during his 
residence at the university, where he took 
a bachelor's degree in 1584, a master's in 

1587. Between 1587, when Tamburlaine was 
acted, and 1593 he produced at least six 
plays, as well as the unfinished narrative 
poem, Hero and Leander. All that is cer- 
tainly known of his death is that he was 
killed by one Francis Archer; the rumors 
of dissipation and atheism attaching to his 
name are undeserving of credence. 

The feeling of national unity which had 
been growing in England luider the Tudor 
sovereigns, especially during the reign of the 
great Maiden Queen, received a tremendous 
impulse from the defeat of the Armada in 

1588. The mistrust of Spain, shown in the 
popular discontent with i\lary Tudor's mar- 
riage to Philip, accentuated by the resent- 
ment of Spanish oppression of the Nether- 
lands, and fanned into a white heat of hatred 
by Philip's ambitious project of regaining- 
England for the Pope, probably did more to 
make England a united nation tlian any 
other one cause. The fears of a Catholic vip- 
rising were dissipated by the staunch loyalty 
of- the English Catholics, and the jubilation 
over a great crisis safely passed found one 
means of expression in the glorious liood of 
Elizabethan literature. To this national in- 
spiration the drama, just finding itself in the 
decade from 1580 to 1590, responded with 
extraordinary vigor. Tlie twenty years fol- 
lowing the Armada saw the rise and full 
development of a new and quite native form 
of drama, taking its subject-matter from the 
history, authentic or legendary, of Britain, 
the chronicle-history play. It has been es- 
timated that such plays during the period of 
their popularity constituted more than a 
fifth of the contemporary drama. Of the 
thirty-seven plays in the Shakespeare canon 
ten (coimting parts of plays individually) 
are of this type, while Cymbeline, Lear, and 
Macbeth are drawn from the same sources. 
It was natural that during a period of strong 
national feeling Englishmen should take in- 
terest in the history of their country. What 
numerous historical works in prose and 
verse did for readers, the chronicle plays did 
for spectators, and their actual educative 



74 



function must not be overlooked* Forerun- 
ners of the type may be found in such a 
play as Bale's Kyng Johan (1538) and a few 
Senecan tragedies like Gorboduc (1562), but 
it was not till 1580-7 in The Famous Vic- 
tories of Henry V that we get our first ex- 
ample. To raise the chronicle-history play 
to the plane of artistic drama was the work 
of two men, Marlowe and Shakespeare. 

Edward II is generally accepted as being 
the latest of Marlowe's plays, written prob- 
ably about 1592. Not so rich in poetry as 
Tamburlaine or Dr. Fanstus, nor so theatri- 
cally efl'ective as the melodramatic Jew of 
Malta, in technique it is Marlowe's best work. 
The material is taken from the source tllS^ 
supplied Shakespeare with his knowledge of 
English history, ITolinshed's Clironicles of 
England, Scotland, and Ireland, with occa- 
sional borrowings from the older chronicles 
of Fabyan (e.g., the song on Bannockburn, 
II. ii) and Stow. The play is, however, so 
much more than a mere transference to the 
stage of Holinshed's narrative that a com- 
parison of the play with the historical ac- 
coimt reveals, as can nothing_,else, Marlowe's 
methods as a playmaker^/-"'^ 

The action covers a period of twenty years, 
»from 1307, when Gaveston was recalled, to 
the death of Edward in 1327. " Marlowe's 
treatment of the story shows a selection 
and transposing of events in order to 
bring out the one essential fact of the 
King's utter incompetence and subjection to 
unworthy favorites, t Gaveston was executed 
in 1312, and the troubles in Ireland (II. ii) 
and in Scotland (II. ii) occurred after his 
death, but Marlowe shifts both forward in 
point of time in order to connect them vi^ith 
Gaveston's baleful inlluence. Warwick died 
in his bed in 1315, seven years before the 
battle of Boroughbridge, but Alarlowe keejis 
him alive to have him captured and ordered 
to execution in retaliation for his killing of ,' 
Gaveston. At the time the play opens the | 
Earl of Kent was six years old, but Mar- 
lowe, needing a counsellor and supporter of 
the King, used Kent for the purpose. In 
the play young Spencer immediately succeeds 
Gaveston as the King's favorite; really the 
younger Hugli le Despenser, who had been 
an enemy of (Javcston, remained an opponent 
of Edward's for some six years after Gaves- 
ton's death. Historically the ilortimers be- 
long with the Spencers, i.e., to the later part 
of the reign, but in order to motivate the 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 



affair between the Queen and young Morti- 
mer Marlowe transfers them to the beginning 
of the play and makes them leaders in the 
barons' councils. 

What does all this rearrangement mean ? 
It means that Marlowe was working with a 
definite dramatic end in view, with all his 
faculties alert to make the i^lay a single, 
logical portrayal of the King's fatal weak- 
ness and its consequences to him and to the 
realnv' In the first place he had to show in 
action the evil influence of Gaveston over 
Edward. This he does by showing the King's 
.unkingly infatuation with an arrogant favor- 
ite who holds his position only by flattering 
the royal vanity, an infatuation so complete 
that it leads to the insulting and final aliena- 
tion of a faithful and loving Queen. • Tlie 
practical effects of Gaveston's pandering to 
the King's love of pleasure are seen in the 
hostility of the great barons and the affronts 
to English honor in Scotland and Ireland. 
With Gaveston out of the way (III. ii), 
Marlowe is faced by the difficulty of avoiding 
in the Spencer story a mere repetition of 
that of Gaveston. He had already, by intro- 
ducing young Spencer in II. i as a depend- 
ent of Gaveston's, and thus preparing for 
Spencer's promotion to Gaveston's shoes, pre- 
vented his play from breaking in two on 
Gaveston's disappearance. Now he solves his 
fresh problem by shifting the interest from 
the affairs of the kingdom to the more famil- 
iar situation of the eternal triangle — hus-' 
band, offended wife, lover. From the first 
Mortimer has been the main reliance of the 
Queen in her effort to maintain her posi- 
tion with the King; when the King himself 
impugns her honor by flinging Mortimer's 
name in her face we are fully prepared for 
her soliloquy at the end of the scene {il. iv), 
and the understanding between her and 
Mortimer in IV. iv and v. The development 
of their love affair, merely hinted at in 
Holinshed, is rather left for the actors to 
bring out than explained in the text, but 
Marlowe makes the situation clear. Morti- 
mer's relations with the Queen place him 
definitely at the head of the revolting barons, 
and he is thus ready to play his part as chief 
actor in Edward's deposition and murder, 
and as virtual ruler of the realm until the 
young King asserts himself at the end of the 
play. 

Detailed analysis of this sort is useful not 
only for showing how Marlowe met the prob- 
lem of making a play out of unpromising 
material, but also how, in the process of 
making the story truly dramatic, his method 
tends to break away from the chronicle- 
history form and approaches tra gedy . In 
early crude examples of the type — plays like 
The Favwus Victories of Henry V, Jack 
Straio, Peele's Edward I, Henry VI — the 
emphasis is frankly on circumstance, wha.t 
happened during the reign oT a certain king. 



Events are set down in chronological order, 
and the writer is more concerned with the 
effect of the immediate situation than with 
the coherent development of a logical story. 
Characters are presented in a purely super- 
ficial waj^, and the unity of the play is se- 
cured only by the presence in the chief 
scenes of the same leading figures. The prog- 
ress of the play is, therefore, clumsy and^__^ 
jerky. Is the chief interest in Edward II iii^*"" 
event or in character ? Clearly what interests 
Marlowe most is the character of Edward 
himself; by centering attention on the petu- 
lant king, powerless to command even his 
own desires, and by careful analysis of Ed- 
ward's weakness, Marlowe shifts the em- 
phasis from event to character, and in so 
doing almost writes tragedy. The method 
of securing dramatic unity by focusing at- 
tention on a central character, Marlowe had 
employed in his previous plays; but there is 
this fundamental difierence between Edward 
II and its predecessors, that where in Tarn- 
burlaine, Faustus, and The Jew all the other 
characters are completely subordinated to 
the one commanding figure, are satellites 
shining only by light reflected from their ^ 
sun, in Edward II Marlowe develops four ' 
characters with distinct personalities of their k 
own — 'JCdward, Gaveston, Mortimer, and the^ 
Queen. Of these Isabella is the least satis- 
factory, probably because, although her aban- 
donment of the King for Mortimer is well 
enough motivated, Marlowe does not give us 
a chance to' see the development of her pas- 
sion. One genuine love-scene betv/een her 
and JMortimer would have helped us to a 
sympathetic understanding of the Queen, and 
done away with the apparent abruptness of 
her change of heart. Marlowe's was an es- 
sentially masculine intellect, and his inabil- 
ity to portray women with success is as strik- 
ing as Byron's. Gaveston, in his combina- 
tion of arrogance and sycophancy, stands out 
as a clear study of the royal favorite. Morti- " 
mer's most prominent trait is a headstrong 
resolve to rule or be ruined, to be all or 
nothing; his last words have the true Mar- 
lowe ring ■ of towering ambition and un- 
daunted defiance in the face of defeat. • 

Upon Edward, Marlowe lavishes all his 
power. Edward has the fatal flaw in char- 
acter which brings tragedy upon its posset '" 
sor, a flaw which at the same time unites 
him with Marlowe's other heroes in their 
Amour de Vlmpossihle, to use Symonds's 
often-quoted phrase. Tlie lust for power seen 
in varying manifestations in Tamburlaine, 
Faustus, and Barabas the Jew, in Edward is 
replaced by an inordinate desire for affection, 
to love and to be loved by the one object of 
his affection. Since this is not a case of 
one of those deathless passions between man 
and woman which make the world seem well 
lost for love, Marlowe has the difficult task 
of gaining sympathy for an unsympathetic 



76 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



figure without palliating its weakness. That 
he has done so nuist be the verdict of the 
reader upon tinishing the long and pathetic 
presentation of Edward's humiliation and 
death. As Schelling puts it : " Contemptible 
in his unkingliness up to the moment of the 
turning of the tide against him, the royal 
sorrows and the unregal inflictions put upon 
him arouse our sympathies until, when the 
pitiful catastrophe which overtakes him is 
reached, contempt is transmuted into sym- 
pathetic grief that any king could so fall." 

More tlian any other of ilarlowe's plays 
Edicard II exhibits a restraint, a conscious 
attempt to place dramatic truth before poetic 
imagination. As a result the verse is in- 
ferior as poetry to that of the others. We 
catch echoes of " Marlowe's mighty line " in 
passages like Gaveston's soliloquies in the 
first scene, in Edward's speeches in the depo- 
sition scene where he gives up " the sweet 
fruition of an earthly crowTi," in the scene 
where he is murdered, in i\Iortimer's last 
speech. It may be questioned, indeed, 
whether the glorious sweep and daring of 



Tamburlaine and Dr. Faustus might not 
have been out of place in this study of Eng- 
lish history. And this may certainly be said, 
that where in the preceding plays we feel 
Marlowe's failure to make his finest lyrical 
passages dramatically appropriate, Edtcard II 
shows him on his way to accomplishment. 
He had already settled one thing: that blank 
verse was to be the medium of Elizabethan 
drama. 

It is a truism that on the serious side 
Shakespeare felt no influence like Marlowe's. 
Marlowe was Shakespeare's master in chron- 
icle-history: the two may liave worked to- 
gether on Henry VI, Richard III is the ap- 
plication to chronicle-history of Marlowe's 
centralizing method, and Richard II shows 
at every turn the influence of Edicard II. 
Had Marlowe been permitted to live and 
work his way to true tragedy as did Shakes- 
peare. Edward II might have proved the 
transitional stage that Richard II was for 
Shakespeare. But " cut was the branch that 
might have grown full straight," and Mar- 
lowe's Lear and Hamlet were never written 



THE TROUBLESOME REIGN AND LAMENTABLE 
DEATH OF EDWARD THE SECOND 

By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 



NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



King Edwakd the Second. 

Peince Edward, his Son, afterwards King 

Edward the Third. 
Earl of Kent, Brother to King Edioard the 

Second. 
Gaveston. 

Archbishop of Canterbury. 
Bishop of Coventry. 
Bishop of Winchester. 
Warwick. 
Lancaster. 
Pembroke. 
Arundel. 
Leicester. 
Berkeley. 
Mortimer, 
Mortimer, 



the elder. 

the younger, his Nephew. 



Spencer, the elder. 

ACT L 

Scene 1. A street in London. 

Enter Gaveston, reading on a letter that 
was brought him from the King. 

Gaveston. "My father is deceas'd ! Come, 
Gaveston, 



Poor Men, 
Messengers, 



Spencer, the younger, his Son. 

Baldock. 

Beaumont. 

Trussel. 

GURNEY. 

Matrevis. 

LiGHTBORN. 

Sir .John of Hainault. 

Levune. 

Rice ap Howell. 

Abbot, Monks, Herald, Lords, 

James, Mower, Champion, 

Soldiers, and Attendants. 
Queen Isabella, Wife to King Edward the 

Second. 
Niece to King Edward the Second, Daughter 

to the Duke of Gloucester. 
Ladies. 

And share the kmgdom with thy dearest 
friend." 

Ah ! words that make me surfeit with de- 
light ! 

What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston 

Than live and be the favorite of a king! 

Sweet prince, I come; these, these thy 
amorous lines 



EDWARD II 



77 



Might have enfore'd me to have swum 

from France, 
And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand, 
So thou would'st smile, and take me in 

thine arms. 
The sight of London to my exil'd eyes 
Is as Elysium to a new-come soul; 
Not that I love the city, or the men, 
But that it harbors him I hold so dear — 
The king, upon whose bosom let me die, 
And with the world be still at enmity. 
"What need the arctic people love star- 
light. 
To whom the sun shines both bv day and 

night 9 
Farewell base stooping to the lordly 



peers 



My knee shall bow to none but to the 

king. 
As for the multitude, that are but sparks 
Rak'd up in embers of their poverty; — 
Tanti.^ I '11 fawn first on the wind 
That glanceth at my lips, and flieth away. 

Enter three Poor Men. 

But how now, what are these? 
Poor Men. Such as desire your worship's 

service. 
Gav. What canst thou do? 

1 P. Man. I can ride. 

Gav. But I have no horses. — What ail 
thou? 

2 P. Man. A traveler. 

Gav. Let me see: thou Avould'st do well 
To wait at my trencher and tell me lies 

at dinner time; 
And as I like your discoursing, I '11 have 

you.— 
And what art thou? 

3 P. Man. A soldier, that hath serv'd 

against the Scot. 
Gav. Why, there are hospitals for such as 
you. 
I have no war, and therefore, sir, begone. 
3 P. Man. Farewell, and perish by a sol- 
dier's hand, 
That would'st reward them with an hos- 
pital. 
Gav. {Aside.) Aye, aye, these words of 
his move me as much 
As if a goose should play the porpentine, 
And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce 

my breast. 
But yet it is no pain to speak men fair; 
I '11 flatter these, and make them live in 

hope. — 
You know that I came lately out of 
France, 

1 "so much for them." 



And yet I have not view'd my lord the 

king; 
If I speed well, I '11 entertain you all. 
All. We thank your worship. 
Gav. I have some business: leave me to 

myself. 
All. We will wait here about the court. 

Exeunt. 

Gav. Do. — These are not men for me : 
I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, 
Musicians, that with touching of a string 
May draw the pliant king which way I 

please. 
Music and poetry is his delight; 
Therefore I '11 have Italian masks by 

night. 
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing 

shows ; 
And in the day, when he shall walk 

abroad. 
Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be 

clad; 
My men, like satyrs grazing on the 

lawns. 
Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic 

hay. 2 
Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape, 
With hair that gilds the water as it 

glides, 
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms, 
And in his sportful hands an olive tree. 
To hide those parts which men delight 

to see. 
Shall bathe him in a spring; and there 

hard by. 
One like Actseon peeping through the 

grove 
Shall by the angry goddess be trans- 

form'd. 
And running in the likeness of an hart 
By yelping hounds pull'd down, and 

seem to die ; — 
Such things as these best please his maj- 
esty. 
My lord. — Here comes the king, and the 

nobles 
From the parliament. I '11 stand aside. 

Retires. 

Enter King Edward, Lancaster, the Elder 
Mortimer, Young Mortimer, Kent, War- 
wick, and Attendants. 

K. Edw. Lancaster! 

Lan. My lord. 

Gav. (Aside.) That Earl of Lancaster 

do I abhor. 
K. Edw. Will you not grant me this? — 

[Aside.) In spite of them 

2 a rustic dance. 



78 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I '11 have my will ; and these two Morti- 
mers, 
That cross me thus, shall know I am dis- 

pleas'd. 
E. Mor. If you love us, my lord, hate 

Gaveston. 
Gav. {Aside.) That villain Mortimer! 

I '11 be his death, 
r. Mor. Mine uncle here, this earl, and I 

myself 
Were sworn to your father at his death, 
That he should ne'er return into the 

realm ; 
And know, my lord, ere I will break my 

oath. 
This sword of mine, that should offend 

your foes, 
Sliall sleep Avithin the scabbard at thy 

need, 
And underneath thy banners march who 

will. 
For Mortimer will hang his armor up. 
Gav. (Aside.) Mort Dieu! 
K. Edw. Well, Mortimer, I'll make thee 

rue these words. 
Beseems it thee to contradict thy king? 
Frown'st thou thereat, aspiring Lancas- 
ter? 
The sword shall plane the furrows of 

thy brows. 
And hew these knees that now are grown 

so stiff. 
I will have Gaveston; and you shall 

know 
What danger 'tis to stand against your 

king. 
Gav. (Aside.) Well done, Ned ! 
Lan. My lord, why* do you thus incense 

your peers. 
That naturally would love and honor you 
But for that base and obscure Gaveston f 
Four earldoms have I, besides Lancas- 
ter — 
Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester, — 
These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay. 
Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm; 
Therefore, if lie be come, expel him 

straight. 
Kent. Barons and earls, your pride hath 

made me mute; 
But now I '11 speak, and to the proof, I 

hope. 
I do remember, in my father's days. 
Lord Percy of the north, being highly 

mov'd, 
Braved Moubery ^ in presence of the 

king; 

3 Mowbray ; the spelling shows the old pronunciation. 

4 Q. parle. 



For which, had not his highness lov'd 

him well. 
He should have lost his head ; but with 

his look 
The undaunted spirit of Percy was ap- 

peas'd, 
And Moubery and he were reconcil'd : 
Yet dare you brave the king unto his 

face?— 
Brother, revenge it, and let these their 

heads 
Preach upon poles, for trespass of their 
tongues. 
War. 0, our heads ! 
K. Edw. Aye, yours; and therefore I 

would wish you grant — 
War. Bridle thy anger, gentle Morti- 
mer. 
y. Blor. 1 cannot, nor I will not; I must 
speak. — 
Cousin, our hands I hope shall fence our 

heads, 
And strike off his that makes you 

threaten us. 
Come, uncle, let us leave the brain-sick 

king, 
And henceforth parley * with our naked 
swords. 
E. Mor. Wiltshire hath men enough to 

save our heads. 
War. All Warwickshire will love him for 

my sake. 
Lan. And northward Gaveston hath many 
friends. — 
Adieu, my lord; and either change your 

mind, 
Or look to see the throne, where you 

should sit, 
To lioat in blood; and at thy wanton 

head. 
The glozing ^ head of thy base minion 

thrown. 
Exeunt all except King Edward, Kent, 
Gaveston, and Attendants. 
K. Edw. I cannot brook these haughty 
menaces. 
Am I a king, and must be overrul'd? — 
Brother, display my ensigns in the field; 
I '11 bandy ^ with the barons and the 

earls, 
And either die or live with Gaveston. 
Gav. I can no longer keep me from my 
lord. 

(Comes forward.) 
K. Edw. What, Gaveston ! welcome ! — 
Kiss not my hand — 
Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee. 



5 flattering. 



6 dispute. 



EDWARD 11 



79 



Why shoukl'st thou kneel*? Know'st 
thou not who I am'? 

Thy friend, thyself, another Gaveston ! 

Not Hylas was more niourn'd of Hercu- 
les, 

Than thou hast been of me since thy 
exile. 
Gov. And since I went from hence, no 
soul in hell 

Hath felt more torment than poor Gaves- 
ton. 
K. Edw. I know it. — Brother, welcome 
home my friend. 

Now let the treacherous Mortimers eon- 
spire. 

And that high-minded Earl of Lancaster : 

I have my wish, in that I joy thy sight ; 

And sooner shall the sea o'erwhelm my 
land, 

Than bear the ship that shall transport 
thee hence. 

I here create thee Lord High Chamber- 
lain, 

Chief Seci'etary to the state and me, 

Earl of Cornwall, King and Lord of 
Man. 
Gav. My lord, these titles far exceed my 

worth. 
Kent. Brother, the least of these may well 
suffice 

For one of greater birth than Gaveston. 
K. Edw. Cease, brother, for I cannot 
brook these words. 

Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my 
gifts. 

Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart. 

If for these dignities thou be envied, 

I '11 give thee more ; for, but to honor 
thee, 

Is Edward pleas'd with kingly regiment. '^ 

Fear'st ^ thou thy person"? Thou shalt 
have a guard. 

Wantest thou gold'? Go to my treasury. 

Would'st thou'be lov'd and fear'd? Re- 
ceive my seal ; 

Save or condemn, and in our name com- 
mand 

Whatso thy mind affects, or fancy likes. 
Gav. It shall suffice me to enjoy your 
love. 

Which whiles I have, I think myself as 
great 

As Ceesar riding in the Roman street. 

With captive kings at his triumphant 
car. 

Enter the Bishop of Coventrtj. 

7 rule. s fearest for. 



K. Edw. Whither goes my lord of Coven- 
try so fasf? 
B. of Gov. To celebrate your father's 
exequies. 
But is that wicked Gaveston returu'd"? 
K. Edw. Aye, priest, and lives to be re- 
veng'd on thee. 
That wert the only cause of his exile. 
Gav. 'T is true ; and but for reverence of 
these robes. 
Thou shoukl'st not plod one foot beyond 
this place. 
B. of Gov. I did no more than I was 
bound to do; 
And, Gaveston, unless thou be reclaim'd. 
As then I did incense the parliament, 
So will I now, and thou shalt back to 
France. 
Gav. Saving your reverence, you must 

pardon me. 
K. Edw. Throw off his golden mitre, rend 
his stole, 
And in the channel ^ christen him anew. 
Kent. Ah, brother, lay not violent hands 
on him ! 
For he '11 comjDlain unto the see of Rome. 
Gav. Let him complain unto the see of 
hell! 
I '11 be reveng'd on him for my exile. 
K. Edw. No, spare his life, but seize upon 
his goods. 
Be thou lord bishop and receive his 

rents, 
And make him serve thee as thy chap- 
lain. 
I give him thee — here, use him as thou 
wilt. 
Gav. He shall to prison, and there die in 

bolts. 
K. Edw. Aye, to the Tower, the Fleet,!** 

or where thou wilt. 
B. of Gov. For this offense, be thou ac- 
curst of God ! 
K. Edw. Who's there"? Convey this 

priest to the Tower. 
B. of Gov. True, true. 
K. Edw. But in the meantime, Gaveston, 
away. 
And take possession of his house and 

goods. 
Come, folloAV me, and thou shalt have my 

guard 
To see it done, and bring thee safe again. 
Gav. What should a priest do with so fair 
a house f 
A prison may best beseem his holiness. 

Exeunt. 



9 gutter. 



10 a prison in London. 



so 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Scene 2. Westminster. 

Enter on one side both the Mortimers; on 
the other, Warwick and Lancaster. 

War. 'T is true ; the bishop is in the 
Tower, 
And goods and body given to Gaveston. 
Lan. What! will they tyrannize upon the 
church? 
Ah, wicked king! accursed Gaveston! 
This ground, which is corrupted with 

their steps. 
Shall be their timeless ^^ sepulchre or 
mine. 
Y. Mor. Well, let that peevish Frenchman 
guard him sure ; 
Unless his breast be sword-proof he shall 
die. 
E. Mor. How now ! why droops the Earl 

of Lancaster 1 
T. Mor. Wherefore is Guy of Warwick 

discontent? 
Lan. That villain Gaveston is made an 

earl. 
E. Mor. An earl! 

War. Aye, and besides Lord Chamberlain 
of the realm, 
And Secretary too, and Lord of Man. 
E. Mor. We may not, nor we will not 

suffer this. 
Y. Mor. Why post we not from hence to 

levy men? 
Lan. "My Lord of Cornwall" now at 
eveiy word ! 
And happy is the man whom he vouch- 
safes, 
For vailing of ^- his bonnet, one good 

look. 
Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth 

march : 
Nay, more, the guard upon his lordship 

waits ; 
And all the court begins to iiatter him. 
War. Thus leaning on the shoulder of the 
king, 
He nods and scorns and smiles at those 
that pass. 
E. Mor. Doth no man take exceptions at 

the slave? 
Lan. All stomach ^^ him, but none dare 

speak a word. 
Y. Mor. Ah, that bewrays their baseness, 
Lancaster! 
Were all the earls and barons of my 

mind, 
We'd hale him from the bosom of the 
king. 



And at the court-gate hang the i^easant 

up, 
Who, swoln with venom of ambitious 

pride, 
Will be the ruin of the realm and us. 

Enter the Archbishop of Canterburtj and 
an Attendant. 

War. Here comes my lord of Canter- 
bury's grace. 
Lan. His countenance bewrays he is dis- 

pleas'd. 
A. of Cant. First were his sacred gar- 
ments rent and torn. 
Then laid they violent hands upon him ; 

next 
Himself imprisoned, and his goods as- 

seiz'd ; 
This certify the Pope; — away, take 
horse. 

Exit Attend. 
Lan. My lord, will you take arms against 

the king? 
A. of Cant. AYhat need I? God himself 
is up in arms. 
When violence is offered to the church. 
Y. Mor. Then will you join with us that 
be his peers, 
To banish or behead that Gaveston? 
A. of Cant. What else, my lords? for it 
concerns me near; 
The bishopric of Coventry is his. 

Enter Queen Isabella. 

Y. Mor. Madam, whither walks your maj- 
esty so fast? 
Q. Isab. Unto the forest, gentle Morti- 
mer, 

To live in grief and baleful discontent ; 

For now my lord the king regards me 
not. 

But dotes upon the love of Gaveston. 

He claps his cheeks, and hangs about his 
neck. 

Smiles in his face, and whispers in his 
ears; 

And when I come he frowns, as who 
should say, 

"Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have 
Gaveston." 
E. Mor. Is it not strange that he is thus 

bewitch'd? 
Y. Mor. Madam, return unto the court 
again. 

That sly inveigling Frenchman we '11 
exile. 

Or lose our lives; and yet, ere that day 
come, 



11 untimely. 



12 doffing. 



13 are angered at. 



EDWARD II 



81 



The king shall lose his crown ; for we 

have power, 
And courage too, to be reveng'd at full. 
Q. Isab. But yet lift not your swords 

against the king. 
Lan. No ; but we '11 lift Gaveston from 

hence. 
War. And war must be the means, or he '11 

stay still. 
Q. Isab. . Then let him stay; for rather 
than my lord 
Shall be oppress'd by civil mutinies, 
I will endure a melancholy life, 
And let him frolic with his minion. 
A. of Cant. My lords, to ease all this, but 
hear me speak : — 
We and the rest, that are his counsel- 
lors. 
Will meet, and with a general consent 
Contirm his banishment with our hands 
and seals. 
Lan. What we confirm the king will frus- 
trate. 
Y. Mor. Then may we lawfully revolt 

from him. 
War. But say, my lord, where shall this 

meeting be? 
A. of Cant. At the New Temple. 
Y. Mor. Content. 

A. of Cant. And, in the meantime, I '11 
entreat you all 
To cross to Lambeth, and there stay with 
me. 
Lan. Come then, let 's away. 
Y. Mor. Madam, farewell ! 
Q. Isab. Farewell, sweet Mortimer, and, 
for my sake. 
Forbear to levy arms against the king. 
Y. Mor. Aye, if words will serve ; if not, 
I must. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. A street in London. 

Enter Gaveston and Kent. 

Gav. Edmund, the mighty Prince of Lan- 
caster, 

That hath more earldoms than an ass can 
bear, 

And both the Mortimers, two goodly men, 

With Guy of Warwick, that redoubted 
knight, 

Are gone toward Lambeth — there let 
them remain ! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. The New Temple. 

Enter Nobles. 

Lan. Here is the form of Gaveston's 

exile : 
May it please your lordship to subscribe 

your name. 
A. of Cant. Give me the paper. 
{He subscribes, as do the others after him.) 
Lan. Quick, quick, my lord ; I long to 

write my name. 
War. But I long more to see him banish'd 

hence. 
Y. Mor. The name of Mortimer shall 

fright the king, 
Unless he be declin'd from that base 

peasant. 

Enter King Edward, Gaveston, and Kent. 

K. Edw. Wliat, are you mov'd that Gaves- 
ton sits here*? 
It is our pleasure; we will have it so. 
Lan. Your grace doth well to jDlace him 
by your side. 
For nowhere else the new earl is so safe. 
E. Mor. What man of noble birth can 
brook this sight? 
Qiiam male conveniunt ! '^* 
See what a scornful look the peasant 
easts ! 
Pern. Can kingly lions fawn on creeping 

ants? 
War. Ignoble vassal, that like Phaeton 
Aspir'st unto the gaiidanee of the sun ! 
Y. Mor. Their downfall is at hand, their 
forces down; 
We will not thus be fac'd and over- 
peer'd. 
K. Edw. Lay hands on that traitor Mor- 
timer ! 
E. Mor. Lay hands on that traitor Gaves- 
ton ! 
Kent. Is this the duty that you owe your 

king? 
War. We know our duties — let him know 

his peers. 
K. Ediv. Whither will you bear him? 

Stay, or ye shall die. 
E. Mor. We are no traitors; therefore 

threaten not. 
Gav. No, threaten not, my lord, but pay 
them home ! 

Were I a king 

Y. Mor. Thou villain, wherefoi'e talk'st 
thou of a king. 
That hardly art a gentleman by birth? 



14 how ill they agree 1 



82 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



K. Edw. Were he a peasant, being my 
minion, 
I '11 make the proudest of you stoop to 
him. 
Lan. My lord, you may not thus dis- 
parage us. — 
Away, I say, with hateful Gaveston ! 
E. Mor. And with .the Earl of Kent that 

favors him. 
{Attendants remove Kent and Gaveston.) 
K. Edw. Nay, then, lay violent hands 
upon your king. 
Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edward's 

throne ; 
Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my 

crown. 
Was ever king thus over-rul'd as I ? 
Lan. Learn then to rule us better, and the 

realm. 
Y. Mor. W^hat we have done, our heart- 
blood shall maintain. 
War. Think you that we can brook this 

upstart pride 1 
K. Edw. Anger and wrathful fury stops 

my speech. 
A. of Cant. Why are you mov'd? Be 
patient, my lord, 
And see what we your counsellors have 
done. 
Y. Mor. My lords, now let us all be reso- 
lute. 
And either have our wills, or lose our 
lives. 
K. Edw. Meet you for this, proud over- 
daring peers? 
Ere my sweet Gaveston shall part from 

me, 
This isle shall fleet ^^ upon the ocean. 
And wander to the unfrequented Inde. 
A. of Cant. You know that I am legate 
to the Pope. 
On your allegiance to the see of Rome, 
Subscribe, as we have done, to his exile. 
Y. Mor. Curse him, if he refuse; and 
then may we 
Depose him and elect another king. 
K. Edw. Aye, there it goes ! but yet I will 
not yield. 
Curse me, depose me, do the worst you 
can. 
Lan. Then linger not, my lord, but do it 

straight. 
A. of Cant. Remember how the bishop 
was abus'd ! 
Either banish him that was the cause 

thereof, 
Or I will presently discharge these lords 
Of duty and allegiance due to thee. 

15 float. 



K. Edw. (Aside.) It boots me not to 
threat; I must speak fair. — 
The legate of the Pope will be obey'd. 
My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the 

realm; 
Thou, Lancaster, High Admiral of our 

fleet; 
Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be 

earls ; 
And you. Lord Warwick, President of 

the North; 
And thou, of Wales. If this content you 

not, 
Make several kingdoms of this monarchy, 
And share it equally amongst you all. 
So I may have some nook or corner left. 
To frolic with my dearest Gaveston. 
^1. of Cant. Nothing shall alter us, we 

are resolv'd. 
Lan. Come, come, subscribe. 
Y. Mor. Why should you love him whom 

the world hates so? 
K. Edw. Because he loves me more than 
all the world. 
Ah, none but rude and savage-minded 

men 
Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston ; 
You that be noble-bom should pity 
him. 
War. You that are princely-born should 
shake him off. 
For shame subscribe, and let the lown '^° 
depart. 
E. Mor. Urge him, my lord. 
A. of Cant. Are you content to banish him 

the realm? 
K. Edw. I see I must, and therefore am 
content. 
Instead of ink, I '11 write it with my 
tears. 

(Subscribes.) 
Y. Mor. The king is love-sick for his 

minion. 
K. Edw. 'T is done; and now, accursed 

hand, fall off! 
Lan. Give it me ; I '11 have it publish'd in 

the streets. 
Y, Mor. I '11 see him presently despatch'd 

away. 
A. of Cant. Now is my heart at ease. 
War. And so is mine. 

Pern. This will be good news to the com- 
mon sort. 
E. Mor. Be it or no, he shall not linger 
here. 

Exeunt all except King Edward. 
K. Edw. How fast they run to banish him 
I love ! 

10 loon, base fellow. 



EDWARD II 



83 



They would not stir, were it to do me 
good. 

Why should a king be subject to a priest f 

Proud Rome ! that hatchest such imperial 
grooms, 

For these thy superstitious taper-lights, 

Wherewith thy antichristian churches 
blaze, 

I '11 fire thy crazed buildings, and en- 
force 

The papal towers to kiss the lowly 
ground ! 

With slaughtered priests make Tiber's 
channel swell, 

And banks rais'd higher with their se- 
pulchres ! 

As tor the peers, that back the clergy 
thus, 

If I be king, not one of them shall live. 

Be-enter Gaveston. 

Gav. My lord, I hear it whispered every- 
where. 
That I am banish'd, and nu;st fly the 

land. 
K. Edw. 'T is true, sweet Gaveston — ! 

were it false! 
The legate of the Pope will have it so, 
And thou must hence, or I shall be de- 

pos'd. 
But I will reign to be revenji'd of them ; 
And therefore, sweet friend, take it pa- 
tiently. 
Live where thou wilt, I '11 send thee gold 

enough ; 
And long thou shalt not stay, or if thou 

dost, 
I '11 come to thee ; my love shall ne'er 

decline. 
Gav. Is all ray hope turn'd to this hell of 

grief? 
K. Edw. Rend not my heart with thy too 

piercing words : 
Thou from this land, I from myself am 

banish'd. 
Gav. To go from hence grieves not poor 

Gaveston ; 
But to forsake you, in whose gracious 

looks 
The blessedness of Gaveston remains. 
For nowhere else seeks he felicity. 
K. Edw. And only this torments my 

wretched soul 
That, whether I will or no, thou must 

depart. 
Be governor of Ireland in my stead, 
And there abide till fortune call thee 

home. 



Here take my picture, and let me wear 
thine ; 

[They exchange pictures.) 
0, might I keep thee here as I do this, 
Happy were I ! but now most miserable ! 
Gav. 'T is something to be pitied of a 

king. 
K. Edw. Thou shalt not hence — I '11 hide 

thee, Gaveston. 
Gav. I shall be found, and then 't will 

grieve me more. 
K. Edw. Kind words and mutual talk 
makes our grief greater; 
Therefore, with dumb embracement, let 

us part. — 
Stay, Gaveston, I cannot leave thee thus. 
Gav. For every look, my lord drops down 
a tear. 
Seeing I must go, do not renew my sor- 
row. 
K. Edw. The time is little that thou hast 
to stay. 
And, therefore, give me leave to look my 

fill. 
But come, sweet friend, I '11 bear thee on 
thy way. 
Gav. The peers will frown. 
K. Ediv. I pass ^'' not for their anger — 
Come let 's go ; 

that we might as well return as go ! 

Enter Edmund and Queen Isabella. 

Q. Isab. Whither goes my lord"? 

K. Edw. Fawn not on me, French strum- 
pet ! Get thee gone ! 

Q. Isab. On whom but on my husband 
should I fawn? 

Gav. On Mortimer! Avith whom, ungentle 
queen — 

1 say no more. Judge you the rest, my 

lord. 
Q. Isab. In saying this, thou wrong'st me, 
Gaveston. 
Is 't not enough that thou corrupt'st my 

lord. 
And art a bawd to his affections, 
But thou must call mine honor thus in 
question ? 
Gav. I mean not so ; your grace must par- 
don me. 
K. Edw. Thou art too familiar with that 
Mortimer. 
And by thy means is Gaveston exil'd; 
But I would wish thee reconcile the lords, 
Or thou shalt ne'er be reeoncil'd to me. 
Q. Isab. Your highness knows it lies not 
in my power. 



17 care. 



84 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



K. 



Edw. Away then! touch me not. — 

Come, Ga vest on. 
Q. Isab. Villain ! 't is thou that robb'st me 

of my lord. 
Gav. Madam, 't is you that rob me of my 

lord. 
K. Edw. Speak not unto her; let her 

droop and pine. 
Q. Isab. Wherein, my lord, have I de- 
served these words'? 
Witness the tears that Isabella sheds, 
Witness this heart, that, sighnig for thee, 

breaks, 
How dear my lord is to poor Isabel. 
K. Edw. And witness Heaven how dear 

thou art to me ! 
There weep; for till my Gaveston be 

repeal'd. 
Assure thyself thou com'st not in my 

sight. 

Exeunt Edward and Gaveston. 
Q. Isab. miserable and distressed queen ! 
Would, when I left sweet France and 

was embark'd, 
That charming Ciree, walking on the 

waves. 
Had chang'd my shape, or at the mar- 
riage-day 
The cup of Hymen had been full of 

poison, 
Or with those arms that twin'd about my 

neck 
I had been stifled, and not liv'd to see 
The king my lord thus to abandon me ! 
Like frantic Juno will I fill the earth 
With ghastly murmur of my sighs and 

cries ; 
For never doted Jove on Ganymede 
So much as he on cursed Gaveston. 
Rut that will more exasperate his wrath ; 
I must entreat him, I must speak him 

fair. 
And be a means to call home Gaveston, 
And vet he '11 ever dote on Gaveston ; 
And so am I for ever miserable. 



Re-enter Nobles to the Queen. 



Lan. 



Look where the sister of the King of 

France 
Sits wringing of her hands, and beats 

her breast ! 
War. The king, I fear, hath ill-entreated 

her. 
Pern. Hard is the heart that injures such 

a saint. 
T. Mor. I know 't is 'long of Gaveston 

she weeps. 
E. Mor. Why? He is gone. 



Y. Mor. Madam, how fares your grace f 

Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer! now breaks the 

king's hate forth, 

And he eonfesseth that he loves me not. 

Y. Mor. Cry cjuittance, madam, then ; and 

love not him. 
Q. Isab. No, rather will I die a thousand 
deaths'! 
And yet I love in vain ; — he '11 ne'er love 
me. 
Lan. Fear ye not, madam; now his min- 
ion 's gone, 
His wanton humor will be quickly left. 
Q. Isah. never, Lancaster! I am en- 
join'd 
To sue upon you all for his repeal; 
This wills my lord, and this must I per- 
form. 
Or else be banish'd from his highness' 
presence. 
Lan. For his repeal? Madam, he comes 
not back. 
Unless the sea cast up his shipwrack'd 
body. 
War. And to behold so sweet a sight as 
that, 
There 's none here but would run his 
horse to death. 
Y. Mor. But, madam, would you have ns 

call him home? 
Q. Isab. Aye, Mortimer, for till he be re- 
stored, 
The angi-y king hath banish'd me the 

court ; 
And, therefore, as thou lov'st and ten- 

d'rest me. 
Be thou my advocate unto these peers. 
Y. Mor. What ! would you have me plead 

for Gaveston? 
E. Mor. Plead for him he that will, I am 

resolv'd. 
Lan. And so am I, my lord. Dissuade 

the queen. 
Q. Isab. Lancaster! let him dissuade 
the king, 
For 't is against my will he should re- 
turn. 
War. Then speak not for him, let the 

peasant go. 
Q. Isab. 'T is for myself I sjDeak, and not 

for him. 
Pem. No speaking will prevail, and there- 
fore cease. 
Y. Mor. Fair queen, forbear to angle for 
the fish 
Wliich, being caught, strikes him that 

takes it dead ; 
I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston, 
That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas. 



EDWARD II 



85 



Q. Isab. Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me 
a while, 
And I will tell thee reasons of such 

weight 
As thou wilt soon subscribe to his re- 
peal. 
Y. Mor. It is impossible; but speak your 

mind. 
Q. Isab. Then thus, — but none shall hear 
it but ourselves. 
{Talks to Young Mortimer apart.) 
Lan. My lords, albeit the queen win Mor- 
timer, 
Will you be resolute, and hold with me'? 
E. Mor. Not I, against my nephew. 
Pern. Fear not, the queen's words cannot 

alter him. 
War. No? Do but mark how earnestly 

she pleads! 
Lan. And see how coldly his looks make 

denial ! 
War. She smiles; now for my life his 

mind is chang'd. 
Lan. I '11 rather lose his friendship, I, 

than grant. 
Y. Mor. Well, of necessity it must be so. 
My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston, 
I hope your honors make no question, 
And therefore, though I j^lead for his 

repeal, 
'T is not for his sake, but for our avail ; 
Nay, for the realm's behoof, and for the 
king's. 
Lan. Fie, Mortimer, dishonor not thy- 
self! 
Can this be true, 't was good to banish 

him? 
And is this true, to call him home again 1 
Such reasons make white black, and dark 
night day. 
Y. Mor. My lord of Lancaster, mark the 

respect. ^^ 
Lan. In no respect can contraries be true. 
Q. Isab. Yet, good my lord, hear what he 

can allege. 
War. All that he speaks is nothing; we 

are resolv'd. 
Y. Mor. Do you not wish that Gaveston 

were dead? 
Pern. I would he were ! 
r. Mor. Why, then, my lord, give me but 

leave to speak. 
E. Mor. But, nephew, do not play the so- 

phister. 
Y. Mor. This which I urge is of a burning 
zeal 
To mend the king, and do our country 
good. 



Know you not Gaveston hath store of 
gold, 

Which may in Ireland purchase him such 
friends 

As he will front the mightiest of us all? 

And whereas he shall live and be be- 
lov'd, 

'T is hard for us to work his overthrow. 
War. Mark you but that, my lord of Lan- 
caster. 
Y. Mor. But were he hero, detested as he 
is, 

How easily might some base slave be 
suborn'd 

To greet his lordship with a poniard, 

And none so much as blame the mur- 
derer, 

But rather praise him for that brave 
attempt. 

And in the chronicle enrol his name 

For purging of the realm of such a 
plague ! 
Pern. He saith true. 
Lan. Aye, but how chance this was not 

done before? 
Y. Mor. Because, my lords, it was not 
thought upon. 

Nay, more, when he shall know it lies in 
us 

To banish him, and then to call him 
home, 

'T will make him vail ^^ the top-flag of 
his pride, 

And fear to offend the meanest noble- 
man. 
E. Mor. But how if he do not, nephew? 
Y. Mor. Then may we with some color '° 
rise in arms ; 

For howsoever we have borne it out, 

'T is treason to be up against the king. 

So we shall have the people of our side. 

Which for his father's sake lean to the 
king. 

But cannot brook a night-grown mush- 
room. 

Such a one as my lord of Cornwall is. 

Should bear us down of the nobility. 

And when the commons and the nobles 
join, 

'T is not the king can buckler Gaveston ; 

We '11 pull him from the strongest hold 
he hath. 

My lords, if to perform this I be slack. 

Think me as base a groom as Gaveston. 
Lan. On that condition, Lancaster will 

grant. 
War. And so will Pembroke and I. 
E. Mor. And I. 



18 consideration. 



19 lower. 



20 pretext. 



86 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Y. Mor. In this I count me highly grati- 
fied, 

And Mortimer will rest at your com- 
mand. 
Q. Isab. And when this favor Isabel for- 
gets, 

Then let her live abandon'd and for- 
lorn. — 

But see, in happy time, my lord the king. 

Having- brought the Earl of Cornwall on 
his way, 

Is new return'd. This news will glad 
him much, 

Yet not so much as me. I love him more 

Than he can Gaveston ; Avould he lov'd 
me 

But half so much, then were I treble- 
blest. 

Re-enter King Edward, mourning. 

K. Edw. He 's gone, and for his absence 
thus I mourn. 
Did never sorrow go so near my heart 
As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston; 
And could my crown's revenue bring him 

back, 
I would fi'eely give it to his enemies, 
And think I gain'd, having bought so 
dear a friend. 
Q. Isab. Hark! how he harps upon his 

minion. 
K. Edw. My heart is as an anvil unto 
sorrow, 
Wliich beats upon it like the Cyclops' 

hammers, 
And with the noise turns up my giddy 

bi'ain. 
And makes me frantic for my Gaveston. 
Ah ! had some bloodless Fury rose from 

hell, 
And with my kingly scepter struck me 

dead, 
When I was forc'd to leave my Gaves- 
ton ! 
Lan. Diablo! What passions call yoii 

these? 
Q. Isab. My gracious lord, I come to 

bring you news. 
K. Edw. That you have parley'd with 

your Mortimer ! 
Q. Isab. That Gaveston, my lord, shall be 

repeal'd. 
K. Edw. Repeal'd ! The news is too 

sweet to be true"? 
Q. Isab. But will you love me, if you find 

it so? 
K. Edw. If it be so, what will not Edward 
do"? 



Q. Isab. For Gaveston, but not for Isa- 
bel. 
K. Edw. For thee, fair queen, if thou 
lov'st Gaveston. 
I '11 hang a golden tongue about thy 

neck. 
Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good 
success. 
Q. Isab. No other jewels hang about my 
neck 
Than these, my lord; nor let me have 

more wealth 
Than I may fetch from this rich 
treasury. 

how a kiss revives poor Isabel ! 

K. Ediv. Once more receive my hand ; and 
let this be 
A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me. 
Q. Isab. And may it prove more happy 
than the first ! 
My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair. 
That wait attendance for a gracious look. 
And on their knees salute your majesty. 
K. Edw. Courageous Lancaster, embrace 
thy king! 
And, as gross vapors perish by the sun. 
Even so let hatred with thy sovereign's 

smile. 
Live thou with me as my companion. 
Lan. This salutation overjoys my heart. 
K. Edw. Warwick shall be my chiefest 
counsellor : 
These silver hairs will more adorn my 

court 
Than gaudy silks, or rich embroidery. 
Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray. 
War. Slay me, my lord, when I offend 

your grace. 
K. Edw. In solemn triumphs, and in pub- 
lic shows, 
Pembroke shall bear the sword before the 
king. 
Pern. And with this sword Pembroke will 

fight for you. 
K. Edw. But wherefore walks young 
Mortimer aside? 
Be thou commander of our royal fleet; 
Or, if that lofty office like thee not, 

1 make thee here Lord Marshal of the 

realm. 
T. Mor. My lord, I '11 marslial so your 
enemies, 

As England shall be quiet, and you safe. 
K. Edw. And as for you, Lord Mortimer 
of Chirke, 

Whose great achievements in our foreign 
war 

Deserves no common place nor mean re- 
ward. 



EDWARD II 



87 



Be you the general of the levied troops, 
That now are ready to assail the Scots. 
E. Mor. In this your grace hath highly 
honored me, 
For with my nature war doth best agi'ee. 
Q. Isah. Now is the King of England rich 
and strong, 
Having the love of his renowned peers. 
K. Edw. Aye, Isabel, ne'er was my heart 
so light. 
Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant 

forth 
For Gaveston to Ireland : 

Enter Beaumont with warrant. 

Beaumont, fly 
As fast as Iris or Jove's Mercuiy. 
Bean. It shall be done, my gracious lord. 

Exit. 
K. Edw. Lord Mortimer, we leave you to 
your charge. 
Now let us in, and feast it royally. 
Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall 

comes. 
We '11 have a general tilt and tourna- 
ment ; 
And then his marriage shall be solemn- 

iz'd. 
For wot you not that I have made him 

sure ^^ 
Unto our cousin, the Earl of Gloucester's 
heir"? 
Lan. Such news we hear, my lord. 
K. Edw. That day, if not for him, yet for 
my sake. 
Who in the triumph will be challenger, 
Spare for no cost ; we will requite your 
love. 
War. In this, or aught, yonr highness 

shall command us. 
K. Edw. Thanks, gentle Warwick: come, 
let 's in and revel. 

Exeunt all except the Mortimers. 
E. Mor. Nephew, I must to Scotland ; 
thou stayest here. 
Leave now to oppose thyself against the 

king. 
Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm, 
And seeing his mind so dotes on Ga- 
veston, 
Let him without controlment have his 

will. 
The mightiest kings have had their min- 
ions : 
Great Alexander loved Hephestion ; 
The conquering Hercules ^- for Hylas 
wept; 

21 beti-othed him. 22 Qq. Hector. 



And for Patroclus stem Achilles droop'd : 
And not kings only, but the wisest men: 
The Roman Tully lov'd Octavius; 
Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades. 
Then let his grace, whose youth is flex- 
ible, 
And promiseth as much as we can wish. 
Freely enjoy that vain, light-headed 

earl; 
For riper years will wean him from such 

toys. 
r. Mor. Uncle, his wanton humor grieves 

not me; 
But this I scorn, that one so basely born 
Should by his sovereign's favor grow so 

pert, 
And riot it with the treasure of the 

realm. 
^Vlaile soldiers mutiny for want of pay. 
He wears a lord's revenue on his back, 
And Midas-like, he jets ^^ it in the court, 
With base outlandish cullions -* at his 

heels, 
Whose proud fantastic liveries make 

such show 
As if that Proteus, god of shapes, ap- 

pear'd. 
I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk; 
He wears a short Italian hooded cloak 
Larded with pearl, and, in his Tuscan 

cap, 
A jewel of more value than the crown. 
While others walk below, the king and 

he 
From out a window laugh at such as 

we. 
And flout our train, and jest at our at- 
tire. 
Uncle, 't is this that makes me impatient. 
E. Mor. But, nephew, now you see the 

king is chang'd. 
r. Mor. Then so am I, and live to do him 

service : 
But whiles I have a sword, a hand, a 

heart, 
I will not yield to any such upstart. 
You know my mind ; come, uncle, let 's 

away. 

Exeunt. 

ACT IL 

Scene 1. Gloucester's house. 

Enter Young Spencer and BaldocJc. 

Bald. Spencer, seeing that our lord th' 
Earl of Gloucester 's dead, 



23 swaggers. 



24 scoundrels. 



88 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Which of the nobles dost thou mean to 

serve ? 
Y. Spen. Not Mortimer, nor any of his 

side, 
Because the king and he are enemies. 
Baidoek, learn this of me, a factious 

lord 
Shall hardly do himself good, much less 

us; 
But he that hath the favor of a king, 
May with one word advance us while we 

live. 
The liberal Earl of Cornwall is the man 
On whose good fortune Spencer's hope 

depends. 
Bald. What, mean you then to be his fol- 
lower •? 
Y. Spen. No, his companion ; for he loves 

me well. 
And would have once preferred -^ me to 

the king. 
Bald. But he is banish'd ; there's small 

hope of him. 
Y. Spen. Aye, for a while; but, Baldock, 

mark the end. 
A friend of mine told me in secrecy 
That he 's repeal'd, and sent for back 

again ; 
And even now a post came from the 

court 
With letters to our lady from the king; 
And as she read she smil'd, which makes 

me think 
It is about her lover Gaveston. 
Bald. 'T is like enough ; for since he was 

exil'd 
She neither walks abroad, nor comes in 

sight. 
But I had thought the match had been 

broke off, 
And that his banishment had chang'd her 

mind. 
Y. Spen. Our lady's first love is not 

wavering ; 
My life for thine, she will have Gaveston. 
Bald. Then hope I by her means to be 

preferr'd, 
Having read unto her since she was a 

child. 
Y. Spen. Then, Baidoek, you must cast 

the scholar off. 
And learn to court it like a gentleman. 
'T is not a black coat and a little band. 
A velvet-eap'd eloak, fae'd before with 

serge, 
And smelling to a nosegay all the day. 
Or holding of a napkin in your hand, 
Or saying a long grace at a table's end, 

25 recommended. 



Or making low legs -" to a nobleman, 

Or looking downward with your eyelids 
close. 

And saying, "Truly, an 't may please 
your honoiV 

Can get you any favor with great men; 

You must be proud, bold, pleasant, reso- 
lute. 

And now and then stab, as occasion 
serves. 
Bald. Spencer, thou know'st I hate such 
formal toys, 

And use them but of mere hypocrisy. 

Mine old lord whiles he liv'd was so pre- 
cise. 

That he would take exceptions at my 
buttons, 

And being like pin's heads, blame me for 
the big-ness; 

Which made me curate-like in mine at- 
tire. 

Though inwardly licentious enough 

And apt for any kind of villainy. 

I am none of these common pedants, I, 

That cannot speak without propterea 
qtiod. 
Y. Spen. But one of those that saith 
quando-quidem, 

And hath a special gift to form a verb. 
Bald. Leave off this jesting, here my lady 
comes. 

Enter King Edward's Niece. 

Niece. The grief for his exile w^as not so 
much 

As is the joy of his returning home. 

This letter came from my sweet Ga- 
veston : — 

What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse 
thyself? 

I know thou couldst not come and visit 
me. 

(Reads.) "I will not long be from thee, 
though I die." 

This argues the entire love of my lord ;, 

(Reads.) "When 1 forsake thee, death 
seize on my heart :" 

But stay thee here where Gaveston shall 
sleep. 
(Puts the letter into her bosom.) 

Now to the letter of my lord the king. — 

He wills me to repair unto the court, 

And meet my Gaveston. Why do I stay, 

Seeing that he talks thus of my mar- 
riage-day ? 

Who 's \here ? Baldock ! 

See that my coach be ready, I must 
hence. 

26 bows. 



EDWARD II 



89 



Bald. It shall be done, madam. 
Niece. And meet me at the park-pale 
presently. 

Exit Baldock. 
Spencer, stay you and bear me company, 
For I have joyful news to tell thee of. 
My lord of Cornwall is a-coming over, 
And will be at the court as soon as we. 
Y. Spen. 1 knew the king would have him 

home again. 
Niece. If all things sort -'^ out as I hope 
they will, 
Thy service, Spencer, shall be thought 
upon. 
Y. Spen. I humbly thank your ladyship. 
Niece. Come, lead the way; I long till I 
am there. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. Before Tynemoutli Castle. 

Enter King Edward, Queen Isabella, Kent, 
Lancaster, Young Mortimer, Warwick, 
Pembroke, and Attendants. 

K. Edw. The wind is good, I wonder why 
he stays; 
I fear me he is wrack'd upon the sea. 
Q. Isab. Look, Lancaster, how passionate 
he is, 
And still his mind runs on his minion ! 
Lan. My lord, — 
K. Edw. How now ! what news 1 Is Ga- 

veston arriv'd'? 
r. Mor. Nothing but Gaveston ! — What 
means your grace"? 
You have matters of more weight to 

think upon ; 
The King of France sets foot in Nor- 
mandy. 
K. Edio. A trifle ! we '11 expel him when 
we please. 
But tell me, Mortimer, what 's thy device 
Against the stately triumph we decreed? 
Y. Mor. A homely one, my lord, not worth 

the telling. 
K. Edw. Pray thee let me know it. 
r. Mor. But, seeing you are so desirous, 
thus it is : 
A lofty cedar-tree, fair flourishing, 
On whose top-branches kingly eagles 

perch, 
And by the bark a canker -^ creeps me 

up, 
And gets into the highest bough of all: 
The motto, Aeque tandem.-^ 



K. Edw. And what is yours, my lord of 

Lancaster? 
Lan. My lord, mine 's more obscure than 
Mortimer's. 

Pliny reports there is a flying fish 

Which all the other fishes deadly hate, 

And therefore, being pursued, it takes 
the air : 

No soonei- is it up, but there 's a fowl 

That seizeth it; this fish, my lord, I bear: 

The motto this: Undique mors est.^^ 
K. Edw. Proud Mortimer! ungentle Lan- 
caster ! 

Is this the love you bear your sovereign? 

Is this the fruit your reconcilement 
bears ? 

Can you in words make show of amity, 

And in your shields display your ran- 
corous minds ! 

What call you this but private libelling 

Against the Earl of Cornwall and my 
brother? 
Q. Isab. Sweet husband, be content; they 

all love you. 
K. Edw. They love me not that hate my 
Gaveston. 

I am that cedar, shake me not too much; 

And you the eagles; soar ye ne'er so 
high, 

I have the jesses ^^ that will pull you 
down ; 

And Aeqiie tandem shall that canker 
cry 

Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. 

Though thou compar'st him to a flying 
fish, 

And threatenest death whether he rise or 
fall, 

'T is not the hugest monster of the sea. 

Nor foulest harpy that shall swallow 
him. 
Y. Mor. If in his absence thus he favors 
him, 

What will he do whenas he shall be pres- 
ent? 
Lan. That shall we see; look where his 
lordship comes. 

Enter Gaveston. 

K. Edw. My Gaveston ! 

Welcome to Tynemouth ! Welcome to 

thy friend ! 
Thy absence made me droop and pine 

away; 
For, as the lovers of fair Danae, 
Wlien she was lock'd up in a brazen 

tower. 



27 fall. 

2S canker-worm. 



23 "Justly at length.' 



30 "On every side 
is death." 



31 straps round a hawk's legs, to which 
the leash was fastened. 



90 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Desir'd her more, and wax'd outrageous, 
So did it fare with me; and now thy 

sight 
Is sweeter far than was thy parting 

hence 

Bitter and irksome to my sobbing heart. 

Gav. Sweet lord and king, your speech 

preventeth ^- mine ; 

Yet have I words left to express my joy: 

The shepherd nipt with biting winter's 

rage 
Frolics not mere to see the painted 

spring. 
Than I do to behold your majesty. 
K. Edw. Will none of you salute my Ga- 

veston '? 
Lan. Salute him? yes. "Welcome, Lord 

Chamberlain ! 
Y. Mor. Welcome is the good Earl of 

Cornwall ! 
War. Welcome, Lord Governor of the Isle 

of Man ! 
Pern. Welcome, Master Secretai-y ! 
Kent. Brother, do you hear them*? 
K. Edw. Still will these earls and barons 

use me thus"? 
Gav. My lord, I cannot brook these in- 
juries. 
Q. Isab. (Aside.) Ay me, poor soul, 

when these begin to jar. 
K. Ediv. Return it to their throats, I '11 

be thy warrant. 
Gav. Base, leaden earls, that glory in 
your birth, 
Go sit at home and eat your tenants' 

beef; 
And come not here to scotf at Gaveston, 
Whose mounting thoughts did never 

creep so low 

As to bestow a look on such as you. 

Lan. Yet I disdain not to do this for you. 

{Draws his sword and offers to stab 

Gaveston.) 

K. Edw. Treason ! treason ! where 's the 

traitor? 
Pern. Here ! here ! 
K. Edw. Convey hence Gaveston ; they '11 

murder him. 
Gav. The life of thee shall salve this foul 

disgrace. 
Y. Mor. Villain! thy life, unless I miss 
mine aim. 

(Wounds Gaveston.) 
Q. Isab. Ah ! furious Mortimer, what hast 

thou done? 
Y. Mor. No more than I would answer, 
were he slain. 

Exit Gaveston with Attendants. 



K. Edw. Yes, more than thou canst an- 
swer, though he live. 
Dear shall you both abye ^^ this riotous 

deed. 
Out of my presence ! Come not near the 
court ! 
Y. Mor. I '11 not be barr'd the court for 

Gaveston. 
Lan. We '11 hale him by the ears unto the 

block. 
K. Edw. Look to your own heads; his is 

sure enough. 
War. Look to your own crown, if you 

back him thus. 
Kent. Warwick, these words do ill be- 
seem thy years. 
K. Edw. Nay, all of them conspire to 
cross me thus; 
But if I live, I '11 tread upon their 

heads 
That think with high looks thus to tread 

me down. 
Come, Edmund, let 's away and levy 

men, 
'T is war that must abate these barons' 
pride. 
Exeunt King Edward, Queen Isabella and 
Kent. 
War. Let 's to our castles, for the king is 

mov'd. 
Y. Mor. Mov'd may he be, and perish in 

his wrath ! 
Lan. Cousin, it is no dealing with him 
now. 
He means to make us stoop by force of 

arms ; 
And therefore let us jointly here pro- 
test 31 
To persecute that Gaveston to the death. 
Y. Mor. By heaven, the abject villain 

shall not live ! 
War. I '11 have his blood, or die in seeking 

it. 
Pern. The like oath Pembroke takes. 
Lan. And so doth Lancaster. 

Now send our heralds to defy the king; 
And make the people swear to put him 
down. 

Enter a Post. 

Y. Mor. Letters! From whence? 
3Iess. From Scotland, my lord. 

(Giving letters to Mortimer.) 
Lan. Why. how now, cousin, how fares all 

our friends? 
Y. Mor. My uncle 's taken prisoner by the 

Scots. 



32 anticipates. 



33 pay for. 



EDWARD II 



91 



Lan. We '11 have him ransom'd, man ; be 

of good cheer. 
Y. Mor. They rate his ransom at five 
thonsand ponnd. 
Who should defray the money but the 

king, 
Seeing he is taken prisoner in his wars'? 
I '11 to the king. 
Lan. Do, cousin, and I '11 bear thee com- 
pany. 
War. Meantime, my lord of Pembroke 
and myself 
Will to Newcastle here, and gather 
head.^^ 
T. Mor. About it then, and we will follow 

you. 
Lan. Be resolute and full of secrecy. 
War. I warrant you. 

Exit with Pembroke. 
Y. Mor. Cousin, and if he will not ran- 
som him, 
I '11 thunder such a peal into his ears, 
As never subject did unto his king. 
Lan. Content, I '11 bear my part — Holla ! 
who 's there f 

Enter Guard. 

Y. Mor. Aye, marry, such a guard as this 

doth well. 
Lan. Lead on the way. 
Guard. Whither will your lordships'? 
Y. 31 or. Whither else but to the king. 
Guard. His highness is dispos'd to be 

alone. 
Lan. Wliy, so he may, but we will speak 

to him. 
Guard. You may not in, my lord. 
Y. Mor. May we nof? 

Enter King Edward and Kent. 

K. Edw. How now! 

Wliat noise is this? Who have we 

there? Is 't you"? (Going.) 

Y. Mor. Nay, stay, my lord, I come to 

bring you news; 
Mine uncle 's taken prisoner by the 

Scots. 
K. Edw. Then ransom him. 
Lan. 'T was in your wars ; you should 

ransom him. 
Y. Mor. And you shall ransom him, or 

else 

Kent. What, Mortimer, yqu will not 

threaten him ! 
K. Edw. Quiet yourself, you shall have 

the broad seal,^*' 

35 forces. 30 the state seal, as 37. Qq. hath. 

warrant for the 
levying of taxes. 



To gather for him thoroughout the realm. 
Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught 

you this. 
r. Mor. My lord, the family of the Morti- 
mers 
Are not so poor, but, would they sell 

their land, 
'T would levy men enough to anger you. 
We never beg, but use such prayers as 
these. 
K. Edw. Shall I still be haunted thus? 
Y. Mor. Nay, now you are here alone, I '11 

speak my mind. 
Lan. And so will I, and then, my lord, 

farewell. 
Y. Mor. The idle triumphs, masques, las- 
civious shows. 
And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaves- 
ton, 
Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made 

thee weak ; 
The murmuring commons, overstretched, 
[break.] ^'' 
Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be de- 
pos'd. 
Thy garrisong are beaten out of France, 
And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the 

gates ; 
The wild O'Neill, with swarms of Irish 

kerns,^^ 
Lives uncontroll'd within the English 

pale; 
Unto the walls of York the Scots made 

road, 
And unresisted drave away rich spoils. 
Y. Mor. The haughty Dane commands the 
narrow seas,^^ 
While in the harbor ride thy ships un- 
rigg'd. 
Lan. What foreign prince sends thee am- 
bassadors? 
Y. Mor. Who loves thee, but a sort *" of 

flatterers? 
Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Va- 
lois, 
Complains that thou hast left her all for- 
lorn. 
Y. Mor. Thy court is naked, being bereft 
of those 
That make a king seem glorious to the 

world ; 
I mean the peers, whom thou should'st 

dearly love. 
Libels are cast against thee in the street ; 
Ballads and rhymes made of thy over- 
throw. 

3S light armed, ir- 39 the English 
regular foot sol- Channel, 

diers. 40 crowd. 



92 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lan. The northern borderers seeing their 
houses burnt, 
Their wives and children slain, run up 

and down, 
Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. 
r. Mor. When wert thou in the field with 
banner spread, 
But once'? and then thy soldiers march'd 

like players. 
With garish robes, not armor; and thyself, 
Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the 

rest, 
Nodding and shaking of thy spangled 

crest, 
Where women's favors hung like labels 
down. 
Lan. And therefore came it, that the fleer- 
ing ■^^ Scots, 
To England's high disgrace, have made 
this jig; 
Maids of England, sore may you 

mourn, — 
For your lenians 42 you have lost at 
Bannocksbourn, — *3 

With a heave and a ho! 
What weeneth ** the King of Eng- 
land, 
So soon to have won Scotland? — 
With a rombelow! 
Y. Mor. Wigmore ^^ shall fly, to set my 

uncle free. 
Lan. And when 't is gone, our swords 
shall purchase more. 
If ye be mov'd, revenge it as you can ; 
Look next to see us with our ensigns 
spread. 

Exit with Young Mortimer. 
K. Edw. My swelling heart for very an- 
ger breaks ! 
How oft have I been baited by these 

peers. 
And dare not be reveng'd, for their 

power is great ! 
Yet, shall the crowing of these cocker- 
els 
Affright a lion"? Edward, unfold thy 

paws. 
And let their lives' blood slake thy fury's 

hunger. 
If I be cruel and grow tyrannous. 
Now let them thank themselves, and rue 
too late. 
Kent. My lord, I see your love to Gaves- 
ton 
Will be the ruin of the realm and you, 
For now the wrathful nobles threaten 
wars, 



And therefore, brother, banish him for 
ever. 
K. Edw. Art thou an enemy to my Gaves- 
ton? 
Kent. Aye, and it grieves me that I fa- 
vored him. 
K. Edw. Traitor, begone ! whine thou 

with Mortimer. 
Kent. So will I, rather than with Gaves- 
ton. 
K. Edw. Out of my sight, and trouble me 

no more ! 
Kent. No marvel though thou scorn thy 
noble peers, 
When I thy brother am rejected thus. 

Ejcit. 
K. Edw. Away! 

Poor Gaveston, thou '^'^ hast no friend but 

me ! 
Do what they can, we '11 live in Tyne- 

mouth here, 
And, so I walk with him about the walls, 
W^hat care I though the earls begirt us 

round ? — 
Here comes she that 's cause of all these 
jars. 

Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's 
Niece, two Ladies, Gaveston, Baldock 
and Young Spencer. 

Q. Isah. My lord, 'tis thought the earls 

are up in arms. 
K. Edw. Aye, and 't is likewise thought 

you favor 'em. 
Q. Isab. Thus do you still suspect me 

without cause? 
Niece. Sweet uncle, speak more kindly to 

the queen. 
Gav. My lord, dissemble with her, speak 

her fair. 
K. Edw. Pardon me, sweet, I forgot my- 
self. 
Q. Isab. Your pardon is quickly got of 

Isabel. 
K. Edw. The younger Mortimer is grown 

so brave. 
That to my face he threatens civil wars. 
Gav. Why do you not commit him to the 

Tower? 
K. Edw. I dare not, for the people love 

him well. 
Gav. Why, then we '11 have him privily 

made away. 
K. Edw. Woidd Lancaster and he had 

both carous'd 
A bowl of poison to each other's health! 



41 jeering. 

42 lovers. 



43 Bannockhnrn was 
not fought until 
1314, some years 



after the events 
of this scene; 
Marlowe took the 



song from Fab- 45 Young Morti- 
van's Chronicle. mer's estate. 

44thinketh. 46 Qq. <7iat. 



EDWARD II 



93 



But let them go, and tell me what are 
these. 
Niece. Two of ray father's servants whilst 
he liv'd, — 
May 't please your grace to entertain 
them now. 
K. Edit). Tell me, where wast thou born? 

What is thine arms'? 
Bald. My name is Baldock, and my gentry 
I fetcht from Oxford, not from heraldry. 
K. Edw. The fitter art thou, Baldock, for 
my turn. 
Wait on me, and I '11 see thou shalt not 
want. 
B(dd. I humbly thank your majesty. 
K. Edw. Knowest thou him, Gaveston ? 
Gav. Aye, my lord; 

His name is Spencer, he is well allied; 
For my sake, let him wait upon your 

grace; 
Scarce shall you find a man of more 
desert. 
K. Edw. Then, Spencer, wait upon me ; 
for his sake 
I '11 grace thee with a higher style ere 
long. 
Y. Spen. No greater titles happen unto 
me, 
Than to be favored of your majesty ! 
K. Edw. Cousin, this day shall be your 
marriage-feast. 
And, Gaveston, think that I love thee 

well 
To Aved thee to our niece, the only heir 
Unto the Earl of Gloucester late de- 
ceas'd. 
Gav. I know, my lord, many will stom- 
ach '^'^ me, 
But I respect neither their love nor 
hate. 
K. Edic. The headstrong barons shall not 
limit me ; 
He that I list to favor shall be great. 
Come, let 's away ; and when the mar- 
riage ends, 
Have at the rebels, and their 'complices ! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. Near Tynemouth Castle. 

Enter Kent, Lancaster, Young Mortimer, 
Warwick, and Pembroke. 

Kent. My lords, of love to this our native 
land 
I come to join with you and leave the 
king; 

47 regard with resentment. 48 suspect. 



And in your quarrel and the realm's be- 
hoof 
Will be the first that shall adventure life. 
Lan. I fear me, you are sent of policy. 
To undermine us with a show of love. 
War. He is your brother; therefore have 
we cause 
To cast *^ the worst, and doubt of your 
revolt. 
Kent. Mine honor shall be hostage of my 
truth ; 
If that will not suffice, farewell, my 
lords. 
Y. Mar. Stay, Edmund; never was Plan- 
tagenet 
False to his word, and therefore trust 
we thee. 
Pern. But what 's the reason you should 

leave him now? 
Kent. I have inform'd the Earl of Lan- 
caster. 
Lan. And it sufficeth. Now, my lords, 
know this. 
That Gaveston is secretly arriv'd. 
And here in Tynemouth frolics with the 

king. 
Let us with these our followers scale the 

walls. 
And suddenly surprise them unawares. 
Y. Mor. I '11 give the onset. 
War. And I '11 follow thee. 

Y. Mor. This tattered ensign of my an- 
cestors. 
Which swept the desert shore of that 

dead sea 
Wliereof we got the name of Mortimer,'*^ 
Will I advance upon these castle-walls. 
Drums, strike alarum! raise them from 

their sport. 
And ring aloud the knell of Gaveston ! 
Lan. None be so hardy as to' touch the 
king ; 
But neither spare you Gaveston nor his 
friends. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. Tynemouth Castle. 
Enter King Edward and Young Spencer. 

K. Edw. tell me, Spencer, where is 

Gaveston? 
Spen. I fear me he is slain, my gracious 

lord. 
K. Edw. No, here he comes ; now let them 

spoil and kill. 

Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's 
Niece, Gaveston, and Nobles. 

49 a false etymology, tracing the name Mortimer to Mortuum Mare. 



94 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Fly, fly, my lords, the earls have got the 

hold; 
Take shipping and away to Scarborough ; 
Spencer and I will post away by land. 
Gav. O stay, my lord, they will not injure 

you. 
K. Edw. I will not trust them; Gaveston, 



away 



Gav. Farewell, my lord. 
K. Edw. Lady, farewell. 
Niece. Farewell, sweet uncle, till we meet 

again. 
K. Edw. Farewell, sweet Gaveston ; and 

farewell, niece. 
Q. Isah. No farewell to poor Isabel thy 

queen ? 
K. Edw. Yes, yes, for Mortimer, your 
lover's sake. 

Exeunt all hut Queen Isabella. 
Q. Isah. Heavens can witness I love none 
but you ! 
From my embracements thus he breaks 

away. 
that mine arms could close this isle 

about. 
That I might pull him to me where I 

would ! 
Or that these tears that drizzle from mine 

eyes 
Had power to mollify his stony heart. 
That when I had him we might never 
part. 

Enter Lancaster, Warwick, Young Morti- 
mer, and others. Alarums. 

Lan. I Avonder how he scap'd ! 
Y. Mor. Who's this? The queen ! 

Q. Isah. Aye, Mortimer, the miserable 
queen. 
Whose pining heart her inward sighs 

have blasted, 
And body with continual mourning 

wasted. 
These hands are tir'd with haling of my 

lord 
From Gaveston, from wicked Gaveston, 
And all in vain ; for, when I speak him 

fair, 
He turns away, and smiles upon his 
minion. 
Y. Mor. Cease to lament, and tell us 

where 's the king"? 
Q. Isah. What would you with the king? 

Is 't him you seek ? 
Lan. No, madam, but that cursed Gaves- 
ton. 
Far be it from the thought of Lancaster 



To offer violence to his sovereign. 
We would but rid the realm of Gaveston : 
Tell us where he remains, and he shall die. 
Q. Isah. He's gone by water unto Scar- 
borough ; 
Pursue him quickly, and he cannot scape; 
The king hath left him, and his train is 
small. 
War. Forslow ^° no time, sweet Lancas- 
ter; let 's march. 
Y. Mor. How comes it that the king and 

he is parted? 
Q. Isah. That thus your army, going sev- 
eral ways, 
Might be of lesser force; and with the 

power 
That he intendeth presently to raise, 
Be easily suppress'd ; therefore be gone. 
Y. Mor. Here in the river rides a Flemish 
hoy ; =^1 
Let 's all aboard, and folloAv him amain. 
Lan. The wind that bears him hence will 
fill our sails. 
Come, come aboard, 't is but an hour's 
sailing. 
r. Mor. Madam, stay you within this cas- 
tle here. 
Q. Isah. No, Moi'timei', I'll to my lord 

the king. 
Y. Mor. Nay, rather sail with us to Scar- 
borough. 
Q. Isah. You know the king is so sus- 
picious, 
As if he hear I have but talk'd with you. 
Mine honor will be call'd in question ; 
And therefore, gentle Mortimer, be gone. 
Y. Mor. Madam, I cannot stay to answer 

you, 

But think of Mortimer as he deserves. 
Exeunt all except Queen Isabella. 
Q. Isah. So well hast thou deserv'd, sweet 
Mortimer, 
As Isabel could live with thee for ever! 
In vain I look for love at Edward's hand, 
Whose eyes are fix'd on none but Gaves- 
ton; 
Yet once more I '11 importune him with 

prayers. 
If he be strange and not regard my 

words. 
My son and I will over into France, 
And to the king my brother there com- 
plain. 
How Gaveston hath robb'd me of his love : 
But yet I hope my sorrows will have end. 
And" Gaveston this blessed day be slain. 

Exit. 



50 delay. 



51 a small sloop. 



EDWARD II 



95 



Scene 5. The open countrij. 
Enter Gaveston, pursued. 

Gav. Yet, lusty lords, I have escap'd your 

hands, 
Your threats, your 'larums, and your hot 

pui'suits ; 
And though divorced from King Ed- 

wai'd's eyes, 
Yet liveth Pierce of Gaveston unsui'- 

pris'd,^- 
Breathing", in hope {malgrado ^^ all your 

beards, 
That muster rebels thus against your 

king), 
To see his royal sovereig:n once again. 

Enter Warwick, Lancaster, Pembroke, 
Young Mortimer, Soldiers, James, and 
other Attendants of Pembroke. 

War. Upon him, soldiers, take away his 

weapons. 
Y. Mor. Thou proud disturber of thy 

country's peace, 
Corrupter of thy king, cause of these 

broils, 
Base flatterer, yield ! and were it not for 

shame, 
Shame and dishonor to a soldier's name, 
Upon my weapon's point here shouldst 

thou fall. 
And welter in thy gore. 
Lan. Monster of men ! 

That, like the Greekish strumpet,^* 

train'd ^^ to arms 
And bloody wars so many valiant 

knights ; 
Look for no other fortune, wretch, than 

death ! 
King Edward is not here to buckler thee. 
War. Lancaster, why talk'st thou to the 

slave? 
Go, soldiers, take him hence, for, by my 

sword. 
His head shall off. Gaveston, short 

warning 
Shall serve thy turn; it is our country's 

cause 
That here severely we will execute 
Upon thy person. Hang him at a bough. 
Gav. My lord ! — 

War. Soldiers, have him away; — 

But for thou Avert the favorite of a king, 
Thou shalt have so much honor at our 

hands — 
Gav. I thank you all, my lords: then I 

perceive 

62 uncaptured. 53 "in spite of." 54 Helen 



That heading is one, and hanging is the 

other, 
And death is all. 

Enter Earl of Arundel. 

Lan. How now, my lord of Arundel'? 
Arun. My lords. King Edward greets you 

all by me. 
War. Arundel, say your message. 
Arun. His majesty, 

Hearing that you had taken Gaveston, 
Entreateth you by me, yet but- he may 
See him before he dies; for why, \\S says, 
And sends you word, he knows that die 

he shall; 
And if you gratify his grace so far, 
He will be mindful of the courtesy. 
War. How now ! 
Gav. Renowned Edward, how thy name 

Revives poor Gaveston ! 
War. No; it needeth not ; 

Arundel, we will gratify the king 
In other matters; he must pardon us in 

this. 
Soldiers, away with him ! 
Gav. Why, my lord of Wanviek, 

Will not these delays beget my hopes'? 
I know it, lords, it is this life you aim at. 
Yet grant King Edward this. 
Y. Mor. Shalt thou appoint 

What we shall grant*? Soldiers, away 

with him ! 
Thus we '11 gratify the king : 
We '11 send his head by thee ; let him 

bestow 
His tears on that, for that is all he gets 
Of Gaveston, or else his senseless trunk. 
Lan. Not so, my lords, lest he bestow 
more cost 
In burying him than he hath ever earn'd. 
Arun. My "lords, it is his majesty's re- 
quest. 
And in the honor of a king he swears 
He will but talk with him, and send him 
back. 
War. When, can you telll Arundel, no; 
we wot 
He that the care of realm remits. 
And drives his nobles to these exigents ^^ 
For Gaveston, will, if he sees him once, 
Violate any promise to possess him. 
Arun. Then" if you will not trust his grace 
in keep, 
My lords, I will be pledge for his return. 
Y. Mor. 'T is honorable in thee to offer 
this; 
But for we know thou art a noble gentle- 
man. 



of Troy. 



55 lured. 



56 extremities. 



96 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



We will not wrong thee so, to make away 
A true man for a thief. 
Gav. How mean'st thou, Mortimer? That 

is over-base. 
T. Mor. Away, base gi'oom, robber of 
king's renown ! 
Question with thy companions and thy 
mates. 
Pern. My Lord Mortimer, and you, my 
lords, each one. 
To gratify the king's request therein, 
Touching the sending of this Gaveston, 
Because his majesty so earnestly 
Desires to see the man before his death, 
I will upon mine honor undertake 
To carry him, and bring him back 

again ; 
Provided this, that you, my lord of Anm- 

del, 
Will join with me. 
War. Pembroke, what wilt thou do"? 

Cause yet more bloodshed? Is it not 

enough 
That we have taken him, but must we 

now 
Leave him on ''had I wist," and let him 
go? 
Pern. My lords, I will not over-woo your 
honors, 
But if you dare trust Pembroke with the 

prisoner, 
Upon mine oath, I will return him back. 
Arun. My lord of Lancaster, what say 

you in this? 
Lan. Why, I say, let him go on Pem- 
broke's word. 
Pern. And you. Lord Mortimer? 
Y. Mor. How say you, my lord of War- 
wick? 
War. Nay, do your pleasures, I know 

how 't will prove. 
Pern. Then give him me. 
Gav. Sweet sovereign, yet I come 

To see thee ere I die. 
War. {Aside.) Yet not pei'haps, 

If Warwick's wit and policy prevail. 
Y. Mor. My lord of Pembroke, we deliver 
him you ; 
Return him on your honor. Sound, 
away! 
Exeunt all except Pembroke, Arundel, 
Gaveston, James, and other Attendants 
of Pembroke. 
Pern. My lord [Arundel,] you shall go 
with me. 
My house is not far hence; out of the 

way 
A little, but our men shall go along. 

57 end. 58 if. 



We that have pretty wenches to our 

wives. 
Sir, must not come so near and baulk 
their lips. 
Arun. 'T is very kindly spoke, my lord of 
Pembroke ; 
Your honor hath an adamant of power 
To draw a prince. 
Pern. So, my lord. Come hither, James: 
I do commit this Gaveston to thee. 
Be thou this night his keeper; in the 

morning 
We will discharge thee of thy charge. 
Be gone. 
Gav. Unhappy Gaveston, whither goest 

thou now? 
Exit ivith James and the other Attend- 
ants. 
Horse-boi/. My lord, we '11 quickly be at 
Cobham. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IIL 

Scene 1. The open country near Warwick. 

Enter Gaveston mourning, James, and 
other Attendants of Pembroke. 

Gav. treacherous Warwick, thus to 

wrong thy fi'iend ! 
James. I see it is your life these arms 

pursue. 
Gav. Weaponless must I fall, and die in 
bands? 
must this day be period ^'' of my life ? 
Center of all my bliss ! An ^^ ye be men. 
Speed to the king. 

Enter Warwick and his company. 

War. My lord of Pembroke's men, 

Strive you no longer — I will have that 

Gaveston. 
James. Your lordship doth dishonor to 

yourself. 
And wrong our lord, your honorable 

friend. 
War. No, James, it is my country's cause 

I follow. 
Go, take the villain; soldiei-s, come away. 
We '11 make quick work. Commend me 

to your master, 
My friend, and tell him that I watch'd 

it well. 
Come, let thy shadow ^^ parley with King 

Edward. 

59 ghost. 



EDWARD II 



97 



Gav. Treacherous earl, shall I not see the 

king-"? 
War. The king of Heaven, perhaps no 
other king. 
Away ! 
Exeunt Warwick and his men tvith 
Gaveston. 
James. Come, fellows, it booted not for us 
to strive, 
We will in haste go certify our lord. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. Near Boroughbridge, in York- 
shire. 

Enter King Edward and Young Spencer, 
Baldock, and Nobles of the King's side, 
and Soldiers with drums and fifes. 

K. Edw. I long to hear an answer from 
the barons 

Touching my friend, my dearest Gaves- 
ton. 

Ah ! Spencer, not the riches of my realm 

Can ransom him ! Ah, he is mark'd to 
die ! 

I know the malice of the younger Morti- 
mer, 

Warwick I know is rough, and Lancaster 

Inexorable, and I shall never see 

My lovely Pierce, my Gaveston again ! 

The barons overbear me with their pride. 
Y. Spen. Were I King Edward, Eng- 
land's sovereign, 

Son to the lovely Eleanor of Spain, 

Great Edward Longshanks' issue, would 
I bear 

These braves, this rage, and suffer un- 
controll'd 

These barons thus to beard me in my 
land, 

In mine own realm"? My lord, pardon 
my speech : 

Did you retain your father's magnanim- 

ity, 

Did you regard the honor of your name. 
You would not suffer thus your majesty 
Be counterbuff'd of®" your nobility. 
Strike off their heads, and let them 

preach on poles ! 
No doubt, such lessons they will teach the 

rest, 
As by their preachments they will profit 

much, 
And learn obedience to their lawful king. 
K. Edw. Yea, gentle Spencer, we have 

been too mild, 



Too kind to them; but now have drawn 

our sword. 
And if they send me not my Gaveston, 
We '11 steel it ^^ on their crest, and poll ^- 
their tops. 
Bald. This haught ^^ resolve becomes your 
majesty. 
Not to be tied to their affection, 
As though your highness were a school- 
boy still, 
And must be aw'd and govern'd like a 
child. 

Enter tlie Elder Spencer, with his 
truncheon and Soldiers. 

E. Spen. Long live my sovereign, the 

noble Edward, 
In peace triumphant, fortunate in wars! 
K. Edw. Welcome, old man, com'st thou 

in Edward's aidf 
Then tell thy prince of whence, and what 

thou art. 
E. Spen. Lo, with a band of bowmen and 

of pikes. 
Brown bills and targeteers, four hundred 

strong. 
Sworn to defend King Edward's royal 

right, 
I come in person to your majesty, 
Spencer, the father of Hugh Spencer 

there. 
Bound to your highness everlastingly, 
For favor done, in him, unto us all. 
K. Edw. Thy father, Spencer? 
Y. Spen. True, an it like your grace. 

That pours, in lieu of all your goodness 

shown, 
His life, my lord, before your princely 

feet. 
K. Edw. Welcome ten thousand times, old 

man, again. 
Spencer, this love, this kindness to . thy 

king, 
Argues thy noble mind and disposition. 
Spencer, I here create thee Earl of Wilt- 
shire, 
And daily will enrich thee with our favor. 
That, as the sunshine, shall reflect o'er 

thee. 
Beside, the more to manifest our love, 
Because we hear Lord Bruce doth sell 

his land. 
And that the Mortimers are in hand ^* 

withal, 
Thou shalt have crowns of us t' outbid 

the barons: 



60 affronted by. 



61 use our steel. 



62 lop off. 



63 lofty. 



64 negotiating. 



98 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



And, Spencer, spare them not, but lay 

it on. 
Soldiers, a lar^'ess, and thrice welcome 

all! 
Y. Spen. My lord, here comes the queen. 

Enter Queen Isabella, her son Prince Ed- 
ward, and Levune, a Frenchman. 

K. Edw. Madam, what news? 
Q. Isah. News of dishonor, lord, and dis- 
content. 
Our friend Levune, faithful and full of 

trust, 
Informeth us, by letters and by words. 
That Lord Valois our brother, King- of 

France, 
Because your highness hath been slack in 

homage. 
Hath seized Normandy into his hands. 
These be the letters, this the messenger. 
K. Edw. Welcome, Levune. Tush, Sib, if 

this be all 
Valois and I will soon be friends again. — 
But to my Gaveston ; shall I never see, 
Never behold thee now? — Madam, in this 

matter, 
We will employ you and your little son ; 
You shall go parley with the king of 

France. — 
Boy, see you bear you bravely to the 

king. 
And do your message with a majesty. 
P. Ediv. Commit not to my youth things 

of more weight 
Than fits a prince so young as I to bear, 
And fear not, lord and father, Heaven's 

great beams 
On Atlas' shoulder shall not lie more 

safe. 
Than shall your charge committed to my 

trust. 
Q. Isah. Ah, boy, this towardness makes 

thy mother fear 
Thou art not mark'd to many days on 

earth. 
K. Edw. Madam, we will that you with 

speed be shipp'd, 
And this our son; Levune shall follow 

you 
With all the haste we can despatch him 

hence. 
Choose of our lords to bear you company. 
And go in peace ; leave us in wars at 

home. 
Q. Isah. Unnatural wars, where subjects 

brave their king; 
God end them once ! My lord, I take 

my leave, 



To make my preparation for France. 

Exit with Prince Edward, 
Enter Arundel. 

K. Edw. What, Lord Arundel, dost thou 

come alone? 
Arun. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is 

dead. 
K. Edw. Ah, traitors ! have they put my 

friend to death? 
Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou 

cam'st, 
Or didst thou see my friend to take his 

death ? 
Arun. Neither, my lord ; for as he was 

surpris'd, 
Begirt with weapons and with enemies 

round, 
I did your highness' message to them all ; 
Demanding him of them, entreating 

rather. 
And said, upon the honor of my name. 
That I would undertake to carry him 
LTnto your highness, and to bring him 

back. 
K. Edw. And tell me, would the rebels 

deny me that? 
Y. Spen. Proud recreants! 
K. Edw. Yea, Spencer, traitors all. 

Arun. I found them at the first inexoi'- 

able; 
The Earl of Warwick would not bide the 

heai'ing, 
Mortimer hardly ; Pembroke and Lancas- 
ter 
Spake least : and when they flatly had 

denied. 
Refusing to receive me pledge for him, 
The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus be- 
spake ; 
"My lords, because our sovereign sends 

for him. 

And promiseth he shall be safe return'd, 

I will this undertake, to have him hence. 

And see him re-delivered to your hands." 

K. Edw. Well, and how fortunes [it] that 

he came not? 
Y. Spen. Some treason or some villainy 

was cause. 
Arun. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on 

his way; 
For being delivered unto Pembroke's men. 
Their lord rode home, thinking his pris- 
oner safe; 
But ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay. 
And bare him to his death ; and in a 

trench 
Strake off his head, and march'd unto 

the camp. 



EDWARD II 



99 



1'. Spen. A bloody part, flatly against law 

of arms ! 
K. Edw. O shall I speak, or shall I sigh 

and die ! 
r. Spen. My lord, refer your vengeance 
to the sword 

Upon these barons; hearten up your 
men; 

Let them not unreveng'd murder your 
friends ! 

Advance your standard, Edward, in the 
field, 

And march to tire them from their start- 
ing holes. 
K. Edw. {Kneeling.) By earth, the com- 
mon mother of us all, 

By Heaven, and all the moving orbs 
thereof, 

By this right hand, and by my father's 
sword, 

And all the honors 'longing to my crown, 

I will have heads and lives for him, as 
many 

As I have manors, castles, towns, and 
towers ! — 

{Eises.) 

Treacherous Warwick ! traitorous Morti- 
mer ! 

If I be England's king, in lakes of gore 

Your headless trunks, your bodies will I 
trail, 

That you may drink your fill, and quaff 
in blood. 

And stain my royal standard with the 
same. 

That so my bloody colors may suggest 

Remembrance of revenge immortally 

On your accursed traitorous progeny, 

You villains, that have slain my Gaves- 
ton! 

And in this place of honor and of trust, 

Spencer, sweet Spencer, I adopt thee 
here : 

And merely of our love we do create thee 

Earl of Gloucester, and Lord Chamber- 
lain, 

Despite of times, despite of enemies. 
Y. Spen. My lord, here 's a messenger 
from the barons. 

Desires access unto your majesty. 
K. Edw. Admit him near. 

Enter the Herald from the Barons with 
his coat of arms. 

Her. Long: live King Edward, England's 

lawful lord ! 
K. Edw. So wish not they, I wis, that 

sent thee hither. 



Thou eom'st from Mortimer and his 'com- 
plices, 

A ranker rout of rebels never was. 

Well, say thy message. 
Her. The barons up in arms, by me sa- 
lute 

Your highness with long life and haj^pi- 
ness; 

And bid me say, as plainer to your grace, 

That if without effusion of blood 

You will this grief have ease and rem- 
edy. 

That from your j^rincely person you re- 
move 

This Spencer, as a putiifying branch, 

That deads the royal vine, whose golden 
leaves 

Empale your princely head, your dia- 
dem, 

Whose brightness such j^ernieious up- 
starts dim, 

Say the\ ; and lovingly advise your 
grace. 

To cherish virtue and nobility, 

And have old servitors in high esteem. 

And shake off smooth dissembling flat- 
terers. 

This granted, they, their honors, and 
their lives, 

Are to your highness vow'd and conse- 
crate. 
r. Spen. Ah, traitors! will they still dis- 
play their pride? 
K. Edw. Away, tarry no answer, but be 
gone ! 

Rebels, will they appoint their sover- 
eign 

His sports, his pleasures, and his com- 
pany? 

Yet, ere thou go, see how I do divorce 
(Embraces Spencer.) 

Spencer from me. — Now get thee to thy 
lords, 

And tell them I will come to chastise 
them 

For murdering Gaveston ; hie thee, get 
thee gone ! 

Edward with fire and sword follows at 
thy heels. 

Exit Herald, 

My lords, perceive you how these rebels 
swell? 

Soldiers, good hearts, defend your sov- 
ereign's right. 

For now, even now, we march to make 
them stoop. 

Away ! 
Exeunt. Alarums, excursions, a great 

fight, and a retreat {sounded within.) 



100 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Scene 3. Battle-field at BorougJibridge, 
in Yorkshire. 

Enter King Edward, the Elder Spencer, 
Young Spencer, and Noblemen of tlie 
King's side. 

K. Edw. Why do we sound retreat? 
Upon them, lords! 
This day I shall pour vengeance with my 

sword 
On those proud rebels that are up in 

arms 
And do confront and countermand their 
king. 
Y. Spen. I doubt it not, my lord, right 

will prevail. 
E. Spen. 'T is not amiss, my liege, for 
either part 
To breathe awhile; our men, with sweat 

and dust 
All chok'd well near, begin to faint for 

heat ; 
And this retire refresheth horse and man. 
T. Spen. Here come the rebels. 

Enter the Barons, Young Mortimer, Lan- 
caster, Warwick, Pembroke, and others. 

Y. Mor. Look, Lancaster, yonder is Ed- 
ward 
Among his flatterers. 
Lan. And there let him be 

Till he pay dearly for their company. 
War. And shall, or Warwick's sword shall 

smite in vain. 
K. Edw. What, rebels, do you shrink and 

sound retreat? 
Y. Mor. No, Edward, no; thy flatterers 

faint and fly. 
Lan. Thou'd best betimes foi'sake them 
and their trains,^^ 
For they '11 betray thee, traitors as they 
are. 
y. Spen. Traitor on thy face, rebellious 

Lancaster ! 
Pem. Away, base upstart, brav'st thou 

nobles thus? 
E. Spen. A noble attempt and honorable 
deed, 
Is it not, trow ye, to assemble aid, 
And levy arms against your lawful king! 
K. Edw. For which ere long their heads 
shall satisfy, 
T' appease the wrath of their offended 
king. 
Y. Mor. Then, Edward, thou wilt fight it 
to the last, 



And rather bathe thy sword in subjects' 

blood. 
Than banish that pernicious company? 
K. Edw. Aye, traitors all, rather than 
thus be brav'd. 
Make England's civil towns huge heaps 

of stones. 
And i^loughs to go about our palace- 
gates. 
War. A desperate and unnatural resolu- 
tion ! 
Alarum ! to the fight ! 
St. George for England, and the barons' 
right ! 
K. Edw. Saint George for England, and 
King Edward's right ! 
Alarums. Exeunt the two parties 
severally. 



Scene 4. The same. 

Enter King Edward and his followers, 
with the Barons and Kent, captives. 

K. Ediv. Now, lusty lords, now, not by 

chance of war. 
But justice of the quarrel and the cause, 
Vail'd ^^ is your pride ; methinks you 

hang the heads, 
But we '11 advance ^'' them, traitors. 

Now 't is time 
To be aveng'd on you for all your braves, 
And for the murder of my dearest friend. 
To whom right well you knew our soul 

was knit. 
Good Pierce of Gaveston, my sweet fa- 
vorite. 
Ah, rebels, recreants, you made him 

away ! 
Kent. Brother, in regard of thee, and of 

thy land, 
Did they remove that flatterer from thy 

throne. 
K. Edw. So, sir, you have spoke; away, 

avoid our presence ! 

Exit Kent. 
Accursed wretches, was 't in regard of us. 
When we had sent our messenger to re- 
quest 
He might be spar'd to come to speak 

with us. 
And Pembroke undertook for his retuni. 
That thou, proud Warwick, watch'd the 

prisoner. 
Poor Pierce, and headed him 'gainst law 

of arms? 
For which thy head shall overlook the rest, 



65 plots. 



66 humbled. 



EDWARD II 



101 



As much as thou in rage outwent'st the 
rest. 
War. Tyrant, I scorn thy threats and 
menaces ; 
It is but temporal that thou canst in- 
flict. 
Lan. The worst is death, and better die 
to live 
Than live in infamy under such a king. 
K. Edw. Away with them, my lord of 
Winchester ! 
These lusty leaders, Warwick and Lan- 
caster, 
I charge you roundly — ot¥ with both their 

heads ! 
Away! 
War. Farewell, vain world ! 
Lan. Sweet Mortimer, farewell, 

r. Mor. England, unkind to thy nobility. 
Groan for this grief, behold how thou 
art maim'd ! 
K. Edw. Go take that haughty Mortimer 
to the Tower, 
There see him safe bestow'd; and for the 

rest, 
Do speedy execution on them all. 
Begone ! 
Y. Mor. What, Mortimer! can ragged 
stony walls 
Immure thy virtue that aspires to 

Heaven ? 
No, Edward, England's scourge, it may 

not be; 
Mortimer's hope surmounts his fortune 
far. 
{The captive Barons are led off.) 
K. Edw. Sound drums and trumpets! 
March with me, my friends, 
Edward this day hath erown'd him king 
anew. 
Exeunt all except Young Spencer, 
Levune, and' Baldock. 
Y. Spen. Levune, the trust that we repose 
in thee, 
Begets the quiet of King Edward's land. 
Therefore begone in haste, and with ad- 
vice 
Bestow that treasure on the lords of 

Fiance, 
That, therewith all enchanted, like the 

guard 
That suffered Jove to pass in showers of 

gold 
To Dianae, all aid may be denied 
To Isabel, the queen, that now in France 
Makes friends, to cross the seas with her 

young son, 
And step into his father's regiment."'* 



Levune. That 's it these barons and the 
subtle queen 
Long levell'd at. 
Bal. Yea, but, Levune, thou seest 

These barons lay their heads on blocks 

together ; 
What they intend, the hangman frus- 
trates clean. 
Levune. Have you no doubt, my lords, I '11 
clap so close 
Among the lords of Prance with Eng- 
land's gold. 
That Isabel shall make her plaints in 

vain, 
And France shall be obdurate with her 
tears. 
Y. Spen. Then make for France amain ; 
Levune, away! 
Proclaim King Edward's wars and vic- 
tories. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. Near the Tower of London. 
Enter Kent. 

Kent. Fair blows the wind for France; 

blow gentle gale, 
Till Edmund be arriv'd for England's 

good! 
Nature, yield to my country's cause in 

this. 
A brother? No, a butcher of thy 

friends ! 
Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy 

presence? 
But I '11 to France, and cheer the 

wronged queen, 
And certify what Edward's looseness is. 
Unnatural king! to slaughter noblemen 
And clierisli flatterers! Mortimer, I 

stay 
Thy sweet escape : stand gracious, gloomy 

night. 
To his device. 

Enter Young Mortimer, disguised. 

Y. Mor. Holla! who walketh there? 

Is 't you, my lord ? 
Kent. Mortimer, 't is I ; 

But hath thy potion wrought so hap- 
pily? 
Y. Mor. It liath, my lord; the warders 
all asleep. 



68 rule. 



102 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I thank them, gave me leave to pass in 

peace. 
But hath youi' grace got shipping unto 
France ? 
Kent. Fear it not. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. Paris. 

Enter Queen Isabella and her son, Prince 
Edward. 

Q. Isab. Ah, boy! our friends do fail us 
all in France. 

The lords are cruel, and the king un- 
kind ; 

What shall we do? 
P. Edw. Madam, return to England, 

And please my father well, and then a hg 

For all my uncle's friendshij) here in 
France. 

I warrant you, I '11 win his highness 
quickly ; 

'A loves me better than a thousand Spen- 
cers. 
Q. Isab. Ah, boy, thou art deceiv'd, at 
least in this, 

To think that we can yet be tun'd to- 
gether ; 

No, no, we jar too far. Unkind Valois! 

Unhappy Isabel! when France rejects, 

Whither, oh ! whither dost thou bend thy 
steps ? 

Enter Sir John of Hainault. 

Sir J. Madam, what cheer f 

Q. Isab. Ah ! good Sir John of Hainault, 

Never so cheerless, nor so far distrest. 
Sir J. I hear, sweet lady, of the king's 

unkindness ; 
But droop not, madam ; noble minds con- 
temn 
Despair. Will your grace with me to 

Hainault, 
And there stay time's advantage with 

your sonl 
How say you, my lord, will you go with 

your friends. 
And share of"-' all our fortunes equally"? 
P. Edw. So pleaseth the queen, my 

mother, me it likes. 
The King of England, nor the court of 

France, 
Shall liave me from my gracious mother's 

side. 
Till I be strong enoueh to break a staff; 



And then have at the proudest Spencer's 

head. 
Sir J. Well said, my lord. 
Q. Isab. 0, my sweet heart, how do I 

moan thy wrongs. 
Yet triumph in the hope of thee, my joy! 
Ah, sweet Sir John ! even to the utmost 

verge 
Of Europe, or the shore of Tanais, 
Will we with thee to Hainault — so we 

will :— 
The marquis is a noble gentleman; 
His grace, I dai'e presume, will welcome 

me. 
But who are these? 

Enter Kent and Young Mortimer. 

Kent. Madam, long may you live, 

Much happier than your friends in Eng- 
land do ! 
Q. Isab. Lord Edmund and Lord Morti- 
mer alive! 
Welcome to France ! The news was 

here, my lord. 
That you were dead, or very near your 

death. 
Y. Mor. Lady, the last was truest of the 

twain ; 
But Mortimer, reserv'd for better hap. 
Hath shaken off the thraldom of the 

Tower, 
And lives t' advance your standard, good 

my lord. 
P. Edw. How mean you"? An''" the 

king, my father, lives? 
No, my Lord Mortimer, not I, I trow. 
Q. Isab. Not, son! why not? I would it 

were no worse. 
But, gentle lords, friendless we are in 

France. 
Y. Mor. Monsieur le Grand, a noble 

friend of yours. 
Told us, at our arrival, all the news : 
How hard the nobles, how unkind the 

king 
Hath show'd himself; but, madam, right 

makes room 
Where weapons want; and, though a 

many friends 
Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster, 
And others of our party and faction ; 
Yet have we friends, assure your grace, 

in England 
Would cast up caps, and clap their hands 

for joy, 
To see us there, appointed for ^^ our 

foes. 



GO Qq. shake off. 



70 if. 



71 equipped to meet. 



EDWARD II 



103 



Kent. Would all were well, and Edward 
well reclaim'd, 
For Engand's honor, peace, and quiet- 
ness. 
Y. Mor. But by the sword, my lord 't 
must be deserv'd ; 
The king will ne'er forsake his flatterers. 
Sir J. My lord of England, sith the un- 
gentle king 
Of France refuseth to give aid of arms 
To this distressed queen his sister here, 
Go you with her to Hainault. Doubt ye 

not. 
We will find comfort, money, men, and 

friends 
Ere long, to bid the English king a base.^- 
How say, young prince? What think 
you of the match'? 
P. Edw. I think King Edward will out- 
run us all. 
Q. Isab. Nay, son, not so; and you must 
not discourage 
Your friends, that are so forward in your 
aid. 
Kent. Sir John of Hainault, pardon us, I 
pray; 
These comforts that you give our woful 

queen 
Bind us in kindness all at your com- 
mand. 
Q. Isab. Yea, gentle brother; and the God 
of heaven 
Prosper your happy motion, good Sir 
John. 
Y. Mor. This noble gentleman, forward in 
arms. 
Was born, I see, to be our anchor-hold. 
Sir John of Hainault, be it thy renown, 
That England's queen and nobles in dis- 
tress. 
Have been by thee restor'd and com- 
forted. 
Sir J. Madam, along, and you my lords, 
with me. 
That England's peers may Hainault's 
welcome see. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. The King's Palace, London. 

Enter King Edward, Arundel, the Elder 
and Younger Spencer, with others. 

K. Edw. Thus after many threats of 
wrathful war, 
Trinmpheth England's Edward with his 
friends ; 



And triumph, Edward, with his friends 

unconti'oll'd ! 
My lord of Gloucester, do you hear the 

news'? 
Y. Spen. What news, my lord'? 
K. Edw. Why, man, they say there is 

great execution 
Done through the realm; my lord of 

Arundel, 
You have the note, have you not"? 
Arun. From the Lieutenant of the Tower, 

my lord. 
K. Edw. I pray let us see it. (Takes the 

note.) What have we there*? 
Read it, Spencer. 

(Young Spencer reads the names.) 
Why, so; they bark'd apace a month 

ago: 
Now, on my life, they '11 neither bark nor 

bite. 
Now, sirs, the news from France *? 

Gloucester, I trow 
The lords of France love England's gold 

so well 
As Isabella gets no aid from thence. 
What now remains'? Have you pro- 

claim'd, my lord. 
Reward for them can bring in Mortimer'? 
Y. Spen. My lord, we have; and if he be 

in England, 
'A will be had ere long, I doubt it not. 
K. Edw. If, dost thou say"? Spencer, as 

ti'ue as death, 
He is in England's ground; our port- 
masters 
Are not so careless of their king-'s com- 
mand. 

Enter a Post. 

How now, what news with thee"? From 
whence come these*? 
Post. Letters, my lord, and tidings forth 
of France ; — 
To you, my lord of Gloucester, from Le- 
vune. 
(Gives letters to Young Spencer.) 
K. Edw. Read. 
Y. Spen. (Reads.) 

"My duty to your honor premised, &e., I 
have, according to instructions in that be- 
half, dealt with the King of France his 
lords, and effected that the queen, all dis- 
contented and discomforted, is gone : 
whither, if you ask, with Sir John of 
Hainault, brother to the marquis, into 
Flanders. With them are gone Lord Ed- 
mund, and the Lord Mortimer, having in 
their company divers of your nation, and 



7- challenge; a reference to the game of prisoner's base. 



104 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



others; and, as constant report goeth, 
they intend to give King Edward battle 
in England, sooner than he can look for 
them. This is all the news of import. 
Your honor's in all service, Levune." 
K. Edw. Ah, villains! hath that Morti- 
mer escap'd? 
With him is Edmund gone associate'? 
And will Sir John of Hainault lead the 

round ? 
Welcome, a' God's name, madam, and 

your son; 
England shall welcome you and all your 

rout. 
Gallop apace, bright Phoebus, through 

the sky, 
' And dusky night, in rusty iron car. 
Between you both shorten the time, I 

pray, 
That I may see that most desired day 
When we may meet these traitors in the 

field. 
Ah, nothing grieves me but my little boy 
Is thus misled to countenance their ills. 
Come, friends, to Bristow,^^ there to 

make us strong ; 
And, winds, as equal be to bring them in, 
As you injurious were to bear them 

forth ! Exeunt. 

Scene 4. Near Harwich. 

Enter Queen Isabella, her son, Prince Ed- 
ward, Kent, Young Mortimer, and Sir 
John of Hainault. 

Q. Isah. Now, lords, our loving friends 

and countrymen, 
Welcome to England all, with prosperous 

winds ! 
Our kindest friends in Belgia have we 

left, 
To cope with friends at home; a heavy 

case 
When force to force is knit, and sword 

and glaive '^* 
In civil broils make kin and country- 
men 
Slaughter themselves in others, and their 

sides 
With their own weapons gor'd ! But 

what 's the help ? 
Misgovern'd kings are cause of all this 

wrack ; 
And, Edward, thou art one among them 

all, 
Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land 

to spoil, 

73 Bristol. 



Who made the channels overflow with 
blood. 

Of thine own people patron shouldst 
thou be, 

But thou 

Y. Mor. Nay, madam, if you be a war- 
rior. 

You must not grow so passionate in 
speeches. 

Lords, 

Sith that we are by sufferance of Heaven 

Arriv'd and armed in this prince's 
right, 

Here for our country's cause swear we 
to him 

All homage, fealty, and forward- 
ness ; 

And for the open wrongs and in- 
juries 

Edward hath done to us, his queen and 
land, 

AVe come in arms to wreak it with the 
sword ; 

That England's queen in peace may re- 
possess 

Her dignities and honors; and withal 

We may remove these liatterers from the 
king, 

That havocs England's wealth and treas- 
ury. 
Sir J. Sound trumpets, my lord, and for- 
ward let us march. 

Edward will think we come to- flatter 
him. 
Kent. I would he never had been flattered 
more. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. Near Bristol. 

Enter King Edward, Baldoch, and Young 
Spencer, flying about the stage. 

Y. Spen. Fly, fly, my lord! the queen is 
over-strong ; 

Her friends do multiply, and yours do 
fail. 

Shape we our course to Ireland, there to 
bi'eathe. 
K. Edw. What ! was I born to fly and run 
away, 

And leave the Mortimei-s conquerors be- 
hind? 

Give me my horse, and let's reinforce 
our troops: 

And in this bed of honor die with fame. 

74 spear. 



EDWARD II 



105 



Bald. O no, my lord, this princely resolu- 
tion 
Fits not the time ; away ! we are pursu'd. 

Exeunt. 
Enter Kent, ivitli sword and target. 

Kent. This way he fled, but I am come too 
late. 

Edward, alas ! my heart relents for thee. 

Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou 
chase 

Thy lawful kinsi', thy sovereiiiii, with thy 
sword ? 

Vile wretch ! and why hast thou, of all 
unkind,'^^ 

Borne arms against thy brother and thy 
king? 

Rain showers of vengeance on my cursed 
head, 

Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs 

To punish this unnatural revolt! 

Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life ! 

fly him, then ! But, Edmund, calm 
this rage, 

Dissemble, or thou diest ; for Mortimer 

And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire ; 

And yet she bears a face of love for- 
sooth. 

Fie on that love that hatcheth death and 
hate ! 

Edmund, away ! Bristow to Long- 
shanks' blood 

Is false. Be not found single for sus- 
pect : '^® 

Proud Mortimer pries near into thy 
walks. 

Enter Queen Isabella, Prince Edward, 
Young Mortimer, and Sir John of Hai- 
nault. 

Q. Isab. Successful battle gives the God 
of kings 
To them that fight in right and fear his 

wrath. 
Since then successfully we have pre- 
vailed. 
Thanked be Heaven's great architect, 

and you. 
Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords, 
We here create our well-beloved son, 
Of love and care unto his royal person, 
Lord Warden of the realm, and sith the 

fates 
Have made his father so unfortunate, 
Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving 

lords. 
As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all. 

75 most unnatural of all. 



Kent. Madam, without offense, if I may 
ask. 
How will you deal with Edward in his 
fall? 
P. Edw. Tell me, good uncle, what Ed- 
ward do you mean? 
Kent. Nephew, your father; I dare not 

call him king. 
r. Mor. My lord of Kent, what needs 
these questions? 
'T is not in her controlment, nor in ours. 
But as the realm and parliament shall 

please ; 
So shall your brother be disposed of. — 
[Aside to the Queen.) I like not this re- 
lenting mood in Edmund. 
Madam, 't is good to look to him betimes. 
Q. Isab. My lord, the Mayor of Bristow 

knows our mind. 
T. Mor. Yea, madam, and they scape not 
easily 
That fled the field. 
Q. Isab. Baldock is with the king, 

A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord? 
Sir J. So are the Spencers, the father 

and the son. 
Kent. This Edward is the ruin of the 
realm. 

Enter Rice ap Howell and the Mai/or of 
Bristol, with the Elder Silencer prisoner, 
and Attendants. 

Bice. God save Queen Isabel, and her 
princely son ! 
Madam, the mayor and citizens of Bris- 
tow, 
In sign of love and duty to this presence, 
Present by me this traitor to the state, 
Spencer, the father to that wanton Spen- 

" cer. 
That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome, 
Reveled in England's wealth and treas- 
ury. 
Q. Isab. We thank you all. 
Y. Mor. Your loving care in this 

Deserveth princely favors and rewards. 
But where 's the king and the other 
Spencer fled? 
Rice. Spencer the son, created Earl of 
Gloucester, 
Is with that smooth-tongu'd scholar 

Baldock gone 
And shipt but late for Ireland with the 
king. 
Y. Mor. (Aside.) Some whirlwind fetch 
them back or sink them all ! — 
They shall be started thence, I doubt it 
not. 

76 be not found walking alone lest you be suspected. 



106 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



P. Edw. Shall I not see the king my 

father yet? 
Kent. (Aside.) Unhap^Dy 's Edward, 

ehas'd from England's bounds. 
Sir J. Madam, what resteth, why stand 

you in a muse? 
Q. Isab. 1 rue my lord's ill-fortune; but 
alas! 
Care of my country call'd me to this 
war. 
T. Mor. Madam, have done with care and 
sad comi^laint ; 
Your king' hath wrong''d your country 

and himself, 
And we must seek to right it as we may. 
Meanwhile, have hence this rebel to the 

block. 
Your lordship cannot privilege your 
head. 
E. Spen. Rebel is he that fights against 
his prince; 
So fought not they that fought in Ed- 
ward's right. 
T. Mor. Take him away, he prates. 
Exeunt Attendants with the Elder 
Spencer. 

You, Rice ap Howell, 
Shall do good service to her majesty, 
Being of countenance in your country 

here, 
To follow these rebellious runagates. 
We in meanwhile, madam, must take ad- 
vice 
How Baldock, Spencer, and their 'com- 
plices 
May in their fall be followed to their 
end. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 6. The Ahhejf of Neath. 

Enter the Abbot, Monks, King Edward, 
Young Spencer, and Baldock, the three 
latter disguised. 

Abbot. Have you no doubt, my lord ; have 
you no fear; 
As silent and as careful we Avill be, 
To keep your royal person safe with us, 
Free from suspect and fell invasion 
Of such as have your majesty in chase, 
Yourself, and those your chosen com- 
pany. 
As danger of this stormy time requires. 
K. Ediv. Father, thy face should harbor 
no deceit. 
0! hadst thou ever been a king, thy 
heart. 



Pierced deeply with sense of my distress, 

Could not but take compassion of my 
state. 

Stately and proud, in riches and in train, 

^^^lilom I was, powerful, and full of 
pomi^ : 

But what is he whom rule and empei-y 

Have not in life or death made miser- 
able? 

Come, Spencer; come, Baldock, come, sit 
down by me; 

Make trial now of that philosophy. 

That in our famous nurseries of arts 

Thou suck'dst from Plato and from Aris- 
totle. 

Father, this life contemplative is 
Heaven. 

O that I might this life in quiet lead ! 

But we, alas! are ehas'd; and you, my 
friends. 

Your lives and my dishonor they pur- 
sue. 

Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, 
nor fee. 

Do you betray us and our company. 
Monks. Your grace may sit secure, if 
none but we 

Do wot of your abode. 
Y. Spen. Not one alive; but shrewdly I 
suspect 

A gloomy fellow in a mead below. 

'A gave a long look after us, my lord; 

And all the land I know is up in 
arms. 

Arms that pursue our lives with deadly 
hate. 
Bcdd. We were embark'd for Ireland, 
wretched we! 

With awkward winds and [with] sore 
tempests driven 

To fall on shore, and here to pine in fear 

Of Mortimer and his confederates. 
K. Edw. Mortimer ! who talks of Morti- 
mer? 

Who wounds me with the name of Mor- 
timer, 

That bloody man? Good father, on thy 
lap 

Lay I this head, laden with mickle care. 

might I never open these eyes again ! 

Never again lift up this drooping head ! 

never more lift up this dying heart! 
Y. Spen. Look up, my lord. — Baldock, 
this drowsiness 

Betides no good; here even we are be- 
tray'd. 

Enter, with Welsh hooks. Bice ap Iloicell, 
a Mower, and Leicester. 



EDWARD II 



107 



Mow. Upon my life, these be the men ye 

seek. 
Rice. Fellow, enough. — My lord, I pray 
be short, 
A fair commission warrants Avhat we do. 
Leices. The queen's commission, urg'd by 
Mortimer ; 
What cannot gallant Mortimer with the 

queen "? 
Alas ! see where he sits, and hopes un- 
seen 
T' escape their hands that seek to reave 

his life. 
Too true it is, Qiiem dies vidit veniens 

superhum, 
Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem."'' 
But, Leicester, leave to grow so passion- 
ate. 
Spencer and Baldock, by no other names, 
I do arrest you of high treason here. 
Stand not on titles, but obey th' arrest; 
'T is in the name of Tsabel the queen. 
My lord, why droop you thus"? 
K. Edw. O day, the last of all my bliss 
on earth ! 
Center of all misfortune ! O my stars, 
Why do you lour unkindly on a king"? 
Comes Leicester, then, in Isabella's name 
To take my life, my company from me? 
Here, man, rip up this panting breast of 

mine, 
And take my heart in rescue of my 
friends ! 
Rice. Away with them ! 
r. Spen. It may become thee yet 

To let us take our farewell of his 
grace. 
Abbot. (Aside.) My heart with pity 
earns '^^ to see this sight, 
A king to bear these words and pi'oud 
commands. 
K. Edw. Spencer, ah, sweet Sjoencer, 

thus then must we parf? 
r. Spen. We must, my lord, so will the 

angiy Heavens. 
K. Edw. Nay, so will hell and cruel Mor- 
timer; 
The u'entle Heavens have not to do in 
this. 
Bald. My lord, it is in vain to grieve or 
storm. 
Here humbly' of your grace we take our 

leaves ; 
Our lots are east ; I fear me, so is thine. 
K. Edw. In Heaven we may, in earth 
ne'er sliall we meet : 
And, Leicester, say, what shall become of 

US'? 



Leices. Your majesty must go to Killing- 
worth.'^^ 
K. Ediv. Must ! it is somewhat hard, when 

kings must go. 
Leices. Here is a litter ready for your 
grace, 

That waits your pleasure, and the day 
grows old. 
Rice. As good be gone, as stay and be be- 
nighted. 
K. Edw. A litter hast thou? Lay me in 
a hearse. 

And to the gates of hell convey me 
hence; 

Let Pluto's bells ring out my fatal knell. 

And hags howl for my death at Charon's 
shore. 

For friends hath Edward none but these 
and these, 

And these must die under a tyrant's 
sword. 
Rice. My lord, be going; care not for 
these, 

For we shall see them shorter by the 
heads. 
K. Edw. Well, that shall be, shall be: 
part we must ! 

Sweet Spencer, gentle Baldock, part we 
must ! 

Hence feigned weeds ! unfeigned are my 
woes; 

{Throws of his disguise.) 

Father, farewell! Leicester, thou stay'st 
for me, 

And go I must. Life, farewell, with my 
friends. 

Exeunt Edward and Leicester. 
T. Spen. ! is he gone ? Is noble Ed- 
ward gone? 

Parted from hence, never to see us 
more? 

Rend, sphere of Heaven ! and, fire, for- 
sake thy orb ! 

Earth, melt to air ! gone is my sovereign, 

Gone, gone, alas! never to make return. 
Bald. Spencer, I see our souls are fleeted 
hence ; 

We are depriv'd the sunshine of our life : 

Make for a new life, man ; throw up thy 
eyes. 

And heart, and hand to Heaven's im- 
mortal throne ; 

Pay nature's debt with cheerful coun- 
tenance; 

Reduce we all our lessons unto this: 

To die, sweet Spencer, therefore live we 
all; 

Spencer, all live to die, and rise to fall. 



T7 "Whom the dawn sees proud, evening sees prostrate." (Seneca. Thyestes, 613.) 78 yearns. 79 Kenilworth. 



.08 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



lice. Come, come, keep these preachments 
till you come to the place appointed. 
You, and such as you are, have made 
wise work in England. Will your lord- 
ships away? 
^dow. Your lordship, I trust, will remem- 
ber mef 
nice. Remember thee, fellow! what else? 
Follow me to the town. 

Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

JcENB 1. A room in Kenilworth Castle. 

Inter King Edtvard, Leicester, the Bishop 
of Winchester for the crown, and Trussel. 

jeices. Be patient, good ray lord, cease to 

lament, 
Imagine Killingworth Castle were your 

court, 
And that you lay for pleasure here a 

space, 
Not of compulsion or necessity. 
r. Edw. Leicester, if gentle words might 

comfort me, 
Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sor- 
rows; 
For kind and loving hast thou always 

been. 
The griefs of private men are soon al- 

iay'd, 
But not of kings. The forest deer, be- 
ing struck, 
Runs to an herb that eloseth up the 

wounds ; 
But, when the imperial lion's flesh is 

gor'd, 
He rends and tears it with his wrathful 

paw, 
[And] highly scorning that the lowly 

earth 
Should drink his blood, mounts up into 

the air. 
And so it fares with me, whose dauntless 

mind 
The ambitious Mortimer would seek to 

curb. 
And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, 
That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a 

prison ; 
For such outrageous passions cloy my 

soul, 
As with the M'ings of rancor and disdain 
Full often am I soaring up to Heaven, 
To plain ^° me to the gods against them 
both. 

80 complain. 



But when I call to mind I am a king, 
Methinks I should revenge me of my 

wrongs, 
That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 
But what are kings, when regiment ^^ is 

gone. 
But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? 
My nobles rule, I bear the name of 

king; 
I wear the crown, but am controll'd by 

them. 
By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, 
Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; 
Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of 

care. 
Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, 
To company my heart with sad laments. 
That bleeds within me for this strange 

exchange. 
But tell me, must I now resign my 

crown. 
To make usurping Mortimer a king? 
B. of Win. Your grace mistakes; it is 

for England's good, 
And princely Edward's right we crave 

the crown. 
K. Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Ed- 
ward's head; 
For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, 
Which in a moment will abridge his 

life. 
But if proud Mortimer do wear this 

crown. 
Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless 

fire! 
Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 
Engirt the temples of his hateful head; 
So shall not England's vine be perished. 
But Edward's name survives, though Ed- 
ward dies. 
Leices. My lord, why waste you thus the 

time away? 
They stay your answer; will you yield 

your crown? 
K. Edw. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly 

I can brook 
To lose my crown and kingdom without 

cause ; 
To give ambitious Mortimer my right, 
That like a mountain overwhelms my 

bliss, 
In which extreme my mind here mur- 
dered is. 
But what the heavens appoint, I must 

obey! 
Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward 

too; 

{Taking of the crown.) 

81 sovereignty. 



EDWARD II 



109 



Two kings in England cannot reign at 
once. 

But stay awhile, let me be king till night. 

That I may gaze upon this glittering 
crown ; 

So shall my eyes receive their last eon- 
tent, 

My head, the latest honor due to it, 

And jointly both yield up their wished 
right. 

Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; 

Let never silent night possess this clime : 

Stand still, you watches of the element ; 

All times and seasons, rest you at a stay. 

That Edward may be still fair Eng- 
land's king! 

But day's bright beam doth vanish fast 
away, 

And needs I must resign my wished 
crown. 

Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's 
milk ! 

Why gape you for your sovereign's over- 
throw ! 

My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. 

See, monsters, see, I '11 wear my crown 
again ! 

(He puts on the crown.) 

What, fear you not the fuiy of your 
king? 

But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly ^- 
led; 

They pass ^^ not for thy frowns as late 
they did. 

But seek to make a new-elected king; 

Which fills my mind with strange de- 
spairing thoughts. 

Which thoughts are martyred with end- 
less torments. 

And in this torment comfort find I none. 

But that I feel the crown upon my head ; 

And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. 
Trus. My lord, the parliament must have 
present news, 

And therefore say, will you resign or 
no? 

{The King ragetJi.) 
K. Edw. I '11 not resign, but whilst I live 
[be king.]^* 

Traitors, be gone and join with Morti- 
mer ! 

Elect, conspire, install, do what you 
will : — 

Their blood and yours shall seal these 
treacheries ! 
B. of Win. This answer we'll return, 
and so farewell. 

{Going with Trussel.) 

82 foolishly. S3 c 



Leices. Call them again, my lord, and 

speak them fair; 
For if they go, the prince shall lose his 

right. 
K. Edw. Call thou them back, I have no 

power to speak. 
Leices. My lord, the king is willing to re- 
sign. 
B. of Win. If he be not, let him choose. 
K. Edw. would I might, but heavens 

and earth consj^ire 
To make me miserable ! Here receive 

my crown ; 
Receive it? No, these innocent hands of 

mine 
Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
He of you all that most desires my blood, 
And wdll be call'd the murderer of a 

king, 
Take it. What, are you mov'd? Pity 

you me? 
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 
And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to 

steel. 
Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
Yet stay, for rather than I '11 look on 

them. 
Here, here ! 

{Gives the croivn.) 
Now, sweet God of Heaven, 
Make me despise this transitory pomp. 
And sit for ay enthronized in Heaven! 
Come, death, and with thy fingers close 

my eyes, 
Or if I live, let me forget myself. 
B.* of Win. My lord- 
s'. Edw. Call me not lord ; away — out of 
my sight! 
Ah, pardon me : grief makes me lunatic ! 
Let not that Mortimer protect my son; 
More safety is there in a tiger's jaws, 
Than his embraeements. Bear this to 

the queen. 
Wet with my tears, and dried again with 
sighs ; 

{Gives a handkerchief.) 
If with the sight thereof she be not 

mov'd, 
Return it back and dip it in my blood. 
Commend me to my son, and bid him 

rule 
Better than I. Yet how have I trans- 
gress' d, 
Unless it be with too much clemency? 
Trus. And thus most humbly do we take 

our leave. 
K. Edw. Farewell; 

e. 84 Qq. omit. 



110 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Exeunt the BisJtop of Winchester and 
Trussel. 
I know the next news that they bring 
Will be my death; and welcome shall it 

be; 
To wretched men, death is felicity. 

Enter Berkeley/^ who gives a paper to 
Leicester. 

Leices. Another post ! what news brings 

he? 
K. Edw. Sneh news as I expect — come, 
Berkeley, come. 
And tell thy message to my naked breast. 
Berk. My lord, think not a thought so vil- 
lainous 
Can harbor in a man of noble birth. 
To do your highness service and devoir, 
And save you from your foes, Berkeley 
would die. 
Leices. My lord, the council of the queen 
commands 
That I resign my charge. 
K. Edw. And who must keep me now? 

Must you, my lord? 
Berk. Aye, my most gracious lord ; so 't is 

decreed. 
K. Edw. {Taking the paper.) By Morti- 
mer, whose name is written here ! 
Well may I rend his name that rends my 
heart ! 

{Tears it.) 
This poor revenge has something eas'd 

my mind. 
So may his limbs be torn, as is this 



paper 



Hear me, immortal Jove, and grant it 
too! 
Berk. Your grace must hence with me to 

Berl>eley straight. 
K. Edw. Whither you will ; all places are 
alike. 
And every earth is fit for burial. 
Leices. Favor him, my lord, as much as 

lieth in you. 
Berk. Even so betide my soul as I use 

him. 
K. Edw. Mine enemy hath pitied my es- 
tate, 
And that 's the cause that I am now 
remov'd. 
Berk. And thinks your grace that Berk- 
eley will be cruel? 
K. Edw. I know not ; but of this am I as- 
sured. 
That death ends all, and I can die but 

once. 
Leicester, farewell ! 

85 Qq. Bartley, showing pronunciation. 



Leices. Not yet, my lord ; I '11 bear you on 
your way. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. The Palace, London. 

Enter Queen Isabella and Young 
Blortimer. 

Y. Mor. Fair Isabel, now have we our 

desire ; 
The proud corrupters of the light-brain'd 

king 
Have done their homage to the lofty gal- 
lows. 
And he himself lies in captivity. 
Be rul'd by me, and we will rule the 

realm. 
In any case take heed of childish fear. 
For now we hold an old wolf by the 

ears. 
That, if he slip, will seize upon us both, 
And grille the sorer, being gript himself. 
Think therefore, madam, that imports 

us much 
To erect *" your son with all the speed we 

may, 
And that I be protector over him; 
For our behoof will bear the greater 

sway 
AMienas a king's name shall be under 

writ. 
Q. Isah. Sweet Mortimer, the life of Is- 
abel, 
Be thou persuaded that I love thee well, 
And therefore, so the prince my son be 

safe, 
Whom I esteem as dear as these mine 

eyes. 
Conclude against his father what thou 

wilt. 
And I myself will willingly subscribe. 
Y. Mor. First would I hear news that he 

were depos'd. 
And then let me alone to handle him. 

Enter Messenger. 
Letters! from whence? 
Mess. From Killingworth, my lord. 

Q. Isah. How fares my lord the king? 
Mess. In health, madam, but full of pen- 

siveness. 
Q. Isah. Alas, poor soul, would I could 

ease his grief! 

Enter the Bishop of Winchester with the 
cro wn. 
Thanks, gentle Winchester. {To the 
Messenger.) Sirrah, be gone. 

Exit Messenger. 

80 make king. 



EDWARD II 



111 



B. of Win. The king hath willingly re- 

sign'd his crown. 
Q. Isab. O happy news! send for the 

prince, my son. 
B. of Win. Fi;rther, or ^^ this letter was 
seal'd, Lord Berkeley came, 
So that he now is gone from Killing- 
worth ; 
And we have heard that Edmund laid a 

plot 
To set his brother free ; no moi'e but so. 
The lord of Berkeley is so pitiful 
As Leicester that had charge of him be- 
fore. 
Q. Isab. Then let some other be his 

guardian. 
T. Mar. Let me alone, here is the privy 
seal. 

Exit the Bishop of Winchester. 
Who's there? — Call hither Guniey and 

Matrevis. 
To dash the heavy-headed Edmund's 

drift, 
Berkeley shall be discharged, the king 

remov'd. 
And none but we shall know where he 
lieth. 
Q. Isab. But, Mortimer, as long as he 
survives, 
TNHiat safety rests for us, or for my son ? 
T. Mar. Speak, shall he presently be de- 

spateh'd and die? 
Q. Isab. I would he were, so 'twere not 
by my means. 

Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 

Y. Mor. Enough. — 

Matrevis, write a letter presently 
Unto the lord of Berkeley from ourself 
That he resign the king to thee and Gur- 
ney ; 
And when 't is done, we will subscribe 
our name. 
Mat. It shall be done, my lord. 
Y. Mor. Gurney. 

Gur. My lord. 

Y. Mor. As thou intend'st to rise by Mor- 
timer, 
Who now makes Fortune's wheel turn as 

he please. 
Seek all the means thou canst to make 

him droop. 
And neither give him kind word nor 
good look. 
Gur. I warrant you, my lord. 
T. Mor. And this above the rest : because 
we hear 

87 ere. 



That Edmund casts ^^ to work his lib- 
erty, 
Remove him still from place to place by 

night. 
Till at the last he come to Killingworth, 
And then from thence to Berkeley back 

again ; 
And by the way, to make him fret the 

more, 
Speak curstly to him, and in any case 
Let no man comfort him ; if he chance to 

weep, 
But amplify his grief with bitter words. 
Mat. Fear not, my lord, we '11 do as you 

command. 
Y. Mor. So now away; post thitherwards 

amain. 
Q. Isab. Whither goes this letter? To 
my lord the king? 
Commend me humbly to his majesty. 
And tell him that I labor all in vain 
To ease his grief, and work his lib- 
erty; 
And bear him this as witness of my love. 
{Gives a ring.) 
Mat. I will, madam. 

Exit with Gurney. 
Enter Prince Edward, and Kent talking, 
with him. 

Y. Mor. Finely dissembled. Do so still, 

sweet queen. 
Here comes the young prince with the 

Earl of Kent. 
Q. Isab. Something he whispers in his 

childish ears. 
Y. Mor. If he have such access unto the 

prince, 
Our plots and stratagems will soon be 

dash'd. 
Q. Isab. Use Edmund friendly, as if all 

were well. 
Y. Mor. How fares my honorable lord of 

Kent? 
Kent. In health, sweet Mortimer. How 

fares your grace? 
Q. Isab. Well, if my lord your brother 

were enlarg'd. 
Kent. I hear of late he hath depos'd him- 
self. 
Q. Isab. The more my griet. 
Y. Mor. And mine. 

Kent. (Aside.) Ah, they do dissemble! 
Q. Isab. Sweet son, come hither, I must 

talk with thee. 
Y. Mor. Thou being his uncle, and the 

next of blood, 
Do look to be protector o'er the prince. 

88 plots. 



112 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Kent. Not I, my lord; who should protect 
the son, 
But she that gave him life? I mean 
the queen. 
P. Edw. Mother, persuade me not to wear 
the crown : 
Let him be king — I am too young to 
reign, 
Q. Isab. But be content, seeing 't is his 

highness' pleasure. 
P. Edw. Let me but see him first, and 

then I will. 
Kent. Aye, do, sweet nephew. 
Q. Isab. Brother, you know it is impos- 
sible. 
P. Edw. Why, is he dead? 
Q. Isab. No, God forbid! 
Kent. I would those words proceeded 

from your heart. 
y. Mor. Inconstant Edmund, dost thou 
favor him, 
That wast the cause of his imprison- 
ment ? 
Kent. The more cause have I now to make 

amends. 
r. Mor. {Aside to Q. Isab.) I tell thee, 
'tis not meet that one so false 
Should come about the person of a 

prince. — 
My lord, he hath betray'd the king his 

brother, 
And therefore trust him not. 
P. Edw. But he repents, and sorrows for 

it now. 
Q. Isab. Come, son, and go with this gen- 
tle lord and me. 
P. Edw. With you I will, but not with 

Mortimer. 
T. Mor. Wliy, youngling, 'sdain'st thou 
so of Mortimer"? 
Then I will carry thee by force away. 
P. Ediv. Help, uncle Kent! Mortimer 

will wrong me. 
Q. Isab. Brother Edmund, strive not; we 
are his friends; 
Isabel is nearer than the Earl of Kent. 
Kent. Sister, Edward is my charge, re- 
deem him. 
Q. Isab. Edward is my son, and I will 

keep him. 
Kent. Mortimer shall know that he hath 
wrong'd me ! — 
{Aside.) Hence will I haste to Killing- 
worth Castle, 
And rescue aged Edward from his foes. 
To be reveng'd on Mortimer and thee. 
Exeunt on one side Queen Isabella, Prince 
Edward, and Young Mortimer; on the 
other Kent. 



Scene 3. Kenilworth Castle. 

Enter Matrevis and Gurney, and Soldiers, 
with King Edward. 

Mat. My lord, be not pensive, we are your 

friends ; 
Men are ordain'd to live in misery. 
Therefore come, — dalliance dangereth 

our lives. 
K. Edw. Friends, whither must unhappy 

Edward go? 
Will hateful Mortimer appoint no rest? 
Must I be vexed like the nightly bird. 
Whose sight is loathsome to all winged 

fowls? 
^Hien will the fury of his mind assuage? 
When will his heart be satisfied with 

blood ? 
If mine will serve, unbowel straight this 

breast, 
And give my heart to Isabel and him; 
It is the chiefest mark they level at. 
Gur. Not so, my liege, the queen hath 

given this charge 
To keep your grace in safety; 
Your passions make your dolors to in- 
crease. 
K. Edw. This usage makes my misery to 

increase. 
But can my air of life continue long- 
When all my senses are annoy'd with 

stench ? 
Within a dungeon England's king is 

kept, 
Wliere I am starv'd for want of sus- 
tenance. 
My daily diet is heart-breaking sobs. 
That almost rends the closet of my heart. 
Thus lives old Edward not reliev'd by 

any. 
And so must die, though pitied by many. 
0, water, gentle friends, to cool my 

thirst. 
And clear my body from foul excre- 
ments ! 
Mat. Here 's channel ^^ water, as our 

chai'ge is given. 
Sit down, for we '11 be barbers to your 

grace. 
K. Edw. Traitors, away! What, will you 

murder me. 
Or choke your sovereign with puddle 

water? 
Gur. No; but wash your face, and shave 

away your beard, 
Lest you be known and so be rescued. 
Mat. Why strive you thus? Your labor 

is in vain. 



89 gutter. 



EDWARD II 



113 



K. Ed'W. The wren may strive against the 
lion's strength, 
But all in vain : so vainly do I strive 
To seek for mercy at a tyrant's hand. 
(Thej/ wash him with puddle water, and 
shave his heard awaij.) 
Innnortal powers that knows the painful 

cares 
That wait upon my poor distressed soul, 
level all your looks upon these daring 

men, 
That wrongs their liege and sovereign, 

England's king ! 
Gaveston, 't is for thee that I am 

wrong'd, 
For me, both thou and' both the Spen- 
cers died ! 
And for your sakes a thousand wrongs 

I'll take. 
The Spencers' ghosts, wherever they re- 
main, 
Wish well to mine; then tush, for them 
I'll die! 
Mat. 'Twixt theirs and yours shall be no 
enmity. 
Come, come away; now put the torches 

out; 
We '11 enter in by darkness to Killing- 
worth. 

Enter Kent. 
Gur. How now, who comes there? 
Mat. Guard the king sure : it is the Earl 

of Kent. 
K. Edw. gentle brother, help to rescue 

me ! 
Mat. Keep them asunder; thrust in the 

king. 
Kent. Soldiers, let me but talk to him one 

word. 
Gur. Lay hands ujoon the earl for this as- 
sault. 
Kent. Lay down your weapons, traitors ! 

Yield the king! 
Mat. Edmund, yield thou thyself, or thou 

shalt die. 
Kent. Base villains, wherefore do you 

gripe me thus*? 
Gur. Bind him and so convey him to the 

court. 
Kent. Wliere is the court but here? 
Here is the king. 
And I will visit him; why stay you me? 
Mat. The court is where Lord Mortimer 
remains ; 
Thither shall your honor go ; and so fare- 
well. 
Exeunt Matrevis and Gurney, with King 
Edward. 



Kent. miserable is that commonweal, 
Where lords keep courts, and kings are 
lock'd in prison ! 
Sol. Wherefore stay we? On, sirs, to the 

court ! 
Kent. Aye, lead me whither you will, even 
to my death. 
Seeing that my brother cannot be re- 
leas'd. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. The Palace, London. 
Enter Young Mortimer, alone. 

Y. Mor. The king must die, or Mortimer 

goes do vvn ; 
The commons now begin to pity him. 
Yet he that is the cause of Edward's 

death. 
Is sure to pay for it when his son 's of 

age; 
And therefore will I do it cunningly. 
This letter, written by a friend of ours. 
Contains his death, yet bids them save 

his life. 

(Beads.) »> 
"Edwardum occidere nolite timere — ho- 

num est: 
Fear not to kill the king, 't is good he 

die." 
But, read it thus, and that 's another 

sense : 
"Edwardum occidere nolite — timere bo- 

num est : 
Kill not the king, 't is good to fear the 

worst." 
LTnpointed ^° as it is, thus shall it go. 
That, being dead, if it chance to be 

found, 
Matrevis and the rest may bear the 

blame, 
And we be quit that caus'd it to be done. 
Within this room is lock'd the messenger 
That shall convey it, and perform the 

rest; 
And by a secret token that he bears. 
Shall he be murdered when the deed is 

done. — 
Lightborn, come forth ! 

Enter Lighthorn. 

Art thou as resolute as thou wast? 

Light. What else, my lord? And far 
more resolute. 

Y. Mor. And hast thou east how to ac- 
complish it? 



90 unpunctuated. 



114 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Light. Aye, aye, and none shall know 

which way he died. 
Y. Mor. But at his looks, Lighlborn, thou 

wilt relent. 
Light. Relent ! ha, ha ! I use much to re- 
lent. 
y. Mor. Well, do it bravely, and be se- 
cret. 
Light. You shall not need to give insti'uc- 
tions ; 
'T is not the first time I have kill'd a 

man. 
I learn'd in Naples how to poison flow- 
ers; 
To strangle with a lawn ^^ thrust througli 

the throat; 
To pierce the windpipe with a needle's 

point ; 
Or whilst one is asleep, to take a quill 
And blow a little powder in his ears; 
Or open his mouth and pour c]uicksilver 

down. 
And yet I have a braver way than these. 
r. 31or. What's that? 
Light. Nay, you shall pardon me ; none 

shall know my tricks. 
Y. Mor. I care not how it is, so it be not 
spied. 
Deliver this to Gurney and Matrevis. 

{Gives letter.) 
At every ten mile's end thou hast a horse. 
Take this {Gives money); away! and 
never see me more. 
Light. No? 
r. Mor. No; 

Unless thou bring me news of Edward's 
death. 
Light. That will I quickly do. Farewell, 
my lord. 

Exit. 
Y. Mor. The prince I rule, the queen do 
I command, 
And with a lowly congee ^- to the 

ground, 
The proudest lords salute me as I pass ; 
I seal, I cancel, I do what I will. 
Fear'd am I more than lov'd ; — let me be 

fear'd, 
And Avhen I frown, make all the court 

look pale. 
I view the prince with Aristarchus' eyes, 
Whose looks were as a breeching ^^ to a 

boy. 
They thrust upon me the protectorship. 
And sue to me for that that I desire. 
While at the council-table, grave enough, 
And not unlike a bashful puritan, 



First I complain of imbecility, 
Saying it is onus quam gravissimum,^'^ 
Till being interrupted by my friends, 
Suscejji that provinciam ^^ as thev term 

it; 
And to conclude, I am Protector now. 
Now is all sure : the queen and Mortimer 
Shall rule the realm, the king, and none 

rule us. 
Mine enemies will I plague, my friends 

advance ; 
And what I list command who dare con- 
trol? 
Major sum quam cui possit fortuna 

nocere.^^ 
And that this be the coronation-day, 
It pleaseth me, and Isabel the queen. 

( Trumpets within. ) 
The trumpets sound, I must go take my 
place. 

Enter the young King, Queen Isabella, 
the Archhishop of Canterbury, Cham- 
pion and Nobles. 

A. of Cant. Long live King Edward, by 

the grace of God 

King of England and Lord of Ireland ! 

Cham. If any Christian, Heathen, Turk, 

or Jew, 

Dares but affinn that Edward 's not true 

king, 
And will avouch his saying with the 

sword, 
I am the champion that will combat him. 
T. Mor. None comes; sound trumpets! 

{Trumpets sound.) 
K. Edio. Third. Champion, here 's to 
thee. 

{Gives a purse.) 
Q. I sab. Lord Mortimer, now take him to 
your charge. 

Enter Soldiers, ivith Kent prisoner. 

Y. Mor. What traitor have we there with 
blades and bills'? 

.Sol. Edmund, the Earl of Kent. 

K. Edw. Third. What hath he done? 

Bol. 'A would have taken the king away 
perforce. 
As we were bringing him to Killing- 
worth. 

Y. Mor. Did you attempt this rescue, Ed- 
mund ? Speak. 

Kent. Mortimer, I did ; he is our king, 
And thou compell'st this prince to wear 
the crown. 



91 a small roll of fine linen. 

92 bow. 9^ "the heaviest bur- 

93 whipping. den possible." 



> "I have under- 
taken that office." 



! "I am too great 
for fortune to in- 



jure." (Ovid, Met- 
amorphoses, vi. 
195.) 



EDWARD II 



115 



r. Mor. Strike off his head ! he shall have 

martial law, 
Kent. Strike oft' my head ! Base traitor, 

I defy thee ! 
K. Edw. Third. My lord, he is my uncle, 

and shall live. 
Y. Mor. My lord, he is your enemy, and 

shall die. 
Kent. Stay, villains ! 

K. Edw. Third. Sweet mother, if I can- 
not pardon him, 
Entreat my Lord Protector for his life. 
Q. Isab. Son, be content ; I dare not 

speak a word. 
K. Edw. Third. Nor I, and yet methinks 
I should command ; 
But, seeing' I cannot, I '11 entreat for 

him — 
My lord, if you will let my uncle live, 
I will requite it when I come to age. 
r. Mor. 'T is for your highness' good, 
and for the realm's. — 
How often shall I bid you bear him 
hence ? 
Kent. Art thou king? Must I die at thy 

command? 
/Y. Mor. At our command — Once more, 

away with him ! 
Kent. Let me but stay and speak; I will 
not go. 
Either my brother or his son is king, 
And none of both them thirst for Ed- 
mund's blood : 
And therefore, soldiers, whither will you 
hale me? 

Soldiers hale Kent away, and carry him 
to he beheaded. 

K. Edw. Third. What safety may I look 

for at his hands. 

If that my uncle shall be murdered thus? 

Q. Isab. Fear not, sweet boy, I '11 guard 

thee from thy foes ; 

Had Edmund liv'd, he would have sought 

thy death. 
Come, son, we '11 ride a-hunting in the 
park. 
K. Edw. Third. And shall my uncle Ed- 
mund ride with us? 
Q. Isab. He is a traitor; think not on 
him. Come. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 5. Berkeley Castle. 

Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 

Mat. Gurney, I wonder the king dies not, 
Being in a vault up to the knees in water, 

97 purposely. os "let this 



To which the channels of the castle run, 
From whence a damp continually ariseth, 
That were enough to poison any man, 
Much more a king brought up so ten- 
derly. 

Gur. And so do I, Matrevis: yesternight 
I opened but the door to throw him meat, 
And I w^as almost stifled with the savor. 

Mat. He hath a body able to endure 
More than we can inflict : and therefore 

now 
Let us assail his mind another while. 

Gur. Send for him out thence, and I will 
anger him. 

Mat. But stay, who's this? 

Enter Lightborn. 

Light. My Lord Protector greets you. 

{Gives letter.) 
Gur. What's here? I know not how to 

construe it. 
Mat. Gurney, it was left unpointed for 
the nonce; '•''' 
"Edwardiim occidere nolite timer e:" 
That 's his meaning. 
Light. Know ye this token? I must have 
the king. 

{Gives token.) 
Aye, stay awhile, thou shalt have an- 
swer straight. — 
{Aside.) This villain 's sent to make 
away the king. 
{Aside.) I thought as much. 
{Aside.) And when the murder's 
done. 
See how he must be handled for his 

labor. 
Pereat iste!^^ Let him have the king. — 
WTiat else? Here is the keys, this is the 

lock;9» 
Do as you are commanded by my lord. 
Light. I know what I must do; get you 
away; 
Yet be not far off, I shall need your help. 
See that in the next room I have a Are; 
And get me a spit, and let it be red-hot. 
Blat. Very well. 

Gtir. Need you anything besides? 
Light. What else? A table and a feather- 
bed. ' 
Gur. That 'sail? 
Light. Aye, aye ; so, when I call you bring 

it in. 
Mat. Fear not thou that. 
Gur. Here 's a light, to go into the dun- 
geon. 
{Gives a light, and exit ivith Matrevis.) 
Light. So now 



Mat. 



Gur. 
Mat 



man die." 



&9 Qq. lake. 



116 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Must I about this gear ; ^ ne'er was there 

any 
So finely handled as this king- shall be. 
For here 's a place indeed, with all my 

heart ! 
K. Edw. Who's there? ^^^lat light is 

that? 
Wherefore eom'st thou? 
Light. To comfort you, and bring you 

joyful news. 
K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Ed- 
ward in thy looks. 
Villain, I know thou eom'st to murder 

me. 
Light. To murder you, my most gracious 

lord ! 
Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
The queen sent me to see how you were 

used, 
For she relents at this your misery: 
And what eyes can refrain from shedding 

tears. 
To see a king in this most piteous state? 
K. Edw. Weep'st thou already? List 

awhile to me 
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's 

is. 
Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Cau- 
casus, 
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 
This dungeon where they keep me is the 

sink 
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
Light. villains ! 
K. Edw. And there in mii'e and puddle 

have I stood 
This ten days' space; and, lest that I 

should sleep. 
One plays continually upon a drum. 
They give me bread and water, being a 

king; 
So that, for want of sleep and suste- 
nance, 
My mind 's distempered, and my body 's 

numb'd, 
And whether I have limbs or no I know 

not. 
0, would my blood dropp'd out from 

every vein. 
As doth this water from my tattered 

robes ! 
Tell Isabel, the queen, I look'd not thus, 
When for her sake I ran at tilt in 

France, 
And there unhors'd the Duke of Clere- 

mont. 
Light. speak no more, my lord ! this 

breaks my heart. 

1 business. 



Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 
K. Edw. These looks of thine can harbor 
nought but death : 
I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
Yet stay awhile; forbear thy bloody 

hand, 
And let me see the stroke before it 

comes. 
That even then when I shall lose my life. 
My mind may be more steadfast on my 
God. 
Light. What means your highness to mis- 
trust me thus? 
K. Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble 

with me thus? 
Light. These hands were never stain'd 
with innocent blood. 
Nor shall they now be tainted with a 
king's. 
K. Edw. Forgive my thought for having 
such a thought. 
One jewel have I left ; receive thou this. 

{Giving jewel.) 
Still fear I, and I know that what 's the 

cause. 
But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
0, if thou harbor'st murder in thy heart. 
Let this gift change thy mind, and save 

thy soul! 
Know that I am a king: at that name 
I feel a hell of grief! Where is my 

crown ? 
Gone, gone! and do I remain alive? 
Light. You 're ovei-watched,- my lord ; lie 

down and rest. 
K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, 
I should sleep ; 
For not these ten days have these eye- 
lids clos'd. 
Now as I speak they fall, and yet with 

fear 
Open again, wherefore sitt'st thou 
here? 
Light. If you mistrust me, I '11 begone, 

my lord. 
K. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to 
murder me. 
Thou wilt return again, and therefore 
stay. 
Light. He sleeps. 
K. Edw. (Waking.) let me not die 

yet ! Stay, stay a while ! 
Light. How now, my lord? 
K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine 
ears, 
And tells me if I sleep I never wake; 
This fear is that which makes me trem- 
ble thus. 

8 worn out with waking. 



EDWARD II 



117 



And therefore tell me, wherefore art 
thou come"? 
Light. To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, 
come ! 

Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 

K. Echo. I am too weak and feeble to re- 
sist : — 
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my 
soul ! 
Light. Run for the table. 
K. Edw. spare me, or despatch mo in a 
trice. 

{Matrevis brings in a table.) 
Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp 
on it, 
But not too hard, lest that you bruise his 
body. 

(King Edward is murdered.) 
Mat. 1 fear me that this cry will raise the 
town. 
And therefore, let us take horse and 
away. 
Light. Tell me, sii's, was it not bravely 

done? 
Gur. Excellent well; take this for thy re- 
ward. 
(Gurney stabs Lightborn.) 
Come, let us cast the body in the moat. 
And bear the king's to Mortimer our 

lord : 
Away ! 

Exeunt with the bodies. 



Scene 6. The Palace, London. 

Enter Young Mortimer and Matrevis. 

Y. Mor. Is 't done, Matrevis, and the 

murderer dead? 
Mat. Aye, my good lord; I would it were 

undone ! 
Y. Mor. Matrevis, if thou now growest 
penitent 
I'll be thy ghostly father; therefore 

choose, 
Whether thou wilt be secret in this. 
Or else die by the hand of Mortimer. 
Mat. Gurney, my lord, is fled, and will, I 
fear. 
Betray us both ; therefore let me fly. 
Y. Mor. Fly to the savages ! 
3£at. I humbly thank your honor. 

Exit. 
Y. Mor. As for myself, I stand as Jove's 
huge tree. 
And others are but shrubs compar'd to 
me. 



All tremble at my name, and I fear none; 
Let 's see who dare impeach me for his 
death ! 

Enter Queen Isabella. 

Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer, the king my son 
hath news 
Ilis father 's dead, and we have mur- 
dered him ! 
r. Mor. What if he have? The king is 

yet a child. 
Q. Isab. Aye, but he tears his hair, and 
wrings his hands. 
And vows to be reveng'd upon us both." 
Into the council-chamber he is gone. 
To crave the aid and succor of his peers. 
Ay me ! see here he comes, and they with 

him. 
Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy. 

Entar King Edward the Third, Lords and 
Attendants. 

1 Lord. Fear not, my lord, know that you 

are a king. 
K. Edw. Third. Villain!— 
r. Mor. How now, my lord ! 
K. Edw. Third. Think not that I am 
frighted with thy words ! 
My father 's murdered through thy 

treachery; 
And thou shall die, and on his mournful 

hearse 
Thy hateful and accursed head shall lie, 
To witness to the world, that by thy 

means 
His kingly body was too soon interr'd. 
Q. Isab. Weep not, sweet son! 
K. Edw. Third. Forbid me not to weep, 
he was my father; 
And, had you lov'd him half so well as 

I, 

\ ou could not bear his death thus pa- 
tiently. 
But you, I fear, conspir'd with Morti- 
mer. 
1 Lord. Why speak you not unto my lord 

the king? 
Y. Mor. Because I think scorn to be ac- 
cus'd. 
Who is the man dares say I murdered 
him? 
K. Ediv. Third. Traitor! in me my loving 
father speaks, 
And plainly saith, 't was thou that mur- 
d'redst him. 
Y. Mor. But has your grace no other 
rtroof than this? 



lis 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



K. Edw Third. Yes, if this be the hand 
of Mortimer. 

{Showing letter.) 
Y. Mor. (Aside.) False Gurney hath 

betray'd me and himself. 
Q. Isab. {Aside.) I fear'd as much; 

murder cannot be hid. 
r. Mor. It is my hand; what gather you 

by thisl 
K. Edw. Third. That thither thou didst 

send a murderer. 
r. Blur. ^A^iat murderer*? Bring forth 

the man I sent. 
it. Edw. Third. Ah, Mortimer, thou 
knowest that he is slain ; 
And so shalt thou be too. — AVhy stays he 

here"? 
Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth; 
Hang him, I say, and set his quarters 

up. 
But bring his head back presently ^ to 
me. 
Q. Isab. For my sake, sweet son, pity 

Mortimer ! 
r. Mor. Madam, entreat not; I will 
rather die, 
Than sue for life unto a paltry boy. 
K. Edw. Third. Hence with the traitor! 

with the murderer ! 
r. Mor. Base Fortune, now I see that in 
thy wheel 
There is a point, to which when men 

aspire. 
They tumble headlong down: that point 

I touch'd. 
And, seeing there was no place to mount 

up higher, 
Why should I grieve at my declining 

fall?— 
Farewell, fair queen ; weep not for Mor- 
timer, 
That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, 
Goes to discover countries yet unknown. 
K. Edw. Third. What! suffer you the 
traitor to delay? 
{Young Mortimer is taken awaij.) 
Q. Isab. As thou receivedst thy life from 
me, 
Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer! 
K. Edw. Third. This argues that you 
spilt my father's blood, 
Else would you not entreat for Mortimer. 
Q. L^ab. I spill his blood? No! 
a:. Edw. Third. Aye, madam, you; for so 

the rumor runs. 
Q. Isab. That rumor is untrue; for lov- 
ing thee, 

3 immediately 



Is this report rais'd on poor Isabel. 
K. Edw. Third. I do not think her so un- 

natui'al. 
2 Lord. My lord, I fear me it will prove 

too true. 
K. Edw. Third. Mother, you are sus- 
pected for his death, 
And therefore we connnit you to the 

Tower 
Till further trial may be made thereof; 
If you be guilty, though I be your son. 
Think not to find me slack or pitiful. 
Q. Isab. Nay, to my death, for too long 
have I liv'd 
Whenas my son thinks to abridge my 
days. 
K. Edw. Third. Away with her! her 
words enforce these tears. 
And I shall pity her if she speak again. 
Q. Isab. Shall I not mourn for my be- 
loved lord. 
And with the rest accompany him to his 



grave 



2 Lord. Thus, madam, 't is the king-'s will 

you shall hence. 
Q. Isab. He hath forgotten me; stay, I 

am his mother. 
2 Lord. That boots not ; therefore, gentle 

madam, go. 
Q. Isab. Then come, sweet death, and rid 
me of this grief. 

Exit. 
Re-enter 1 Lord, icith the head of Young 
Mortimer. 

1 Lord. My lord, here is the head of Mor- 
timer. 
K. Edw. Third. Go fetch my father's 
hearse, where it shall lie ; 
And bring my funeral robes. 

Exeunt Attendants. 

Accursed head, 

Could I have rul'd thee then, as I do 

now, 
Thou had'st not hatched this monstrous 

treachery ! — 
Here comes the hearse; help me to 
mourn, my lords. 

He-enter Attendants with the hearse and 
funeral tjobes. 

Sweet father, here/ unto thy murdered 

ghost 
I offer up this wicked traitor's head; 
And let these tears, distilling from mine 

eyes. 
Be witness of my grief and innocency. 

Exeunt. 



THOMAS DEKKER 

THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



Thomas Dekker (c. 1570-1637 or later) 
was a Londoner, possibly of Dutch descent. 
His name first appears early in 1598 in the 
diary of Philip Henslowe, proprietor of the 
Rose and Fortune tlieaters. Dekker was one 
of the most prolific of Henslowe's play-car- 
penters, for he is mentioned as sole autlior 
or collaborator in connection witli forty-one 
plays in the five years 1598-1G02. The diary 
also throws a sad light on Dekker's hand-to- 
mouth existence, by its records of loans made 
by Henslowe, sometimes to rescue him from 
the debtors' prison; there is reason to be- 
lieve that he was once confined for debt for 
three years together. From 1603 to 1013 he 
turned out a series of prose pamphlets, chiefly 
on London life, vividly informing and force- 
ful in style. He drops out of sight early in 
the thirties. 

The Shoemakers' Holiday is the merriest 
example of a sort of play very popular with 
London playgoers of Elizabethan days, the 
bourgeois comedy of London life, — citizens' 
comedy, it has been called, to distinguish it 
from the romantic comedy of Shakespeare, the 
satirical humor-comedy of Ben Jonson. and 
the tragicomedy of Beaumont and Fletcher. 
Such plays were written for the most part by 
dramatists not so fortunate as these men, 
who had established positions as writers for 
the high-class theaters such as the Globe and 
the Blackfriars, and for a better class of audi- 
tors than those which filled the more popular 
houses like the Rose and the Fortune. Dek- 
ker, Heywood, and, less representatively, 
Middleton, are the best known members of a 
large group of playwrights who thus catered 
to the theatrical wants of the common peo- 
ple, giving them in large measure pictures of 
the life which they lived. 

The Shoemakers' Holiday was finished by 
July 15, 1599, when Henslowe enters a pay- 
ment for it of three pounds — so munificently 
were his fortimate authors rewarded ! It was 
no doubt written in the six weeks immediately 
preceding, for on May 30, Dekker had received 
payment for Agamemnon ; the world-wide dif- 
ference in subject-matter between two con- 
secutive plays is suggestive of the versatility 
of the popular playwright, as the short in- 
terim is of the forced draught under which 
he worked. The play was performed by the 
Admiral's Men at the Rose; its sviccess we 
may infer from the fact that on New Year's 
Day of 1600 it was acted at court, a distinc- 
tion which had been granted on December 27, | 

119 



1599, to another of Dekker's plays, the 
masque-like Old Fortunatus. Tlius even the 
playwrights of the people had their occasional 
social triumphs. Dekker took his story from 
a collection of three prose tales on shoe- 
makers. The Gentle Craft (1598), by Thomas 
Deloney, whose position in the narrative-fic- 
tion of the day as a purvej'or of romantically 
rose-colored, pseudo-realistic tales for the con- 
sumption of middle-class readers somewhat 
corresponds to that of Dekker in the drama. 
From the second of these stories, that of the 
two royal shoemakers Crispine and Crispi- 
anus, Dekker obtained the background of war, 
the motive of the Lacy-Rose story, the shoe- 
fitting episode, Rose's flight to the Lord 
Mayor's, and the final royal sanction of their 
marriage. From Deloney's account of Simon 
Eyre, the madcap shoemaker of Tower Street, 
come practically all the figures and details of 
the Eyre story, as well as the suggestion for 
the Ralph-Jane story, although Dekker re- 
verses Deloney's situation of the lost wife re- 
turning from France to prevent her husband 
from marrying again. Tliere are in the play 
three threads of narrative — a romantic love- 
story, a bourgeois love-story, and a picture of 
London life and manners supplying the back- 
ground. *Ihe binding of the three Dekker ac- 
complishes skilfully enough according to 
Elizabethan standards. The relations of Lacy 
and Ralph, first as soldiers enlisted for the 
French war, second as employees of Eyre, 
unite the first two. Hammon, appearing first 
as the suitor of Rose, later as the lover of 
Jane, furnishes another bond. It is Lacj% as 
Hans, who is responsible for Eyre's first com- 
mercial success, which leads to Eyre's elec- 
tion as sheriff. Tlie Lord Mayor's entertain- 
ment of the new sheriff and his apprentices at 
Old Ford brings Lacy and Rose together 
again, and prepares for Rose's escape to 
Eyre's protection at the end of act four. The 
two love-threads are firmly knotted by Firk's 
tricks for the weddings, and the complica- 
tions of the last act are thorough and yet nat- 
ural. In other words, the play holds together 
well — it is Dekker's most coherent piece of 
plotting. The weakest link in the chain, the 
point where credulity is subjected to the 
severest strain, is the opportune removal by 
death of so many aldermen as stood between 
Eyre and the Lord Mayoralty (IV. iv), but 
it would be captious to inquire too closely 
into the ways of Providence when it comes 
to the aid of a hard-pressed dramatist. 
The romantic plot has been criticised as 



120 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



thin. True, of incident it contains not 
much. Right here, however, is shown Dek- 
ker's dramatic instinct. The really notable 
{jart of the play, what every reader remem- 
bers, is not the story of Lacy and Rose, pretty 
though it be, but the scenes of London life. 
Now by itself the story of Simon Eyre's rise 
to fanie and fortune is not dramatic at all, 
consisting simply of a fortunate investment, 
a consequent election as sheriff, a rapid pro- 
motion to the Lord jNIayoralty. Tlie people 
of this group are thoroughly well done. 
Eyre, Margery, Firk, Hodge, have vitality 
enough to carry three or four plots, but by 
themselves they furnish only characterization. 
The wittiest comedy of manners grows tedious 
if its people do nothing but talk — as may 
be learned from no less a person than Ben 
Jonaon. Dekker accordingly gets all the fun 
he can out of tlie personalities and manner- 
isms of his trades-people, and uses tlie peo- 
ple of the love-stories for incident. As far 
as character-drawing goes, on the other hand, 

• Lacy and Rose are not much more than 
sketched in comparison with the robust model- 
ing of the comic group. They are sulficiently 
developed to make their actions seem natural 
and that is all that we require. Then, for 
the purpose of strengthening plot, of adding 
complication, Dekker introduces the bour- 
geois love-story, with its sentimental rather 
than romantic tinge. Is not this propor- 
tioned use of incident and character much the 
same sort of work that Shakespeare does in 
his best chronicle-histories, Henry IV, let us 
say ? Taken by itself the story of the Percys' 
rebellion in 1 Henry IV, although it contains 
the essential contrast between Prince Hal and 
Hotspur, is neither rich in incident nor par- 
ticularly interesting. Shakespeare therefore 
adds the comic group of Falstaff and his as- 
sociates, with little story of their own, but 
firmly characterized, helping to characterize 
the prince, and svipplying with their bustling 
corned}' an illusion of action to fill the gaps 
in the main plot. The whole thing is a mat- 
ter of proportion, and Dekker 's play stands 
the test of analysis pretty well. 

It is for its rollicking presentation of Lon- 

* don life that we chiefly value The klhocmakers' 
Holiday. The picture it gives of the com- 
fortable position of middle-class trades-peo- 
ple, the pride in honest labor and the possi- 
bilities of reward, the pleasant relations be- 
tween master and men, the friendly inter- 
course between court and city, between blue 
blood and red — making due allowances for 
the dramatist's privilege of selection — ■ some- 
how impresses us as being essentially true. 
The hearty feeling of national well-lieing is 
that of the years after the Armada, for, 
though the action is ostensibly set in the 
time of Henry V, it is the life of his own 
day that Dekker reflects. For his intimate 
acquaintance with city customs and manners 
Dekker needed no information from Deloney. 



He was a Londoner born and bred, a citizen 
of no mean citj', and proud of his heritage. 
The author of books like The Gull's Hornbook, 
that inimitable series of directions to the 
country youth how to conduct himself in 
tavern, play house, the aisles of Paul's Cathe- 
dral, The Bellinun of London and Lanthorn 
and Candlelight, with their exposures of ras- 
calitj' of every sort, and The ^\'onderful Year, 
with its memorable pictures of the plague of 
1C03, knew only too well the seamy side of 
city life. But in our play he writes only for 
the glory of the city and its craftsmen. He 
is in his happiest mood and the warm human 
sympathy evident in nearly all his work finds 
expression in the gusto with which he portrays 
the shoemaker and his group. 

Tlie genial humor of the play, its warm 
friendliness, distinguishes it from the realistic 
work of Jonson and Middlcton. Eyre, in his 
mannerisms, reminds us somewhat of Jonson's 
humor comedy, but assuredly he is no humor 
type. His manner of speech represents merely 
the ebullient vitality of the man ; it is not a 
temperamental crotchet, a genuine warp of 
character setting him apart from his fellows, 
like Morose's aversion to noise in The Silent 
Woman, or Kitely's jealousy in Every 31 an in 
His Humor. He is, therefore, not one-sided, 
as Jonson's people so frequently are, but is 
well-rounded and true to human nature. Nor 
has Dekker's work the satirical undertone of 
Jonson's. Jonson, like the classic authors, 
writes with the moral end of teaching virtue 
by making folly ridiculous. Sometimes, in 
deed, as in Volpone, the depiction of folly is 
so searching that it becomes downright casti- 
gation of vice, and the plaj' almost loses the 
feeling of comedy. Dekker, except in his alle- 
gorical Old Fortiinatus, is nothing of the re- 
former or conscious moralist. Jonson, on the 
whole, does not apprpve of his fellow-men; 
Dekker loves them, and smiles at their foibles 
with the large tolerance of the true humorist. 
So sure is Jonson of his moral rectitude, so 
confident of his superior taste, that his atti- 
tude toward his audience is usually con- 
temptuous ; Dekker sets out with no other 

^purpose than to entertain, and is frankly 
pleased in giving pleasure. With Middleton, 
Dekker has more in common. Though Mid- 
dleton deals witli the same sort of material as 
does Jonson, he comes to his work with no 
moral preoccupation, but purely as the artist. 
He sets life before us as he sees it, without 
telling us what to think of it, and is for that 
reason the greater realist of the two. More 
of a realist, indeed, than Dekker, who is a 
good deal of a romanticist in his confidence in 
the fundamental goodness of human nature. 

1» Almost always there is in Dekker a touch of 
romance and of honest sentiment which the 
comedies of Middleton, brilliant but hard, 
lack. Less skilful than Middleton in plot- 
construction, as a creator of character he is, 
in comedy at least, Middleton's superior. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



121 



What we remember from Middleton is the 
story, the ingenious intrigue, and the social 
background; lie created no characters so sym- 
pathetic or of such endvu-ing vitality as Eyre, 
Friscobaldo in The Honest Whore, and the 
heroine in Patient Grissil. Middleton and 
Dekker part company most widely iu this 



matter of sympathy with the life about them, 
and the sympathetic display of the author's 
personality in his work; where Middleton 
completely ellaces himself, always in Dekker's 
plays we feel the man himself, cheery, 
friendly, lovable. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY, or THE GENTLE 

CRAFT 

By THOMAS DEKKER 



NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 



The King. 

The Eael of Cornwall. 

Sir Hugh Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. 

HowLAND Lacy, 

Askew, J 



alias Hans 



CY, ] 

, \h 



is Nephews. 



Sir Roger Oately, Loi-d Mayor of London. 

Master Hammon, ^ 

Master Warner. I Citi::ens of London. 

Master Scott, J 

Simon Ey re, the Shoemaker. 

Roger, ^ 

called Hodge, L^ ^'„ r 
Tjij YF.XV.Y.S Journeymen. 

Ralph, J 

THE PROLOGUE 

As it was pronounced before the Queen's 
Majesty 

As wretches in a storm, expecting day, 
With trembling hands and eyes cast up to 

heaven, 
Make prayers the anchor of their conquered 

hopes, 
So we, dear goddess, wonder of all eyes, 
Your meanest vassals, through mistrust and 

fear 
To sink into the bottom of disgrace 
By our imperfect pastimes, prostrate thus 
On bended knees, our sails of hope do 

strike, 
Dreading the bitter storms of your dislike. 
Since then, unhappy men, our hap is such 
That to ourselves ourselves no help can 

bring. 
But needs must perish, if your saint-like 

ears. 
Locking the temple where all mercy sits, 
Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues; 
Oh, grant, bright min'or of true chastity, 
From those life-breathing stars, your sun- 
like eyes, 



LovELL, a Courtier. 

Dodger, a Servant to the Eael of Lincoln. 

A Dutch Skipper. 

A Boy. 

Rose, Daughter of Sir Roger. 

Sybil, her Maid. 

Margery, Wife of Simon Eyre. 

Jane, Wife of Ralph. 

Courtiers Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, 
Himters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Serv- 
ants. 

Scene. — London and Old Ford. 



One gracious smile; for your celestial 

breath 
Must send us life, or sentence us to death. 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. A street in London. 

Enter the Lord Ma;/or and the Earl of 
Lincoln. 

Line. My lord mayor, you have sundiy 
times 
Feasted myself and many courtiers 

more ; 
Seldom or never can we be so kind 
To make requital of your courtesy. 
But leaving this, I hear my cousin Lacy 
Is much affected to ^ your daughter Rose. 
L. Mayor. True, my good lord, and she 
loves him so well 
That I mislike her boldness in the chase. 
Line. Why, my lord mayor, think you it 
then a shame, 
To join a Lacy with an Oateley's name? 
L. Mayor. Too mean is my poor girl for 
his high birth ; 
Poor citizens must not with courtiers 
wed, 



1 inclined to. 



122 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Who will in silks and gay apparel spend 
More in one year tlian I am worth, by 

far: 
Thei-ef ore your honor need not doubt - 

my girl. 
Line. Take heed, ' my lord, advise you 

what you do ! 
A verier unthrift lives not in the world. 
Than is my cousin ; " for I 'II tell you 

what : 
'T is now almost a year since he re- 
quested 
To travel countries for experience. 
I furnisht him with coin, bills of ex- 
change, 
Letters of credit, men to wait on him. 
Solicited my friends in Italy 
Well to respect him. But, to see the 

end. 
Scant had he joumey'd through half 

Germany, 
But all his coin was spent, his men cast 

off. 
His bills embezzl'd,* and my jolly coz,^ 
Asham'd to show his bankrupt presence 

here. 
Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg, 
A goodly science for a gentleman 
Of such descent ! Now judge the rest by 

this: 
Suppose your daughter have a thousand 

pound. 
He did consume me more in one half 

year : 
And make him heir to all the wealth you 

have 
One twelvemonth's rioting will waste it 

all. 
Then seek, my lord, some honest citizen 
To wed your daughter to. 
L. Mayor. I thank your lordship. 

(Aside.) Well, fox, I understand your 

subtilty. — 
As for your nephew, let your lordship's 

eye 
But watch his actions, and you need not 

fear, 
For I have seen my daughter far enough. 
And yet your cousin Rowland might 

do well, 
Now he hath learn'd an occupation : 
And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law. 
Line. Aye, but I have a better trade for 

him. 
I thank his grace, he hath appointed 

him 
Chief colonel of all those companies 



Must'red in London and the shires about, 
To serve his highness in those wars of 

France. 
See where he comes ! — 

Enter Lovell, Lacy, and Askew. 

Lovell, what news with you? 
Lovell. My Lord of Lincoln, 't is his high- 
ness' will, 
That presently *^ your cousin ship for 

France 
With all his powers; he would not for a 

million. 
But they should land at Dieppe within 
four days. 
Line. Go certify his grace, it shall be 
done. 

Exit Lovell. 
Now, cousin Lacy, in what forwardness 
Are all your companies'? 
Lacy. All well prepar'd. 

The men of Hertfordshire lie at Mile- 
end, 
Suffolk and Essex train in Tothill-fields, 
The Londoners and those of Middle- 
sex, 
All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury, 
With frolic spirits long for their i^arting 
hour. 
L. Mayor. They have their imprest,''^ 
coats, and furniture ; ^ 
And, if it jdease your cousin Lacy come 
To the Guildhall, he shall receive his 

pay; 
And twenty pounds besides my brethren 
Will freely give him, to approve our 

loves 
We bear unto my lord, your uncle here. 
Lacy. I thank your honor. 
Line. Thanks, my good lord mayor. 

L. Mayor. At the Guildhall we will ex- 
pect your coming. 

Exit. 
Line. To approve your loves to me"? No, 
subtilty. 
Nephew, that twenty pound he doth be- 
stow 
For joy to rid you from his daughter 

Rose. 
But, cousins both, now here are none but 

friends, 
I would not have you cast an amorous 

eye 
Upon so mean a project as the love 
Of a gay, wanton, painted citizen. 
I know, this churl even in the height of 
scorn 



2 suspect. 

3 Cousin was used 



of any relative 
outside the imme- 



diate family. 
4 wasted. 



^' cousin. 
at once. 



7 advance-pay. 

8 equipment. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



123 



Doth hate the mixture of his blood with 
thine. 

I pray thee, do thou so! Remember, 
coz, 

AVhat honorable fortunes wait on thee. 

Increase the king-'s love, which so 
briu'htly shines. 

And gilds thy hopes. I have no heir but 
thee, — 

And yet not thee, if with a wayward 
spirit 

Thou start from the true bias " of my 
love. 
Lacy. My lord, I will for honor, not de- 
sire 

Of land or livings, or to be your heir, 

So guide my actions in pursuit of France, 

As shall add glory to the Lacies' name. 
Line. Coz, for those words here 's thirty 
portagues,^° 

And, nephew Askew, there 's a few for 
you. 

Fair Honor, in her loftiest eminence. 

Stays in France for you, till you fetch 
her thence. 

Then, nephews, clap swift wings on your 
designs. 

Begone, begone, make haste to the Guild- 
hall; 

There presently I '11 meet you. Do not 
stay : 

Where honor beckons ^^ shame attends 
delay. 

Exit. 
Askew. How gladly would your uncle 

have you gone ! 
Lacy. True, coz, but 
policies. 

I have some serious 
days. 

Which nothing- but my presence can dis- 
patch. 

You, therefore, cousin, with the com- 
panies, 

Shall haste to Dover; there I'll meet 
with you : 

Or, if I stay past my prefixed time. 

Away for France ; we '11 meet in Nor- 
mandy. 

The twenty pounds my lord mayor gives 
to me 

You shall receive, and these ten porta- 
gues, 

Part of mine uncle's thirty. Gentle coz. 

Have care to our great charge; I know, 
your wisdom 

Hath tried itself in higher consequence. 



I 'II o'erreach his 
business for three 



Askew. Coz, all myself am yours : yet 
have this care, 
To lodge in London with all secrecy; 
Our uncle Lincoln hath, besides his own, 
Many a jealous eye, that in your face 
Stares only to watch means for your dis- 
grace. 
Lacy. Stay, cousin, who be these*? 

Enter Simon Eyre, Margery, his wife, 
Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a 
piece [o/ leather]. 

Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! 
Away with this whimp'ring, this puling, 
these blubb'ring- tears, and these wet 
eyes ! I '11 get thy husband discharg'd, I 
warrant thee, sweet Jane ; go to ! 

LLodge. Master, here be the captains. 

Eyre. Peace, Hodge; husht, ye knave, 
husht ! 

Firk. Here be the cavaliers and the col- 
onels, master. 

Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! 
Stand by with your pishery-pashery, 
away ! I am a man of the best presence ; 
I '11 speak to them, an ^- they were Popes. 
— Gentlemen, captains, colonels, com- 
manders ! Brave men, brave leaders, 
may it please you to give me audience. 
I am Simon Eyi'e, the mad shoemaker of 
Tower Street ; this wrench with the mealy 
mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I 
can tell you ; here 's Hodge, my man and 
my foreman ; here 's Fii'k, my fine firk- 
ing- ^^ journeyman, and this is blubbered 
Jane. All we come to be suitors for this 
honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and 
as I am a true shoemaker and a gentle- 
man of the gentle craft, buy spurs your- 
self, and I '11 find ye boots these seven 
years. 

Marg. Seven years, husband? 

Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know 
what I do. Peace ! 

Firk. Truly, master cormorant,^* you 
shall do God good service to let Ralph 
and his wife stay together. She 's a 
young- new-marriecl woman; if you take 
her husband away from her a-night, you 
undo her ; she may beg in the daytime ; 
for he 's as good a workman at a pnck 
and an awl as any is in our trade. 

Jane. let him stay, else I shall be un- 
done ! 

Firk. Aye, truly, she shall be laid at one 
side like a pair of old shoes else, and be 
occupied for no use. 



9 inclination. 



10 a gold coin of 
Portugal, worth 



about four pounds. 
11 Qq. become. 



12 if. 

13 frisky. 



14 quibble on col- 
onel. 



124 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lacy. Truly, my friends, it lies not in my 
power : 
The Londoners are press'd,^^ paid, and 

set forth 
By the lord maj'or; I cannot change a 
man. 

Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a 
corporal as a colonel, if you cannot dis- 
charge one good fellow; and I tell you 
true, I think you do more than you can 
answer, to press a man within a year and 
a day of his marriage. 

Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gra- 
mercy, my tine foreman. 

Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done 
for such as you, to stand so stiffly against 
a poor young wife, considering her ease : 
she is new-married, but let that pass. I 
pray, deal not roughly with her : her hus- 
band is a young man, and but newly 
ent'red ; but let that pass. 

Eyre. Away with your pisheiy-pashery, 
your pols and your edipols ! ^'^ Peace, 
midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket ! 
Let your head ^'^ speak. 

Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master. 

Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon ! 
Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? 
Captains, you will not release him? 
Well, let him go ; he 's a proper shot ; let 
him vanish ! Peace, Jane, dry up thy 
tears, they '11 make his powder dankish.^^ 
Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy 
was an hackney to him, Hercules and 
Termagant ^^ scoundrels. Prince Ar- 
thur's Round-table — by the lord of Lud- 
gate ! — ne'er fed such a tall,-° such a dap- 
per swordsman ; by the life of Pharaoh, 
a brave, resolute swordman ! Peace, 
Jane ! I say no more, mad knaves. 

Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master 
raves in commendation of Ralph! 

Hodge. Ralph, th' art a gull -^ by this 
hand, an thou goest not. 

Askew. I am glad, good Master Eyre, it is 
my hap 
To meet so resolute a soldier. 
Trust me, for your report and love to 

him, 
A common slight regard shall not respect 
him. 

Lacy. Is thy name Ralph? 



Ralph. 
Lacy. 



Yes, sir. 
Give me thine hand ; 



15 impressed into 
service. 

16 Classical oaths by 
Pollux; applied 
by Eyre to Mar- 
gery's repetitions. 



17 i.e. master. 

18 damp. 

19 supposed to be a 
god of the Sara- 
cens. 

20 brave. 



Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentle- 
man. 

Woman, be patient; God, no doubt, will 
send 

Thy husband safe again ; but he must go, 

His countiy's quarrel says it sliall be so. 
Hodge. Th' art a gull, by my stirrup, if 

thou dost not go. I will not have thee 

strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels ; 

prick thine enemies, Ralph. 

Enter Dodger. 

Dodger. My lord, your uncle on the 
Tower-hill 
Stays with the lord-mayor and the alder- 
men. 
And doth request you, with all speed yon 

may, 
To hasten thither. 
Askew. Cousin, let 's go. 

Lacy. Dodger, run you before, tell them 
we come. — 

Exit Dodger. 
This Dodger is mine uncle's parasite, 
The arrant'st varlet that e'er breath'd on 

earth ; 
He sets more discord in a noble house 
By one day's broaching of his pickthank 

tales,-- 
Than can be salv'd again in twenty years, 
And he, I fear, shall go with us to 

France, 
To pry into our actions. 
Askew. Therefore, coz, 

It shall behove you to be circumspect. 
Lacy. Fear not, good cousin. — Ralph, hie 
to your colors. 

Exeunt Lacy and Askew. 
Ralph. I must, because there 's no rem- 
edy ; 
But, gentle master and my loving dame, 
As you have always been a friend to me, 
So in mine absence think upon my wife. 
Jane. Alas, my Ralph. 
Marg. She cannot speak for weeping. 
Eyre. Peace, you crack'd -^ groats, you 
nmstard tokens,-* disquiet not the brave 
soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph ! 
Jatie. Aye, aye, you bid him go; what 
shall I do 
When he is gone? 
Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fel- 
low Hodge; be not idle. 
Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This 

lated ; trans- 

ferred, a term of 
contempt. (N. E. 
D.) 



21 fool. 

22 tales told to curry 
favor. 

23 spoiled. 

24 Tokens given to 
purchasers of 



miistard, entitling 
them to a small 
repayment when 
a certain number 
had been accumu- 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



125 



fine hand, this white hand, these pretty 
fingers must spin, must card, must work ; 
work, you bombast cotton-candle-quean ; -•'' 
work for your living', with a pox to you. 
— Hold thee, Ralph, here 's five six- 
pences for thee; fight for the honor of 
the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoe- 
makers, the courageous cordwainers, the 
flower of St. Martin's, the mad knaves 
of Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street 
and Whitechapel ; crack me the crowns 
of the French knaves ; a pox on them, 
crack them; fight, by the lord of Lud- 
gate ; fight, my fine boy ! 
Firk. Here, Ralph, here 's three two- 
pences; two carry into France, the third 
shall wash our souls at parting, for sor- 
row is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa 
mon cues.-^ 
Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; 
but here 's a shilling for thee. God 
send -'' thee to cram thy slops -^ Avith 
French crowns, and thy enemies' bellies 
with bullets. 
Ralph. I thaiik you, master, and I thank 

you all. 
Now, gentle wife, my loving, lovely 

Jane, 
Rich men, at parting, give their wives 

rich gifts, 
Jewels and rings to grace their lily 

hands. 
Thou know'st our trade makes rings for 

women's heels : 
Here take this pair of shoes, cut out by 

Hodge, 
Stitch'd by my fellow Firk, seam'd by 

myself. 
Made up and joink'd -^ with letters for 

thy name. 
Wear them, my dear Jane, for thy hus- 
band's sake. 
And every morning when thou pull'st 

them on, 
Remember me, and pray for my re- 
turn. 
Make much of them ; for I have made 

them so 
That I can know them from a thousand 

mo. 

Brum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the 
Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, 
and Soldiers. They pass over the stage; 
Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and 
the rest cry ^'Farewell," etc., and so ex- 
eunt. 



Rose 



ACT n. 

Scene 1. A garden at Old Ford.^° 
Enter Rose, alone, making a garland. 

down upon this 



Here sit thou 
flow'ry bank 

And make a garland for thy Lacy's head. 

These pinks, these roses, and these vio- 
lets, 

These blushing gilliflowers, these mari- 
golds. 

The fair embroidery of his coronet, 

Carry not half such beauty in their 
cheeks, 

As the sweet count'nance of my Lacy 
doth. 

my most unkind father ! O my stars. 
Why lower'd you so at my nativity, 

To make me love, yet live robb'd of my 

love? 
Here as a thief am I imprisoned 
For my dear Lacy's sake within those 

walls, 
Which by my father's cost were builded 

up 
For better purposes. Here must I 

languish 
For him that doth as much lament, I 

know, 
Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe. 

Enter Sybil. 

Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I 
am sure you make that garland for me, 
against ^^ I shall be Lady of the Harvest. 

Rose. Sybil, what news at London? 

Sybil. None but good ; my lord mayor, 
your father, and master Philpot, your 
uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and 
Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors' Com- 
mons, do all, by my troth, send you most 
hearty commendations. 

Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his 
love? 

Sybil. yes, out of cry,^- by my troth. I 
scant knew him; here 'a wore a scarf; 
and here a scarf, here a bunch of 
feathers, and here precious stones and 
jewels, and a pair of garters, — 0, mon- 
strous ! like one of our yellow silk cur- 
tains at home here in Old Ford House 
here, in Master Bellymount's chamber. 

1 stood at our door in Cornhill, look'd 



25 delicate, pamper- 
ed creature. 

26 uncomplimentary 
term for the 



French. 

27 grant. 

28 loose breeches. 

29 pricked. 



30 The lord-mayor's then a suburb, 

country house now a part of 

was in Old Ford, London, 



31 in anticipation of 
the time when. 

32 beyond measure. 



126 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, 
but he not to me, not a word ; marry 
go-up, thought I, with a wanion ! "^ He 
pass'd by me as proud — Marry t'oh ! are 
you grown humorous,^* thought I; and 
so shut the door, and in I came. 
Rose. Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy 

wrong ! 
My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb. 
No dove was ever half so mild as he. 
Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stampt 
crabs. ^^ He lookt upon me as sour as 
verjuice.^*' Go thy ways, thought I, thou 
may'st be much in my gaskins,^^ but 
nothing in my nether-stocks.^* This is 
your fault, mistress, to love him that 
loves not you ; he thinks scorn to do as 
he 's done to ; but if I were as you, I 'd 
cry, "Go by, Jeronimo, go by !" ^° 
I 'd set mine old debts against my new 

driblets. 
And the hare's foot against the goose 

giblets,*" 
For if e\'er I sigh, when sleep I should 

take. 
Pray God I iiiay lose my maidenhead 

when I wake. 
Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go 

to France f 
Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I 
see him stalk before the soldiers. By my 
troth, he is a jDroper *^ man; but lie is 
proper that proper doth. Let him go 
snick-up,*- young mistress. 
Rose. Get thee to London, and learn per- 
fectly 
Whether my Lacy go to France, or no. 
Do this, and I will give thee for thy 

pains 
My cambric apron and my Romish 

gloves. 
My purple stockings and a stomacher. 
Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my 

sake? 
Sybil. Will I, quoth'a? At whose suit? 
By my troth, yes, I '11 go. A cambric 
apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, 
and a stomacher! I'll sweat in purple, 
mistress, for you ; I '11 take anything that 
comes, a' God's name. rich ! a cam- 
bric apron! Faith, then have at "up 
tails all." *^ I '11 go jiggy-joggy to Lon- 
don, and be here in a trice, young mis- 
tress. 

Exit. 



1 forsook my charge in 
king's displeasure, and 
in mine uncle Lincoln's 



Rose. Do so, good Sybil. Meantime 
wretched I 
Will sit and sigh for his lost company. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. A street in London. 

Enter Lacy, like a Dutch Shoemaker. 

Lacy. How many shapes have gods and 
kings devis'd, 

Thereby to compass their desired loves! 

It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then, 

To clothe his cunning with the gentle 
craft, 

That, thus disguis'd, I may unknown pos- 
sess 

The only happy presence of my Rose. 

For her have 
France, 

Ineurr'd the 
stirr'd up 

Rough hatred 
breast. 

love, hoAv powerful art thou, that canst 

change 
High birth to baseness, and a noble mind 
To the mean semblance of a shoemaker ! 
But thus it must be ; for her cruel father. 
Hating the single union of our souls. 
Has secretly convey'd my Rose from 

London, 
To bar me of her presence; but I trust. 
Fortune and this disguise will further 

me 
Once more to view her beauty, gain her 

sight. 
Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoe- 
maker 
Mean I a while to work ; I know the 
trade, 

1 learnt it when I was in Wittenberg. 
Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not 

dismay'd, 
Thou canst not want : do Fortune what 

she can, 
The gentle craft is living for a man. 

Exit. 

Scene 3. Before Eyre's house. 

Enter Eyre, making himself ready.^* 

Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, 



33 with a vengeance. 

34 capricious. 

35 crushed crab ap- 
ples. 

36 juice of green 
fruits. 



whole phrase cf. 

3 7 loose breeches. 

38 stockings ; for the 
Uother Bombie, 
p. 65, n. 19. 



39 A line from Kyd's 
Spanish Tragedy 
which passed into 
common use. 



40 i.e. I 'd get a new 
lover. 

41 handsome. 

42 go and be 
hanged ! 



43 The name of a 
popular rollicking 
tune. 

44 dressing. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



127 



these drabs, these scoundrels'? They 
wallow in the fat brewis *^ of my bounty, 
and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet 
will not rise to see my walks cleansed. 
Come out, you powder-beef *" queans ! 
What, Nan ! what, Madge Mumble-crust ! 
Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly- 
whores, and sweep me these kennels ^'^ 
that the noisome stench offend not the 
noses of my neighbors. What, Firk, I 
say ! What, Hodge ! Open my shop 
windows! What, Firk, I say! 

Enter Firk. 

Firk. master, is 't you that speak ban- 
dog ^^ and Bedlam^® this morning"? I 
was in a dream, and mused what madman 
was got into the street so early. Have 
you drunk this morning that your throat 
is so clear? 

Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk ; well said, Firk. 
To work, my fine knave, to work ! Wash 
thy face, and thou 't be more blest. 

Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat 
it. Good master, send for a souse- 
wife,^" if you '11 have my face cleaner. 

Enter Hodge. 

Eyre. Away, sloven ! avaunt, scoundrel ! — 
Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my 
fine foreman. 

Hodge. master, good-morrow ; y' are an 
early stirrer. Here 's a fair morning. — 
Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept 
this hour. Here 's a brave day to- 
wards. ^^ 

Eyre. Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, 
haste to work. 

Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear 
my fellow Roger talk of fair weather ; let 
us pray for good leather, and let clowns 
and ploughboys and those that work in 
the fields pray for brave days. We work 
in a dry shop ; what care I if it rain ? 

Enter Margery. 

Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you 
see to rise"? Trip and go, call up the 
drabs, your maids. 

Marg. See to rise? I hope 'tis time 
enough, 't is early enough for any woman 



to be seen abroad. I marvel how many 
wives in Tower Street are up so soon. 
Gods me, 't is not noon, — here 's a yawl- 
ing ! ^^ 

Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace ! Where 's 
Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has 
a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. 
Call the quean up ; if my men want shoe- 
thread, I '11 swinge her in a stirrup. 

Firk. Yet that 's but a dry beating ; here 's 
still a sign of drought. 

Enter Lacy, disguised, singing. 

Lacy. Der was een bore van Gelderland, 
Frolick sie byen; 
He was als dronck he cold nyet stand, 

Upsolce sie byen. 
Tap eens de canneken, 
Drincke, scJione mannekin.^^ 

Firk. Master, for my life, yonder 's a 
brother of the gentle craft; if he bear 
not Saint Hugh's bones,'^* I '11 forfeit 
my bones ; he 's some uplandish °^ work- 
man : hire him, good master, that I may 
learn some gibble-gabble ; 't will make us 
work the faster. 

Eyre. Peace, Firk ! A hard world ! Let 
him pass, let him vanish; we have jour- 
neymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk! 

Marg. Nay, nay, y' are best follow your 
man's counsel ; you shall see what will 
come on 't. We have not men enow, but 
we must entertain every butter-box ; ^^ 
but let that pass. 

Hodge. Dame, 'fore God, if my master 
follow your counsel, he '11 consume little 
beef. He shall be glad of men an he 
can catch them. 

Firk. Aye, that he shall. 

Hodge. 'Fore God, a proper man, and I 
warrant, a fine workman. Master, fare- 
well ; dame, adieu ; if such a man as he 
cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. 
{Offers to go.) 

Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge. 

Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, 
you must take a journey to seek a new 
journeyman ; if Roger remove, Firk fol- 
lows. If Saint Hugh's bones shall not 
be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in 
the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, 
master; good-bye, dame. 

Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk 



4r) beef broth. 

46 salted beef. 

47 gutters. 

48 watch dog. 

49 madman ; is it 
you that is growl- 
ing like a mad- 
man here? 



50 a woman Miio 
sold pickled pigs' 
feet and ears. 

51 in prospect. 

52 bawling. 

53 Hans speaks a 
pseudo- Dutch. 

There was a boor 



from Gelder- 
land. 

JoUy the II he; 
He irat; go drunk 
he eould not 
stand, 

Drunken ( ?) they 
he: 



Clink then the can- 
nikin, 
Drink, pretty wan- 
nikin ! 

(Neilson.) 

54 St. Hugh was the 

patron saint of 

shoemakers ; his 



bones were said to 
have been made 
into shoemaker's 
tools. 

55 from the country, 

56 Dutchman. 



128 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEEIOD 



foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pud- 
ding-broth! By the lord of Ludgate, I 
love my men as my life. Peace, you 
gallimaufry ! ^^ Hodge, if he want 
work, I '11 hire him. One of you to him ; 
stay, — he comes to us. 
Lacy. Goeden dach, mcester, ende, u, vro, 

Firk. Nails,^^ if I should speak after him 
without drinking, I should choke. And 
you, friend Oake, are you of the g'entle 
craft? 

Lacy. Yaw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.^^ 

Firk. Den skomaker, quoth'a! And 
hark you, skomaker, have you all your 
tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stop- 
per, a good dresser, your four sorts of 
awls, and your two balls of wax, your 
paring' knife, your hand-and-thumb- 
Icathers, and good St. Hugh's bones to 
smooth up your work? 

Lacy. Yaw, yaw; he niet vorveard. Ik 
liab all de dingen voour mack skooes 
groot and cleanc.^'^ 

Firk. Ha, ha ! Good master, hire him ; 
he '11 make me laugh so that I shall work 
more in mirth than I can in earnest. 

Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill 
in the mystery *'- of cordwainers f 

Lacy. Ik tveet niet wat yow seg; ich ver- 
staw you niet.'^^ 

Firk. Why, thus, man: {Imitating hy ges- 
ture a shoeynaker at work.) Ich verste 
u niet, quoth 'a. 

Lacy. Yaw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel 
doen.*^'^ 

Firk. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like 
a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with 
cheese-curds. Oh, he '11 give a villanous 
pull at a can of double-beer; but Hodge 
and I have the vantage, we must drink 
first, because we are the eldest journey- 
men. 

Eyre. What is thy name? 

Lacy. Hans — Hans Meulter. 

Eyre. Give me thy hand; th' art welcome. 
— Hodge, entertain him ; Firk, bid him 
welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid 
your maids, your trullibubs,®^ make 
ready my fine men's breakfasts. To him, 
Hodge ! 

Hodge. Hans, th' art welcome ; use thy- 
self friendly, for we are good fellows; if 



not, thou shall be fought with, wert thou 
bigger than a giant. 
Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou 
Gargantua.'^*' My master keeps no cow- 
ards, I tell thee. — Ho, boy, bring him an 
heel-block, here's a new journeyman. 

Enter Boy. 

Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een 
halve dossen cans hetaelen; here, hoy, 
nempt dis skilling, tap sens freelicke.'^'' 

Exit Boy. 

Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away ! 
Firk, scour thy throat; thou shalt wash 
it with Castilian liquor. 

Enter Boy. 

Come, my last of the fives,^^ give me a 
can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; 
here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and 
work like true Trojans, and pray for 
Simon Eyre, the shoemaker. — Here, 
Hans, and th' art, welcome. 

Firk. Lo, dame, you woi;ld have lost a 
good fellow that will teach us to laugh. 
This beer came hopping in well. 

Marg. Simon, it is 'almost seven. 

Eyre. Is 't so. Dame Clapper-dudgeon ? *^^ 
Is 't seven a clock, and my men 's break- 
fast not ready? Trip and go, you sous'd 
conger, ''° away ! Come, you mad hyper- 
boreans ; follow me, Hodge ; follow me, 
Hans, come after, my fine Firk; to work 
a while, and then to breakfast. 

Exit. 

Firk. Soft ! Yaw, yaw, good Hans, 
though my master have no more wit but 
to call you afore me, I am not so foolish 
to go behind you, I being the elder jour- 
neyman. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. A field near Old Ford. 

Halloaing within. Enter Warner and 
Hammon, like Hunters. 

Ham. Cousin, beat every brake, the 
game's not far; 
This way with winged feet he fled from 
death. 



57 a dish of hashed 
meats. 

58 Good-day, master, 
and you, good- 
wife, too. 

59 God's nails ; an 
oath. 



shoemaker. 

61 Tes, yes ; be not 
afraid. I have 
everything to 
make boots big 
and little. 

62 trade. 



60 Tes, yes, I am a 63 / don't knoio 



what you say ; I 

don't understand 

you. 
64 Yes, yes; I can 

do that well. 
6."> slatterns. 
66 A gluttonous 

giant in Rabelais' 



satire of that 
name. 
67 O, / understand 
you; I must pay 
for half-a-dozen 
cans; here, hoy, 
take this shilling, 
tap once freely. 



68 my number five 
last, a small size. 

69 Margery's tongue 
makes as much 
noise as a beg- 
gar's clap-dish. 

70 conger-eel. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



129 



Whilst the pursuing- hounds, scenting his 

steps, 
Find out his highway to destruction. 
Besides, the miller's boy told me even 

now. 
He saw him take soilj^ and he halloaed 

him. 
Affirming him to have been so embost '''- 
That long he could not hold. 
Warn. If it be so, 

'T is best we trace these meadows by Old 

Ford. 

A noise of Hunters witliin. Enter a Boy. 

Ham. How now, boy? Where's the 
deer? Speak, saw'st thou him? 

Boy. yea ; I saw him leap through a 
hedge, and then over a ditch, then at my 
lord mayor's pale, over he skipt me, and 
in he went me, and "holla" the hunters 
cried, and "there, boy ; there, boy !" But 
there he is, a' mine honesty. 

Ham. Boy, Godamercy. Cousin, let 's 
away; I hope we shall find better sport 
to-day. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. The garden at Old Ford. 

Sounds of hunting witliin. Enter Rose 
and Sybil. 

Rose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a for- 
ester ? 

Sybil. Upon some, no. Forester? Go 
by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came 
running- into the barn through the or- 
chard and over tlie pale; I wot well, I 
lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him. 
But whip, says Goodman Pinclose, up 
with his flail, and our Nick with a prong, 
and down he fell, and they upon him, 
and I upon them. By my troth, we had 
such sport; and in the end we ended him ; 
his throat we cut, flay'd him, unhorn'd 
him, and my lord mayor shall eat of him 
anon, when he comes, 

{Horns sound within.) 

Rose. Hark, hark, the hunters come; 
y' are best take heed. 
They '11 have a saying to you for this 
deed. 

Enter Hammon, Warner, Huntsmen, and 
Boy. 

Ham. God save you, fair ladies. 

71 cover. 72 exhausted. 73 



Sybil. Ladies ! O gross ! "'^ 
Warn. Came not a buck this way? 
Rose. No, but two does. 

Ham. And which way went they? Faith, 

we '11 hunt at those. 
Sybil. At those? Upon some, no. WTien, 

can you tell? 
Warn. Upon some, aye. 
Sybil. Good Lord! 

Warn. Wounds ! ^* Then farewell ! 

Ham. Boy, which way went he? 
Boy. This way, sir, he ran. 

Ham. This way he ran indeed, fair Mis- 
tress Rose; 
Our game was lately in your orchard 

seen. 
Warn. Can you advise, which way he took 

his flight? 
Sybil. Follow your nose; his horns will 

guide you right. 
Warn. T' art a mad wench. 
Sybil. 0, rich ! 

Rose. Trust me, not I. 

It is not like that the wild forest-deer 
Would come so near to places of resort; 
You are deceiv'd, he fled some other way. 
Warn. Which way, my sugar-candy, can 

you show? 
Sybil. Come up, good honeysops, upon 

some, no. 
Rose. Why do you stay, and not pursue 

your game? 
Sybil. I '11 hold my life, their hunting- 
nags be lame. 
Ham. A deer more dear is found within 

this place. 
Rose. But not the deer, sir, which you 

had in chase. 
Ham. I chas'd the deer, but this dear 

chaseth me. 
Rose. The strangest hunting- that ever I 

see. 
But where 's your park ? 

{She offers to go away.) 
Ham. 'T is here : stay ! 

Rose. Impale me, and then I will not 

stray. 
Warn. They wrangle, wench ; we are more 

kind than they. 
Sybil. What kind of hart is that dear 

heart you seek? 
Warn. A hart, dear heart. 
Sybil. Who ever saw the like? 

Rose. To lose your heart, is 't possible 



you can 



Ham. My heart is lost. 

Rose. Alack, good gentleman! 



stupid. 



74 God's wounds ; an oath. 



130 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ham. This poor lost heart would I wish 

you might find. 
Hose. You, by such luck, might prove 

your hart a hind. 
Ham. Why, Luck had horns, so have I 

heard some say. 
Bose. Now, God, an 't be his will, send 
, Luck into your way. 

Enter the Lord Mayor and Servants. 

L. Mayor. What, Master Hammon'? 

Welcome to Old Ford! 
Sybil. Gods pittikins," ^ hands off, sir ! 

Here 's my lord. 
L. Mayor. I hear you had ill-luck, and 

lost your game. 
Ham. 'T is true, my lord. 
L. Mayor. I am sorry for the same. 

What gentleman is this"? 
Ham. My brother-in-law. 

L. Mayor. Y' are welcome both ; sith 
Fortune offers you 
Into my hands, you shall not part from 

hence, 
Until you have refresht your wearied 

limbs. 
Go, Sybil, cover the board ! You shall 

be guest 
To no good cheer, but even a hunter's 
feast. 
Ham. I thank your lordship. — Cousin, on 
my life. 
For our lost venison I shall find a wife. 
Exeunt all hut Mayor. 
L. Mayor. In, gentlemen ; I '11 not be ah- 
sent long. — 
This Hanunon is a proper gentleman, 
A citizen by birth, fairly allied; 
How fit an husband were he for my girl ! 
Well, I will in, and do the best I can. 
To match my<daughter to this gentleman. 

Exit. 

ACT III. 

Scene 1. A room in Eyre's house. 

Enter Lacif as Hans, Slcipper, Hodge, and 
Firk. 

Skip. Ick sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis 
skip dat comen from Candy, is all vol, 

75 by God's pitv. 

76 I 'II tell you what, 
nans ; this ship 
that is come from 
Gandia, is quite 
full, by God's 
sacrament, of 
sugar, civet, al- 



by dot's sacrament, van sugar, civet, al- 
monds, cambrick, end alle dingen, tow- 
sand towsand ding. Nempt it, Hans, 
nempt it vor u meester. Daer he de hils 
van laden. Your meester Simon Eyre 
sal hae good copen. Wat seggen yow, 
Hans f ^^ 

Firk. Wat seggen de rcggen de copen, 
slopen — laugh, Hodge, laugh ! 

Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt 
Meester Eyre tot det signe un Swanne- 
kin; daer sal yow finde dis skipper end 
me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? 
Boot it, Hodge.'''' Come, Skipper. 

Exeunt. 

Firk. Bring him, quoth you ? Here 's no 
knavery, to bring my master to buy a 
ship worth the lading of two or three 
hundred thousand pounds. Alas, that 's 
nothing; a trifle, a bauble, Hodge. 

Hodge. The truth is, Firk, that the mer- 
chant owner of the ship dares not show 
his head, and therefore this skipper that 
deals for him, for the love he bears to 
Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargain 
in the commodities. He shall have a 
reasonable day of payment ; he may sell 
the wares by that time, and be an huge 
gainer himself. 

Firk. Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend 
my master twenty porpentines as ,an 
earnest penny? 

Hodge. Portagues, thou wouldst say ; here 
they be, Firk ; hark, they jingle in my 
pocket like St. Mary Overy's bells.''^ 

Enter Eyre and Margery. 

Firk. Mum, here comes my dame and my 
master. She '11 scold, on my life, for 
loitering this Monday ; but all 's one, let 
them all say what they can, Monday's 
our holiday. 

Marg. You sing, Sir Sauce, but I beshrew 
your heart. 
I fear, for this your singing we shall 
smart. 

Firk. Smart for me, dame ; why, dame, 
why? 

Hodge. Master, I hope you 'U not suffer 
my dame to take down your journey- 
men. 

Firk. If she take me down, I '11 take her 



monds. camhrir, 
and all Ifhinc/s ; a 
thousand thou- 
sand things. 
Take it, Hans, 
take it for your 
master. There 
are the bills of 



lading. Your 

master, Simon 

Eyre, shall hare 
a good bargain. 
What ^say you, 
Hans ? 
77 Mil dear brother 
Firk, bring Mas- 



ter Eyre to the 78 The Church of St. 
sign of the Swan; Mary Overy was 



there shall you 
find the skipper 
and me. What 
say you. brother 
Firk? Do it, 
Hodge. 



at the Borough 
end of London 
Bridge. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



131 



up; yea, and take her down too, a but- 
ton-hole lower. 

Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the 
life of Pharaoh, by the lord of Ludgate, 
by this beard, every hair whereof I value 
at a king's ransom, she shall not meddle 
with you. — Peace, you bombast-cotton- 
candle-quean ; away, queen of clubs ; 
quarrel not with me and my men, with 
me and my fine Firk ; I '11 firk you, if 
you do. 

Marg. Yea, yea, man, you may use me as 
you please ; but let that pass. 

Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away ; 
peace! Am I not Simon Eyre"? Are not 
these my brave men, brave shoemakers, 
all gentlemen of the gentle craft*? 
Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, 
as being the sole son of a shoemaker. 
Aw^ay, rubbish ! vanish, melt ! melt, like 
kitchen-stuff ! 

Marg. Yea, yea, 't is well ; I must be call'd 
rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort "^ of 
knaves. 

Firk. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and 
wail in woe for me. Master, I '11 stay 
no longer; here's an inventory of my 
shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, fare- 
well. 

Hodge. Nay, stay, Firk; thou shalt not 
go alone. 

Marg. I pray, let them go ; there be moe 
maids than Mawkin, more men than 
Hodge, and more fools than Firk. 

Firk. Fools'? Nails! if I tarry now, I 
would my guts might be turn'd to shoe- 
thread. 

Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may 
be turn'd to a Turk, and set in Fins- 
buiy ^° for boys to shoot at. — Come, 
Firk. 

Eyre. Stay, my fine knaves, you arms of 
my trade, you pillars of my profession. 
What, shall a tittle-tattle's words make 
you forsake Simon Eyre? — A vaunt, 
kitchen-stuff! Rip, you bi'own-bread 
Tannikin ; ^^ out of my sight ! Move me 
not ! Have not I ta'en you from selling 
tripes in Eastcheap, and set you in my 
shop, and made you hail-fellow with 
Simon Eyre, the shoemaker? And now 
do you deal thus with my journeymen? 
Look, you powder-beef -quean, on the 
face of Hodge ; here 's a face for a lord. 



Firk. And here 's a face for any lady in 
Christendom. 

Eyre. Rip, you chitterling,^^ avaunt! 
Boy, bid the tapster of the Boar's Head 
fill me a dozen cans of beer for my 
journeymen. 

Firk. A dozen cans? 0, brave! Hodge, 
now I '11 stay. 

Eyre. {In a low voice to the Boy.) An 
the knave fills any more than two, he 
pays for them. {Exit Boy.) — A dozen 
cans of beer for my journeymen. {Re- 
enter Boy.) Here, you mad Mesopota- 
mians, wash your livers with this liquor. 
Where be the odd ten? — No more, 
Madge, no more. — Well said.'^=^ Drink 
and to work! — What work dost thou, 
Hodge? What work? 

Hodge. I am a making a pair of shoes for 
my lord mayor's daughter, Mistress Rose. 

Firk. And I a pair of shoes for Sybil, 
my lord's maid. I deal with her. 

Eyre. Sybil? Fie, defile not thy fine 
workmanly fingers with the feet of 
kitchenstuff and basting-ladles. Ladies 
of the court, fine ladies, my lads, com- 
mit their feet to our apparelling; put 
gross work to Hans. Yark ^-' and seam, 
yark and seam ! 

Firk. For yarking and seaming let me 
alone, an I come to 't. 

Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the 
bias.^^ Do you remember the ship my 
fellow Hans told you of? The skipper 
and he are both drinking at the Swan. 
Here be the portagues to give earnest. 
If you go through with it, you cannot 
choose but be a lord at least. 

Firk. Nay, dame, if my master prove not 
a lord, and you a lady, hang me. 

Marg. Yea, like enough, if you may loiter 
and tipple thus. 

Firk. Tipple, dame? No, we have been 
bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag : ^^ 
can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of 
silk Cyprus, laden with sugar-candy? 

Enter Boy with a velvet coat and an Al- 
derman's gown. Eyre puts them on. 

Eyre. Peace, Firk; silence, Tittle-tattle! 
Hodge, I '11 go through with it. Here 's 
a seal-ring, and I have sent for a guarded 
gown ^"^ and a damask cassock. See 



79 pack. dressed to Mar- 

i 80 Finsbury was a gery. 

practice ground 83 well done, 

for archery. 84 .ierk. 

I 81 Dutchwoman. 85 Ijeside the point. 

; 82 sausage ; ad- 86 German : Schelm, 

i 



a scoundrel. Skan- ota, the Albanian 87 a robe ornament- 

derbag, or Scan- hero, who freed ed with guards or 

der Beg (i.e. his country from facings. 

Lord Alexander). the yoke of the 

a Turkish name Turks (1443- 

for John Kastri- 1467). (Neilson.) 



132 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



where it comes; look here, Maggy; help 
me, Firk; apparel me, Hodge; silk and 
satin, you mad Philistines, silk and 
satin. 

Firk. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud 
as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten ®* 
damask and velvet. 

Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing ^^ of the 
nap, and wearing threadbare my gar- 
ments. Hov\^ dost thou like me, Firk? 
How do I look, my fine Hodge? 

Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, 
master. I warrant you, there 's few in 
the city but will give you the wall,^° and 
come upon you with °'^ the right wor- 
shipful. 

Firk. Nails, my master looks like a 
threadbare cloak new turn'd and drest. 
Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment 
doth ! Dame, dame, are you not enam- 
ored ? 

Eyre. How say'st thou, Maggy, am I not 
brisk? Am I not fine? 

Marg. Fine? By my troth, sweetheart, 
very fine ! By my troth, I never likt 
thee so well in my life, sweetheart; but 
let that pass. I warrant, there be many 
women in the city have not such hand- 
some husbands, but only for their ap- 
parel; but let that pass too. 

Re-enter Hans and Skipper. 

Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de 
skipper dat heb de skip van marchan- 
dice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, 
master, nempt it.'-*-. 

Eyre. Godamercy, Hans; welcome, skip- 
per. Where lies this ship of merchan- 
dise? 

Skip. De skip ben in revere; dor be van 
sugar, civet, almonds, cambriek, and a 
towsand toivsand tings, gotz sacrament ; 
nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good co- 
pen.^^ 

Firk. To him, master! sweet master! 
sweet wares ! Prunes, almonds, sugar- 
candy, carrot-roots, turnips, brave 
fatting meat ! Let not a man buy a nut- 
meg but yourself. 

Eyre. Peace, Firk ! Come, skipper, I '11 
go aboard with you. — Hans, have you 
made him drink? 

Skip. Yaiv, yaw, ic heb veale gedrunck.^* 

Eyre. Come, Hans, follow me. Skipper, 



thou shalt have my countenance in the 
city. 

Exeunt. 

Firk. Taw heb veale gedrunck, quoth 'a. 
They may well be called butter-boxes, 
when they drink fat veal and thick beer 
too. But come, dame, I hope you '11 
chide VIS no more. 

Marg. No, faith, Firk; no, perdy,**^ 
Hodge. I do feel honor creep upon me, 
and which is more, a certain rising in my 
flesh ; but let that pass. 

Firk. Rising in your flesh do you feel, say 
you? Aye, you may be with child, but 
why should not my master feel a rising 
in his flesh, having a gown and a gold 
ring on? But you are such a shrew, 
you '11 soon pull him down. 

Marg. Ha, ha ! prithee, peace ! Thou 
mak'st my worship laugh ; but. let that 
pass. Come, I '11 go in ; Hodge, prithee, 
go before me ; Firk, follow me. 

Firk. Firk doth follow: Hodge, pass out 
in state. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. 



London : a room 
house. 



in Lincoln's 



Enter the Earl of Lincoln and Dodger. 

Line. How now, good Dodger, what 's the 

news in France? 
Dodger. My lord, upon the eighteenth 

day of May 
The French and English were prepar'd 

to fight; 
Each side with eager fury gave the sign 
Of a most hot encounter. Five long 

hours 
Both armies fought together; at the 

length 
The lot of victoiy fell on our side. 
Twelve thousand of the Frenchmen that 

day died. 
Four thousand English, and no man of 

name 
But Captain Hyani and young Arding- 

ton, 
Two gallant gentlemen, I knew them 

well. 
Line. But Dodger, prithee, tell me, in this 

fight 
How did my cousin Lacy bear himself? 



88 stamped. 

89 ruffling. 

90 yield precedence. 

91 salute. 

92 Good day, mas- 
ter. This is the 



shipper that has 
the ship of mer- 
chandise; the 
commodity is 
good; take it, 



master, taJce it. 
93 The ship lies in 
the river; there 
are sugar, civet, 
almonds, cambric. 



and a thousand 
thousand things. 
By God's sacra- 
ment, take it, 
master ; you shall 



have a good bar- 
gain. 

94 Tes, yes. I have 
drunk well. 

95 Fr. Par Dieu. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



133 



Dodger. My lord, your cousin Lacy was 

not there. 
Line. Not there"? 

Dodger. No, my good lord. 

Line. Sure, thou niistakest. 

I saw him shipp'd, and a thousand eyes 

beside 
Were witnesses of the farewells which he 

gave, 
When I, with weeping eyes, bid him 

adieu. 
Dodger, take heed. 
Dodger. My lord, I am advis'd 

That what I spake is true : to prove it 

so. 
His cousin AskeAV, that supplied his 

place. 
Sent me for him from France, that se- 
cretly 
He might convey himself thither. 
Line. Is 't even so ? 

Dares he so carelessly venture his life 
I'pon the indignation of a kingf 
Has he despis'd my love, and spurn'd 

those favors 
Which I Avith prodigal hand pour'd on 

his head? 
He shall repent his rashness with his 

soul ; 
Since of my love he makes no estimate, 
I '11 make him wish he had not known my 

hate. 
Thou hast no other news? 
Dodger. None else, my lord. 

Line. None worse I know thou hast. — 

Procure the king 
To crown his giddy brows with ample 

honors, 
Send him. chief colonel, and all my hope 
Thus to be dash'd ! But 't is in vain to 

grieve, 
One evil cannot a worse relieve. 
Upon my life, I have found out his 

plot ; 
That old dog. Love, that fawn'd upon 

him so. 
Love to that puling girl, his fair-cheek'd 

Rose, 
The lord mayor's daughter, hath dis- 
tracted him, 
And in tlie fire of that love's lunacy 
Hath he burnt up himself, eonsum'd his 

credit, 
Lost the king's love, yea, and I fear, his 

life, 
Onty to get a wanton to his wife, 
Dodger, it is so. 
Dodger. I fear so, my good lord. 

Line. It is so — nay, sure it cannot be ! 



I am at my wits' end. Dodger! 
Dodger. Yea, my lord. 

Line. Thou art acquainted wdth my neph- 
ew's haunts, 
Spend this gold for thy pains; go seek 

him out. 
Watch at my lord mayor's — there if he 

live. 
Dodger, thou shall be sure to meet with 

him. 
Prithee, be diligent. — Lacy, thy name 
Liv'd once in honor, now 't is dead in 

shame. — 
Be circumspect. 
Dodger. I warrant you, my lord. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. London: a room in the Lord 
Mayor's house. 

Enter the Lord Mayor and Master Scott. 

L. Mayor. Good Master Scott, I have 

been bold with you. 
To be a witness to a wedding-knot 
Betwixt young Master Hammon and my 

daughter. 
0, stand aside; see where the lovers 

come. 

Enter Master Hammon and Rose. 

Rose. Can it be possible you love me so"? 
No, no, within those eyeballs I espy 
Apparent likelihoods of flattery. 
Pray now, let go my hand. 
Llam. Sweet Mistress Rose, 

Misconstrue not my woi'ds, nor miscon- 
ceive 
Of my affection, whose devoted soul 
Swears that I love thee dearer than my 
heart. 
Rose. As dear as your own heart? I 
judge it right, 
Men love their hearts best when they 're 
out of sight. 
Ham. I love you, by this hand. 
Rose. Yet hands off now ! 

If flesh be frail, how weak and frail 's 
your vow ! 
Ham. Then by my life I swear. 
Rose. Then do not brawl ; 

One quarrel loseth wife and life and 

all. 
Is not your meaning thus? 
LLam. In faith, you jest. 

Rose. Love loves to sport; therefore leave 
love, y' are best. 



134 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



L. Mayor. What 1 square ^^ they, Master 

Scott? 

Scott. Sir, never doubt, 

Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out. 

Ham. Sweet Rose, be not so strange in 

fancying me. 

Nay, never turn aside, shun not my 

sight : 
I am not grown so fond, to fond ^'^ my 

love 
On any that shall quit it with disdain; 
If you will love me, so; — if not, fare- 
well. 
L. Mayor. Why, how now, lovers, are you 

both agreed "? 
Ham. Yes, faith, my lord. 
L. Mayor. 'T is well, give me your hand, 
Give me yours, daughter. — How now, 

both pull back ! 
Wliat means this, girl"? 
Base. I mean to live a maid. 

Ham. (Aside.) But not to die one; 

pause, ere that be said. 
L. Mayor. Will you still cross me, still be 

obstinate'? 
Ham. Nay, chide her not, my lord, for 
doing well ; 
If she can live an happy virgin's life, 
'T is far more blessed than to be a wife. 
Bose. Say, sir, I cannot : I have made a 
vow, 
Whoever be my husband, 't is not you. 
L. Mayor. Your tongue is quick; but 
Master Hammon, know, 
I bade you welcome to another end. 
Ham. What, would you have me pule and 
pine and pray, 
With "lovely lady," "mistress of my 

heart," 
"Pardon your servant," and the rhymer 

play, 
Railing on Cupid and his tyrant's-dart ; 
Or shall I undertake some martial spoil. 
Wearing your glove at tourney and at 

tillC 
And tell how many gallants I unhors'd — 
Sweet, will this pleasure you? 
Bose. Yea, when wilt begin? 

What, love rhymes, man? Fie on that 
deadly sin ! 
L. Mayor. If you wilt have her, I '11 

make her agree. 
Ham. Enforced love is worse than hate to 
me. 
(Aside.) There is a wench keeps shop 

in the Old Change, 
To her will I — it is not wealth I seek. 
I have enough — and will prefer her love 

96 quarrel. 



Before the world. — My good lord mayor, 

adieu. 
Old love for me, I have no luck with 

new. 

Exit. 
L. Mayor. Now, mammet,^^ you have 

well behav'd yourself. 
But you shall curse your coyness if I 

live. — 
Who 's within there ? See you convey 

your mistress 
Straight to th' Old Ford ! I '11 keep you 

straight enough. 
Fore God, I would have sworn the puling 

girl 
Would willingly accepted Hammon's 

love ; 
But banish him, my thoughts ! — Go, 

minion, in ! 

Exit Bose. 
Now tell me. Master Scott, would you 

have thought 
That Master Simon Eyre, the shoemaker, 
Had been of wealth to buy such mer- 
chandise? 
Scott. 'T was well, my lord, your honor 

and myself 
Grew partners with him ; for your bills 

of lading 
Show that Eyre's gains in one com- 
modity 
Rise at the least to full three thousand 

pound. 
Besides like gain in other merchandise. 
L. Mayor. Well, he shall spend some of 

his thousands now, 
For I have sent for him to the Guildhall. 

Enter Eyre. 

See, where he comes. — Good morrow. 

Master Eyre. 
Eyre. Poor Simon Eyre, my lord, your 

shoemaker. 
L. Mayor. Well, well, it likes ^^ yourself 

to term you so. 

Enter Dodger. 

Now Master Dodger, what 's the news 
with you? 
Dodger. I 'd gladly speak in private to 

your honor. 
L. Mayor. You shall, you shall. — Master 
Eyre and Master Scott, 
I have some business with this gentle- 
man; 
I pray, let me entreat you to walk before 

07 found; a pun upon fond. o 8 puppet. 99 pleases. 



i 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



135 



To the Guildhall ; I '11 follow presently. 
Mastei' Eyre, I hope ere noon to call you 
sheriff. 
Eyre. I would not care, my lord, if you 
might call me 
King of Spain. — Come, Master Scott. 

Exeunt Eyre and Scott. 
L. Mayor. Now, Master Dodger, what 's 

the news you bring f 
Dodger. The Earl of Lincoln by me 
gTeets your lordship, 
And earnestly I'equests you, if you can. 
Inform him where his nephew Lacy 
keeps. 
L. Mayor. Is not his nephew Lacy now in 

France ? 
Dodger. No, I assure your Lordship, but 
disguis'd 
Lurks here in London. 
L. Mayor. London *? Is 't even so ? 

It may be; but upon my faith and soul, 
I know not where he lives, or whether 

he lives : 
So tell my Lord of Lincoln. Lurk in 

London ? 
Well, Master Dodger, you perhaps may 

stai't him ; 
Be but the means to rid him into France, 
I '11 give you a dozen angels ^ for your 

^pains : 
So much I love his honor, hate his 

nei^hew. 
And, prithee, so inform thy lord from 
me. 
Dodger. I take my leave. 

Exit Dodger. 

L. Mayor. Fai'ewell, good Master Dodger. 

Lacy in London*? I dare pawn my life, 

My daughter knows thereof, and for that 

cause 
Deni'd young Master Hannnon in his 

love. 
Well, I am glad I sent her to Old Ford. 
Gods Lord, 't is late ! to Guildhall I must 

hie; 
I know my brethren stay - my company. 

Exit. 

Scene 4. London: a room in Eyre's 
house. 

Enter Firk, Margery, Lacy as Hans, and 
Roger. 

Marg. Thou goest too fast for me, Roger. 

0, Firk! 
Firk. Aye, forsooth. 



I pray thee, run — do you hear? — 
run to Guildhall, and learn if ray hus- 
band. Master Eyre, will take that wor- 
shipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon 
him. Hie thee, good Firk. 

Firk. Take it? Well, I go; an he should 
not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. 
Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall. 

Marg. Nay, when? Thou art too com- 
pendious and tedious. 

Firk. rare, your excellence is full of 
eloquence ; how like a new cart-wheel my 
dame speaks, and she looks like an old 
musty ale-bottle ^ going to scalding. 

Marg. Nay, when? Thou wilt make me 
melancholj'. 

Firk. God forbid your worship should 
fall into that humor; — I run. 

Exit. 

Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans. 

Hodge. Aye, forsooth, dame — mistress, I 
should say, but the old term so sticks to 
the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick 
it off. 

Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; 
dame is a fair name for any honest 
Christian; but let that pass. How dost 
thou, Hans? 

Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.'^ 

Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, 
God hath blest your master, and, perdy, 
if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of 
London — as we are all mortal — you shall 
see, I will have some odd thing or other 
in a corner for your : I will not be your 
back-friend ; ^ but let that pass. Hans, 
pray thee, tie my shoe. 

Hans. Yaw, ic sal, vro.^' 

Marg. Roger, thou know'st the length of 
my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so 
I thank God, it is handsome enough ; 
prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, 
coi'k, good Roger, wooden heel too. 

Hodge. You shall. 

Marg. Art thou acquainted Avith never a 
farthingale-maker, nor a French hood- 
maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! 
How shall I look in a hood, I wonder ! 
Perdy, oddly, I think. 

Hodge. {Aside.) As a cat out of a pil- 
lory. — Very well, I warrant you, mis- 
tress. 

Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, 
Roger, canst thou tell Avhere I may buy 
a good hair? 

Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer's 
in Gracious Street. 



1 coins worth ten 
sliillings. 



2 wait for. 

3 leather bottle. 



4 1 thank you, mis- 
tress ! 



5 false friend. 

6 Yes, I shall, mistress. 



136 



THE .ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag: 
perdy, I mean a false hair for my peri- 
wig. 

Hodge. "WHiy, mistress, the next time I 
cut my beard, you shall have the shav- 
ings of it; but they are all true hairs. 

Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan 
or else a mask. 

Hodge. (Aside.) So you had need, to 
hide your wicked face. 

Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this 
world's calling is; perdy, but that it is 
one of the wonderful works of God, I 
would not deal with it. — Is not Firk 
come yef? Hans, be not so sad, let it 
pass and vanish, as my husband's wor- 
ship says. 

Hans. Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo."^ 

Hodge. Mistress, will you drink ® a pipe 
of tobacco f 

Marg. Oh, fie upon it, Roger, perdy! 
These filthy tobacco-pipes are the most 
idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. 
Out upon it! God bless us, men look 
not like men that use them. 

Enter Ralph, being lame. 

Hodge. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, 
look here, Jane's husband ! Why, how 
now, lame"? Hans, make much of him, 
he 's a brother of our trade, a good work- 
man, and a tall ^ soldier. 

Hans. You be welcome, broder. 

Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost 
thou, good Ralph*? I am glad to see 
thee well. 

Ralph. I would to God you saw me, dame, 
as well 
As when I went from London into 
France. 

Marg. Trust me, I am soriy, Ralph, to see 
thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have 
made him sunburnt ! The left leg is not 
well ; 't was a fair gift of God the in- 
firmity took not hold a little higher, con- 
sidering thou earnest from France ; but 
let that pass. 

Ralph. I am glad to see you well, and I 
rejoice 
To hear that God hath blest my master 

so 
Since my departure. 

Marg. Yea, truly, Ralph, I thank my 
Maker; but let that pass. 

Hodge. And, sirrah Ralph, what news, 
what news in France *? 



Ralph. Tell me, good Roger, first, what 
news in England"? 
How does my Jane"? When didst thou 

see my wife? 
Where lives my poor heart "? She '11 be 

poor indeed. 
Now I want limbs to get whereon to 
feed. 

Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, 
man? Thou shall never see a shoemaker 
want bread, though he have but three 
fingers on a hand. 

Ralph. Yet all this while I hear not of my 
Jane. 

Marg. Ralph, your wife, — perdy, we 
know not what 's become of her. She 
was here a while, and because she was 
married, grew more stately than became 
her; I cheek'd her, and so 'forth; away 
she flung, never returned, nor said bye 
nor bah ; and, Ralph, you know, "ka me, 

ka thee." ^° And, so as I tell ye 

Roger, is not Firk come yet? 

Hodge. No, forsooth. 

Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of 
her, but I hear she lives in London; but 
let that pass. If she had wanted, she 
might have opened her case to me or my 
husband, or to any of my men ; I am 
sure, there 's not any of them, perdy, but 
would have done her good to his power. 
Hans, look if Firk be come. 

Hans. Yaw, ik sal, vro.'^''- 

Exit Hans. 

Marg. And so, as I said — but, Ralph, Avhy 
dost thou weep? Thou knowest that 
naked we came out of our mother's 
womb, and naked we must return ; and, 
therefore, thank God for all things. 

Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here; 
but, Ralph, pull up a good heart, I know 
thou hast one. Thy wife, man, is in 
London ; one told me, he saw her a while 
ago very brave ^- and neat; we'll ferret 
her out, an London hold her. 

Marg. Alas, poor soul, he 's overcome 
with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep 
for the loss of any good thing. But, 
Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat 
and drink, thou shall find me worshipful 
towards thee. 

Ralph. I thank you, dame; since I want 
limbs and lands, 
I '11 trust to God, my good friends, and 
my hands. 



Enter Hans and Firk running. 



II am merry; let's 
ace you so. 



8 smoke. 

9 brave. 



10 scratch me. and 
I '11 scratch thee. 



11 Yrs. I shall, mis- 
tress. 



12 fine. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



137 



Firk. Run, good Hans! Hodge, 
mistress ! Hodge, heave up thine ears ; 
mistress, smug up your looks; on with 
your best apparel; my master is chosen, 
my master is called, nay, condemn'd by 
the cry of the country to be sheriff of the 
city for this famous year now to come. 
And, time now being, a great many men 
in black gowns were askt for their voices 
and their hands, and my master had all 
their fists about his ears presently, and 
they cried "Aye, aye, aye, aye" — and so 
I came away — 

Wherefore without all other grieve 
I do salute you. Mistress Shrieve.^^ 

Hans. Yaw, my mester is de groot man, 
de shrieve. 

Hodge. Did I not tell you, mistress 1 
Now I may boldly say : Good-morrow to 
your worship. 

Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I 
thank you, my good people all. — Firk, 
hold up thy hand : here 's a three-penny 
piece for thy tidings. 

Firk. 'T is but three-half-pence, I think. 
Yes, 't is three-pence, I smell the rose.^* 

Hodge. But, mistress, be rul'd by me, and 
do not sjoeak so pulingly. 

Firk. 'T is her worship speaks so, and not 
she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the 
old key: "To it, Firk"; "there, good 
Firk" ; "ply your business, Hodce" ; 
"Hodge, with a full mouth"; "I'll fill 
your bellies with good cheer, till they 
cry twang." 

Enter Eyre icearing a gold chain. 

Hans. See, myn liever broder, heer compt 
my meester.^^ 

Marg. Welcome home. Master Shrieve ; T 
pray God continue you in health and 
wealth. 

Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a 
gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall 
make thee a lady; here's a French hood 
for thee ; on with it, on with it ! dress 
thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of 
mutton,^® to make thee look lovely. 
Where be my fine men"? Roger, I'll 
make over my shop and tools to thee ; 
Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, 
thou shalt have an hundred for twenty." 
Be as mad knaves as your master Sim 
Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be 
sheriffs of London. — How dost thou like 
me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet 



am I princely bom. Firk, Hodge, and 
Hans! 

All Three. Aye, forsooth, what says your 
worship, Master Sheritfl 

Eyre. Worship and honor, you Babylon- 
ian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I 
forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord 
mayor to dinner to Old Ford; he's gone 
before, I must after. Come, Madge, on 
with your trinkets ! Now, my true Tro- 
jans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, 
my honest Hans, some device, some odd 
crotchets, some morris, or such like, for 
the honor of the gentlemen shoemakers. 
Meet me at Old Ford, you know my 
mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up 
the shops, knaves, and make holiday. 

Exeunt. 

Firk. rare ! O brave ! Come, Hodge ; 
follow me, Hans; 
We '11 be with them for a morris-dance. 

Exeunt. 



13 sheriff. 

14 The three-penny 
silver pieces of 



Queen ETizaheth 
had a rose on the 
obverse side. 



Scene 5. A room at Old Ford. 

Enter the Lord Mayor, Rose, Eyre, Mar- 
gery in a French hood, Sybil, and other 
Servants. 

L. Mayor. Trust me, vou are as welcome 
to Old Ford 
As I myself. 

Marg. Truly, I thank your lordship. 

L. Mayor. Would our bad cheer were 
worth the thanks you give. 

Eyre. Good cheer, my lord mayor, fine 
cheer ! A fine house, fine walls, all fine 
and neat. 

L. Mayor. Now, by my troth, I '11 tell 
thee. Master Eyre, 
It does me good, and all my brethren. 
That such a madcap felloAv as thyself 
Is ent'red into our society. 

Marg. Aye, but, my lord, he must leai'n 
now to put on gravity. 

Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! 
When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet 
gown, I '11 look as demurely as a saint, 
and speak as gravely as a justice of 
peace ; but now I am here at Old Ford, 
at my good lord mayor's house, let it go 
by, vanish, Maggy, I'll be merry; away 
with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gul- 
leries. Wliat, honey"? Prince am I 
none, yet am I princely born. What 
says my lord mayor'? 

> f!re. my dear lo a hood trimmed 17 i.e. for the twen- 
brofhers. here with fur or ty portagues 

comes my master. sheep's wool. lent by Hans. 



138 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather 
than a thousand pound, I had an heart 
but half so light as yours. 

Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? 
A pound of care pays not a dram of 
debt. Hum, let 's be merry, whiles we 
are young; old age, sack and sugar will 
steal upon us, ere we be aware. 

The First Three Men's Song^^ 

O the month of May, the merry month of 
May, 
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, 
so green ! 
0, and then did I unto my true love say: 
"Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's 
queen ! 

"Now the nightingale, tlie pretty nightin- 
gale, 
The sweetest singer in all the forest's choir. 
Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true 
love's tale; 
Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a 
briar. 

"But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the 
cuckoo ; 
See where she sitteth : come away, my joy ; 
Come away, I prithee : I do not like the 
cuckoo 
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss 
and toy." 

O the month of Maj', the merry month of 
May, 
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, 
so green! 
And then did I unto my true love say: 
"Sweet Peg, thou shalt bo my summer's 
queen ! " 



L, Mayor. It 's well done. Mistress Eyre, 

pray, give good counsel 
To my daughter. 
Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the 

grace to take nothing that 's bad. 
L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i' faith, 

Mistress Eyre, 
I would bestow upon that peevish girl 
A thousand marks more than I mean to 

give her 
Upon condition she'd be ml'd by me. 
The ape still crosseth me. There came 

of late 
A proper gentleman of fair revenues. 
Whom gladly I would call son-in-law^ : 
But my fine cockney would have none of 

him. 

18 A catch for three voices. The quartos do not 
indicate the places for the songs. 



You '11 prove a coxcomb for it, ere you 

die: 
A courtier, or no man, must please your 
eye. 

Eyre. Be rul'd, sweet Rose : th' art ripe 
for a man. Marry not with a boy that 
has no more hair on his face than thou 
hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, 
go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery : 
those silken fellows are but painted im- 
ages, outsides, outsides, Rose ; their in- 
ner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, 
marry me with a gentleman grocer like 
my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is 
a sweet trade : plums, plums. Had I a 
son or daughter should man-y out of the 
generation and blood of the shoemakers, 
he should pack. What, the gentle trade 
is a living for a man through Europe, 
through the world. 
{A noise withiii of a tahor and a pipe.) 

L. Blayor. What noise is this? 

Eyre. my lord mayor, a crew of good 
fellows that for love to your honor are 
come hither with a morris-dance. Come 
in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily ! 

Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and 
other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a 
little dancing, the Lord Mayor speaks. 

L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these 

shoemakers 1 
Eyre. All cordwainei'S, my good lord 

mayor. 
Rose. {Aside.) How like ni}^ Lacy looks 

yond shoemaker ! 
Hans. (Aside.) that I durst but speak 

unto my love ! 
L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to 
make these drink. You are all wel- 
come. 
All. We thank your lordship. 
{Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to 

Hans.) 
Rose. For his sake whose fair shape thou 
represent'st, 
Good friend, I drink to thee. 
Hans. Ic hcdancke, good frister.^^ 
Marg. I see, Mistress Rose, you do not 
want judgment ; you have drunk to the 
properest man I keep. 
Firk. Here be some have done their parts 

to be as proper as he. 
L. Mayor. Well, urgent business calls me 
back to London. 
Good fellows, first go in and taste our 
cheer ; 

19 / thank you, good maid! 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



139 



And to make merry as you homeward 

go, 
Spend these two angels in beer at Strat- 
ford-Bow. 
Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim 
Eyre adds another; then cheerily, Firk; 
tickle it, Hans, and all for the honor of 
shoemakers. 

All go dancing out. 
L. Mayor. Come, Master Eyre, let 's have 
your comj^any. 

Exeunt. 
Rose. Sybil, what shall I do'? 
Sybil. Why, what's the matter? 
Rose. That Hans the shoemaker is my 
love Lacy, 
Disguis'd in that attire to find me out. 
How should I find the means to speak 
with him? 
Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare 
venture my maidenhead to nothing-, and 
that 's great odds, that Hans the Dutch- 
man, when we come to London, shall not 
only see and speak with you, but in spite 
of all your father's policies steal you 
away and marry you. Will not this 
please you? 
Rose. Do this, and ever be assured of my 

love. 
Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father 
to London, lest your absence cause him 
to suspect something: 
To-morrow, if my counsel be obey'd, 
I '11 bind you prentice to the gentle trade. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. A street in London. 

Jane in a Seamster's shop, working; en- 
ter Master Hammon, muffled: he stands 
aloof. 

Ham. Yonder 's the shop, and there my 
fair love sits. 

She 's fair and lovely, but she is not 
mine. 

0, would she were ! Thrice have I 
courted her, 

Thrice hath my hand been moist'ned 
with her hand, 

Whilst my poor famisht eyes do feed on 
that 

Which made them famish. I am unfor- 
tunate : 

I still love one, yet nobody loves me. 



I muse in other men what women see 
That I so want! Fine Mistress Rose 

was coy. 
And this too curious ! '° Oh, no, she is 

chaste, 
And for she thinks me wanton, she de- 
nies 
To cheer my cold heart with her sunny 

eyes. 
How prettily she works ! Oh pretty 

hand ! 
Oh happy work ! It doth me good to 

stand 
LTnseen to see her. Thus I oft have 

stood 
In frosty evenings, a light burning by 

her. 
Enduring biting cold, only to eye her. 
One only look hath seem'd as rich to me 
As a king's crown ; such is love's lunacy. 
Muffled I '11 pass along, and by that tiy 
A\^iether she know me. 
Jane. Sir, what is 't you buy? 

What is 't you lack, sir, calico, or lawn. 
Fine cambric shirts, or bands, what will 
you buy? 
Ham. (Aside.) That which thou wilt not 
sell. Faith, yet I'll try:— 
How do you sell this handkerchief? 
Jane. Good cheap. 

Ham. And how these ruffs? 
Jane. Cheap too. 

Ham. And how this band? 

Jane. Cheap too. 
Ham. All cheap; how sell you then this 

hand? 
Jane. My hands are not to be sold. 
Ham. To be given then ! 

Nay, faith, I come to buy. 
Jane. But none knows when. 

Ham. Good sweet, leave work a little 

while ; let 's play. 
Jane. I cannot live by keeping holiday. 
Ham. I '11 pay you for the time which 

shall be lost. 
Jane. With me you shall not be at so 

much cost. 
Ham. Look, how you wound this cloth, so 

you wound me. 
Jane. It may be so. 
Ham. 'T is so. 

Jane. What remedy? 

Ham. Nay, faith, you are too coy. 
Jane. Let go my hand. 

Ham. I will do any task at your com- 
mand, 
I would let go this beauty, were I not 
In mind to disobey you by a power 



20 capricious. 



140 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



That controls kings : I love you ! 
Jane. So, now part. 

Ham. "With hands I may, but never with 

my heart. 
In faith, I love you. 
Jane. I believe you do. 

Ham. Shall a tnie love in me bi'eed hate 

in you? 
Jane. I hate you not. 
Ham. Then you must love. 

Jane. I do- 

What are you better now? I love not 

you. 
Ham. All this, I hope, is but a woman's 

fray, 
That means, "Come to me," when she 

cries, "Away !" 
In earnest, mistress, I do not jest, 
A true chaste love hath ent'red in my 

breast. 
I love you dearly, as I love my life, 
I love you as a husband loves a wife ; 
That, and no other love, my love requires. 
Thy wealth, I know, is little; my desires 
Thirst not for gold. Sweet, beauteous 

Jane, what 's mine 
Shall, if thou make myself thine, all be 

thine. 
Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life or 

deatii? 
Mercy or cruelty lies in thy breath. 
Jane. Good sir, I do believe you love me 

well; 
For 't is a silly conquest, silly pride 
For one like you — I mean a gentleman — 
To boast that by his love-tricks he hath 

brought 
Such and such women to his amorous 

lure ; 
I think you do not so, yet many do, 
And make it even a very trade to woo, 
I could be coy, as many women be, 
Feed you with sunshine smiles and wan- 
ton looks, 
But I detest witchcraft ; say that I 
Do constantly believe you constant 

have 

Ham. Why dost thou not believe me? 
Jane. I believe you ; 

But yet, good sir, because I will not 

grieve you 
With hopes to taste fruit which will 

never fall, 
In simple truth this is the sum of all : 
My husband lives, at least, I hope he 

lives. 
Prest was he to these bitter wars in 

France ; 
Bitter they are to me by wanting him. 



I have but one heart, and that heart 's 

his due. 
How can I then bestow the same on you? 
Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne'er so 

poor. 
And rather be his wife than a king's 
whore. 
Ham. Chaste and dear woman, I will not 
abuse thee. 
Although it cost my life, if thou refuse 

me. 
Thy husband, prest for France, what was 
his name? 
Jane. Ralph Damport. 
Ham. Damjoort? — Here's a letter sent 

From France to me, from a dear friend 

of mine, 
A gentleman of place ; here he doth write 
Their names that have been slain in 
every fight. 
Jane. I hope death's scroll contains not 

my love's name. 
Ham. Cannot you read? 
Jane. I can. 

Ham. Peruse the same. 

To my remembrance such a name I read 
Amongst the rest. See here. 
Jane. Ay me, he 's dead ! 

He 's dead ! If this be true, my dear 
heart 's slain ! 
Ham. Have patience, dear love. 
Jane. Hence, hence! 

Ham. Nay, sweet Jane, 

Make not poor sorrow proud with these 

rich tears. 
I mourn thy husband's death, because 
thou mourn'st. 
Jane. That bill is f org'd ; 't is sign'd by 

forgery. 
Ham. I '11 bring thee letters sent besides 
to many. 
Carrying the like report : Jane, 't is too 

true. 
Come, weep not : mourning, though it 

rise from love. 
Helps not the mourned, yet hurts them 
that mourn. 
Jane. For God's sake, leave me. 
Ham. Whither dost thou turn? 

Forget the dead, love them that are alive ; 
His love is faded, try how mine will 
thrive. 
Jane. 'T is now no time for me to think 

on love. 
Ham. 'T is now best time for you to think 
on love. 
Because your love lives not. 
Jane. Though he be dead. 

My love to him shall not be buried ; 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



141 



For God's sake, leave me to myself alone. 
Ham. 'T would kill my soul, to leave thee 
drown'd in moan. 
Answer me to ray suit, and I am gone ; 
Say to me yea or no. 
Jane. No. 

Ham. Then farewell ! 

One farewell will not serve, I come 

again ; 
Come, diy these wet cheeks; tell me, 

faith, sweet Jane, 
Yea or no, once more. 
Jane. Once more I say no ; 

Once more be gone, I pray ; else will I go. 
Ham. Nay, then I will grow rude, by this 
w4iite hand. 
Until you change that cold "no"; here 
I'll stand 

Till by your hard heart 

Jane. Nay, for God's love, peace! 

My sorrows by your presence more in- 
crease. 
Not that you thus are present, but all 

grief 
Desires to be alone ; therefore in brief 
Thus much I say, and saying bid adieu : 
If ever I wed man. it shall be you. 
Ham. blessed voice ! Dear Jane, I '11 
urge no more, 
Thy breath hath made me rich. 
Jane. Death makes me poor. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. London: a street before Hodge's 
shop. 

Hodge, at his shop-hoard, Ralph, Firk, 
Hans, and a Boy at work. 

All. Hey, down a down, down deny. 

Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your 
work to-day, we loit'red yesterday; to it 
pell-mell, that we may live to be lord 
mayors, or aldermen at least. 

Firk, Hey, down a down, derry. 

Hodge. Well said, i' faith ! How say'st 
thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it? 

Hans. Yaw, mester. 

Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe 
squeaks this morning for want of liquor- 
ing. Hey, down a down, derry ! 

Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un jolly 
youngster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, 
cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jef- 
freys boots. ~'^ 



21 Forward. 


Firk, 


ay. master, I pray 


Master 


thou art 


a jolly 


you cut me a pair 


boots. 


youngster. 


Hark, 


of vamps for 





Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans. 

Firk. Master ! 

Hodge. How now, boy? 

Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting 
vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,-- 
or else my work will not pass current; 
hey, down a down ! 

Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mis- 
tress Priscilla's shoes done? 

Firk. Your cousin? No, master; one of 
your aunts, hang her; let them alone. 

Ralph. 1 am in hand with them; she gave 
charge that none but I should do them 
for her. 

Firk. Thou do for her? Then 'twill be' 
a lame doing, and that she loves not. 
Ralph, thou might'st have sent her to me, 
in faith, I would have yarked and firkecl 
your Priscilla. Hey, down a down,, 
deny. This gear will not hold. 

Hodge. How say'st thou, Firk, were we 
not meriy at Old Ford? 

Firk. How, merry! Why, our buttocks- 
went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well,, 
Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought all meal 
of that nature, I would eat nothing but 
bagpuddings. 

Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow 
Hans had the best. 

Firk. 'T is true, because Mistress Rose 
drank to him. 

Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They 
say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or 
very sick. 

Firk. I care not, I '11 be none. 

Ralph. No, nor I; but then my Master 
Eyre will come quickly to be lord mayor. 

Enter Sybil. 

Firk. Wlioop, yonder comes Sybil. 

Hodge. Sybil, welcome, i' faith ; and how 
dost thou, mad wench? 

Firk. Sib-whore, welcome to London. 

Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord;. 
Hodge, what a delicious shop you have' 
got ! You tickle it, i' faith. 

Ralph. Godamercy, Sybil, for our good! 
cheer at Old Ford. 

Sybil. That you shall have, Ralph. 

Firk. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling 
cheer, Sybil ; and how the plague dost 
thou and Mistress Rose and my lord 
mayor? I put the women in first. 

Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God's me, I 
forget myself, where 's Hans the Flem- 
ing? 

Jeffrey's 2: 



vamps : used 

here for the sake 



of the pun in pass 
current. 



142 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Firk. Hark, butter-box, now you must 

yelp out some spreken. 
Hans. Vat begaie youf Vat vod you, 

Frister? -^ 
Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young- 
mistress, to pull on her shoes you made 

last. 
Hans. Vare hen your edle fro, vare hen 

your mistrisf -'* 
Sybil. Marry, here at our London house 

in Cornhill. 
Firk. Will nobody serve her turn but 

Hans? 
Sybil. No, sir. Come, Hans, I stand 

upon needles. 
Hodge. Why then, Sybil, take heed of 

pricking. 
Sybil. For that let me alone. I have a 

trick in my budget. Come, Hans. 
Hans. Yaw, yaw, ic sail meete yo gane.--' 
Exeunt Hans and Sybil. 
Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. 

Come, who lacks woi'k? 
Firk. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; 

't is munehing-time, and past. 
Hodge. Is 't so ? AVhy, then leave work, 

Ralph. To breakfast ! Boy. look to the 

tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. The same. 

Enter a Serving-man. 

Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last 
in Tower Street. Mass, yonder 's the 
house. What, haw! Who's w'ithin? 

Enter Ralph. 

Ralph. Who calls there? What want 
you, sir? 

Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes 
made for a gentlewoman against to-mor- 
row morning'. What, can you do them? 

Ralph. Yes, sir, you shall have them. 
But what length 's her foot ? 

Serv. Why, you must make them in all 
parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, 
fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman 
is to be married very early in the morn- 
ing. 

Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be 
made? By this? Are you sure, sir, by 
this? 

Serv. How, by this? Am I sure, by this? 



Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must 
have a pair of shoes, dost thou mark me? 
A pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this 
very shoe, this same shoe, against to- 
morrow morning by four o'clock. Dost 
understand me? Canst thou do't? 

Ralph. Yes, sir, yes — I — I — I can do 't. 
By this shoe, you say? I should know 
this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I 
can do 't. Four o'clock, well. Whither 
shall I bring them? 

Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in 
Watling- Street; inquire for one Master 
Hammon, a gentleman, my master. 

Ralph. Yea, sir; by this shoe, you say? 

Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the 
Golden Ball ; he 's the bridegroom, and 
those shoes are for his bride. 

Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe. 
Well, well, Master Hammon at the 
Golden Shoe — I would say, the Golden 
Ball ; very well, veiy well. But I pray 
you, sir, where must Master Hammon 
be married? 

Serv. At Saint Faith's Church, under 
Paul's. But what's that to thee? 
Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so 
farewell. 

Exit. 

Ralph. By this shoe, said he. How am I 

amaz'd 

At this strange accident ! Upon my life, 

This was the very shoe I gave my wife, 

When I was prest for France; since 

when, alas ! 
I never could hear of her. It is the 

same. 
And Hammon's bride no other but my 
Jane. 

Enter Firk. 

Firk. 'Snails,-'^ Ralph, thou hast lost thy 

part of three pots, a countryman of mine 

gave me to breakfast. 
Ralph. I care not; I have found a better 

thing. 
Firk. A thing? Away! Is it a man's 

thing, or a woman's thing? 
Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe? 
Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that 

know me ! I have no acquaintance with 

it, 't is a mere stranger to me. 
Ralph. Why, then I do ; this shoe, I durst 
be sworn, 

Once covered the instep of my Jane. 

This is her size, her breadth, thus trod 
my love; 



23 What do you 
want, what would 



you, girl? 
24 Where is your 



noble lady, where 
is your mistress ? 



25 Tes, yes, I shall 
go with you. 



26 God's nails. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



143 



These true-love knots I ijriekt. I hold 

my life, 

By this old shoe I shall find out my wife. 

Firk. Ha, ha ! Old shoe, that wert new ! 

How a murrain came this ague-fit of 

foolishness upon thee? 

Balph. Thus, Firk : even now here came 

a serving--man ; 
By this shoe would he have a new pair 

made 
Against to-morrow morning for his mis- 
tress, 
That 's to be married to a gentleman. 
And why may not this be my sweet Jane? 
Firk. And why may'st not thou be my 

sweet ass? Ha, ha! 
Ealph. Well, laugh and sjDare not ! But 

the truth is this : 
Against to-morrow morning I '11 provide 
A lusty crew of honest shoemakers, 
To watch the going of the bride to 

church. 
If she prove Jane, I '11 take her in de- 

sj^ite 
From Hammon and the devil, were he by. 
If it be not my Jane, what remedy? 
Hereof I am sure, I shall live till I die. 
Although I never with a woman lie. 

Exit. 
Firk. Thou lie Avith a woman to build 
nothing but Cripplegates ! Well, God 
sends fools fortune, and it may be, he 
may light upon his matrimony by such a 
device; for wedding and hanging goes by 
destiny. 

Exit. 

Scene 4. London: a room in the Lord 
Mayor's house. 

Enter Lacy as Hans and Bose, arm in 
arm. 

Hans. How happy am I by embracing 
thee ! 
Oh, I did fear such cross mishaps did 

reigii 
That I should never see my Rose again. 
Rose. Sweet Lacy, since fair opportunity 
Offers herself to further our escape. 
Let not too over-fond esteem of me 
Hinder that happy hour. Invent the 

means. 
And Rose will follow thee through all 
the world. 
Hans. Oh, how I surfeit with excess of 
joy, 

27 Indeed, mistress, it shall fit well, or 2S Tes, 
't is a good shoe, you shall not pay. that w 



Made happy by thy rich perfection! 
But since thou pay'st sweet interest to 

my hoiDes, 
Redoubling love on love, let me once more 
Like to a bold-fae'd debtor crave of thee 
This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre's 

house, 
Who now by death of certain aldermen 
Is mayor of London, and my master 

once, 
Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of 

change, 
Your father's anger, and mine uncle's 

hate. 
Our hapiiy nuptials will we consummate. 

Enter Sybil. 

Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mis- 
tress? Shift for yourself, your father 
is at hand ! He 's coming, he 's coming ! 
Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mis- 
tress! For God's sake, shift for your- 
selves ! 
Hans. Your father come ! Sweet Rose, 
what shall I do? 
Where shall I hide me? How shall I es- 
cape? 
Bose. A man, and want wit in extremity? 
Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoe- 
maker, 
Pull on my shoe. 

Enter the Lord Mayor. 

Hans. Mass, and that 's well rememb'red. 

Sybil. Here comes your father. 

Hans. Forware, metresse, 't is un good 
skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit be- 
tallen.^'' 

Bose. Oh God, it pincheth me; what will 
you do? 

Hans. [Aside.) Your father's presence 
pincheth, not the shoe. 

L. Mayor. Well done ; fit my daughter 
well, and she shall please thee well. 

Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; for- 
ware, 't is un good skoo, 't is gimait van 
neitz leither : se ever, mine here.^^ 

Enter a Prentice. 

L. Mayor. I do believe it. — What 's the 

news with you? 
Prentice. Please you, the Earl of Lincoln 

at the gate 
Is newly lighted, and would speak with 

you. 

s, I know 't is a good shoe, neat's leather; 
ell; indeed, 't is made of see here, sir! 



144 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



L. Mayor. The Earl of Lincoln come to 
speak with nle? 

Well, well, I know his errand. Daugh- 
ter Rose, 

Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, 
have done ! 

Syb, make things handsome! Sir boy, 
follow me. 

Exit. 
Hans. Mine uncle come ! Oh, what may 
this portend? 

Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an 
end. 
Bose. Be not dismay'd at this ; whatever 
befall, 

Rose is thine own. To witness I speak 
truth. 

Where thou appoint'st the place, I '11 
meet with thee. 

I Avill not fix a day to follow thee, 

But presently -^ steal hence. Do not re- 
ply:. 

Love which gave strength to bear my 
father's hate, 

Shall now add wings to further our es- 
cape. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. Another room in the same house. 

Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of 
Lincoln. 

L. Mayor. Believe me, on my credit, I 
speak truth : 

Since first your nephew Lacy went to 
France 

I have not seen him. It seem'd strange 
to me, 

When Dodger told me that he stay'd be- 
hind. 

Neglecting the high charge the king- im- 
posed. 
Lincoln. Trust me, Sir Roger Oateley, I 
did think 

Your counsel had given head to this at- 
tempt, 

Drawn to it by the love he bears your 
child. 

Here I did hope to find him in your 
house ; 

But now I see mine error, and confess, 

My judgment wrong'd you by conceiving 
so. 
L. Mayor. Lodge in my house, say you? 
Trust me, my lord, 

I love your nephew Lacy too too dearly, 



So much to wrong his honor; and he 

hath done so. 
That first gave him advice to stay from 

France. 
To witness I speak truth, I let you know 
How careful I have been to keep my 

daughter 
Free from all conference or speech of 

him ; 

Not that I scorn your nephew, but in love 

I bear your honor, lest your noble blood 

Should by my mean worth be dishonored. 

Lincoln. (Aside.) How far the churl's 

tongue wanders from his heart ! — 
Well, well, Sir Roger Oateley, I believe 

you, 
With more than many thanks for the 

kind love 
So much you seem to bear me. But, my 

loi'd. 
Let me request your help to seek my 

nephew, 
Whom if I find, I '11 straight embark for 

France. 
So shall your Rose be free, my thoughts 

at rest. 
And much care die which now lies in my 

breast. 

Enter Sybil. 

Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God's sake! 

My mistress ; oh, my young mistress ! 
L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? 

What 's become of her ? 
Sybil. She 's gone, she 's fled ! 
L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled? 
Sybil. I know not, forsooth ; she 's fled out 
of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw 
them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace ! 
L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! 

Where be my men? Which way? 
Sybil. I know not, an it please your wor- 
ship. 
L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can 

this be true? 
Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God 's in 

Heaven. 
Lincoln. Her love turn'd shoemaker? I 

am glad of this. 
L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoe- 
maker ! 
Will she forget her birth, requite my 

care 
With such ingratitude? Scorn'd she 

young Hammon 
To love a honniken.^" a needv knave? 
Well, let her fly, I'll not fly after her, 

3f) Meaning not known. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



145 



Let her starve, if she will : she 's none of 
mine. 
Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir. 

Enter Firk icitli shoes. 

Sybil. I am glad she 's scapt. 

L. Mayor. I '11 not account of her as of 
my child. 
Was there no better object for her eyes, 
But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly, 
A shoemaker? That's brave! 

Firk. Yea, forsooth ; 't is a very brave 
shoe, and as fit as a pudding-. 

L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this*? 
From whence eomest thou'? 

Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoe- 
maker, lusty Roger's chief lusty journey- 
man, and I have come hither to take up 
the i^retty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, 
and thus hoping- your worship is in as 
good health, as I was at the makmg 
hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk. 

L. Mayor. Stay, stay. Sir Knave ! 

Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker ! 

Firk. 'T is happy the knave is put before 
the shoemaker^ or else I would not have 
vouchsafed to come back to you. I am 
moved, for I stir. 

L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us 
knaves by craft. 

Firk. Then 'tis by the gentle craft, and 
to call one knave gently, is no hann. Sit 
your worship merry ! Syb, your young 
mistress — I '11 so bob ^^ them, now my 
Master Eyre is lord mayor of London. 

L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, whose man are 

you? 

Firk. I am glad to see your worship so 
merry. I have no maw to this gear, no 
stomach as yet to a red petticoat. 
{Pointing to Sybil.) 

Lincoln. He means not, sir, to woo you to 
his maid. 
But only doth demand whose man you 
are. 

Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero.^- 
Roger, my fellow, is now my master. 

Lincoln. - Sirrah, know'st thou one Hans, a 
shoemaker? 

Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, 
yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak 
it in seci'et : Mistress Rose and he are by 
this time — no, not so, but shortly are to 



come over one another with "Can you 
dance the shaking of the sheets?" It is 
that Hans— (Aside.) I'll so gnll^^ 
these diggers ! ^* 

L. Mayor. Know'st thou, then, where he 
is? ' 

Firk. Yes, forsooth ; yea. marry ! 

Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness" =*■'' 

Firk. Xo, forsooth, no, marry! 

L. Mayor. Tell me, good honest fellow, 
wliere he is, 
And thou shalt see what I'll bestow on 
thee. 

Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, 
sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I 
care not for seeing, I love feeling; let me 
feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of 
gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; 
and then Firk is your man — (Aside.) in 
a new pair of stretchers. ^° 

L. Mayor. Here is an angel, part of thy 
reward, 
Which I will give thee ; tell me where he 
is. 

Firk. No point.^'^ Shall I betray my 
brother? No! Shall I prove Judas to 
Hans? No! Shall I cry treason to my 
corporation? No, I shall be firkt and 
yerkt then. But give me your angel; 
your angel shall tell you. 

Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; 'tis no hurt 
to thee. 

Firk. Send simiDering Syb away. 

L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. 

Exit Sybil. 

Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids liave 
wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon 
my word, to-morrow morning he and 
young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they 
shall be married together, by this rush, 
or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to 
tan leather withal. 

L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this? 

Firk. Am I sure that Paul's steeple is a 
handful higher than London Stone, ^'^ or 
that the Pissing-Conduit ^" leaks nothing 
but pure Mother Bunch ? *" Am I sure 
I am lusty Firk? God's nails, do you 
think I am so base to gull you? 

Lincoln. Where ai'e they married? Dost 
thou know the church? 

Firk. I never go to church, but I know 
the name of it ; it is a swearing church — 
stay a while, 't is — aye, by the mass, no. 



« flout. 

32 This, and the 
"Shaking of the 
Sheets" (below) 
were popular 



dance tunes, to 
which also bal- 
lads were set. 

3.-? fool. 

34 i.e. diggers for 



information. 
3r, seriously. 
30 lies. 
3 7 not at all: 

ne point. 



Fr. 



' .\. stone which 
marked the cen- 
ter from which 
the old Roman 
roads radiated. 



^n a sma'l conduit 
in Cornhill. 

40 Mother Bunch 
was a well- 
known ale-wife. 



146 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



no, — 'tis — aye, by my troth, no, nor 
that; 'tis — aye, by my faith, that, that, 
't is, aye, by my Faith's Church under 
Paul's Cross. There they shall be knit 
like a pair of stockings in matrimony; 
there they '11 be incony.*^ 
Lincoln. Upon my life, my nephew Lacy 
walks 
In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker. 
Firk. Yes, forsooth. 
Lincoln. Doth he not, honest fellow? 
Firk. No, forsooth ; I think Hans is no- 
body but Hans, no spirit. 
L. Mayor. My mind misgives me now, 

't is so, indeed. 
Lincoln. My cousin speaks the language, 

knows the trade. 
L. Mayor. Let me request your company, 
my lord; 
Your honoralale presence may, no doubt, 
Refrain their headstrong rashness, when 

myself 
Going alone perchance may be o'erborne. 
Shall I request this favor*? 
Lincoln. This, or what else. 

Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they 
mean to fall to their hey-pass and re- 
pass,*- pindy-pandy, which hand will you 
have, very early. 
L. Mayor. My care shall every way equal 
their haste. 
This night accept your lodging in my 

house. 
The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint 

Faith's 
Prevent this giddy hare-brain'd nuptial. 
This traffic of hot love shall yield cold 

gains : 
They ban *^ our loves, and we '11 forbid 
their banns. 

Exit. 
Lincoln. At Saint Faith's Church thou 

say'st? 
Firk. Yes, by their troth. 
Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. 

Exit. 
Firk. Yes, Avhen I kiss your Avif e ! Ha, 
ha, here 's no craft in the gentle craft. 
I came hither of purpose with shoes to 
Sir Roger's worship, whilst Rose, his 
daughter, be cony-catcht ** by Hans. 
Soft now ; these two gulls will be at Saint 
Faith's Church to-morrow morning, to 
take Master Bridegroom and Mistress 
Bride napping, and they, in the mean 
time, shall chop up the matter at the 

41 snug. 43 cwrse. 45 A chapel 

42 conjuring terms. 44 spirited away. don, 



Savoy.*^ But the best sjaort is. Sir 
Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame 
Ralph's wife going to marry a gentleman, 
and then he '11 stoj^ her instead of his 
daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine 
tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to 
do*? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoe- 
makers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy 
Lane, to cozen *'^ my gentleman of lame 
Ralph's wife, that's true. 

Alack, alack! 

Girls, hold out tack ! ^^ 

For now smocks for this jumbling 

Shall go to wrack. 

Exit. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. A ruom in Eyre's house. 
Enter Eyre, Margery, Hans, and Rose. 

Eyre. This is the morning, then ; stay, my 
bully, my honest Hans, is it nof? 

Hans. This is the morning that must make 
us two happy or miserable; therefore, if 
you 

Eyre. Away with these ifs and ans, Hans, 
and these et caeteras ! By mine honor, 
Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall 
wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not 
I Sim Eyre"? Is not Sim Eyre lord 
mayor of London? Fear nothing. Rose: 
let them all say what they can ; dainty, 
come thou to me— laughest thou? 

Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in 
what thing you may. 

Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think 
you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch 
journeyman? No, vah ! Fie, I scorn it, 
it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I 
was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou 
had'st never cover'd thy Saracen's head 
with this French flap, nor loaden thy 
bum with this farthingale ('tis trash, 
trumpery, vanity) ; Simon Eyre had 
never walk'd in a red petticoat, nor wore 
a chain of gold, but for my fine journey- 
man's portagues. — And shall I leave 
him ? No ! Prince am I none, yet bear 
a princely mind. 

Hans. My lord, 't is time for us to part 
from hence. 

Eyre. Lady MadgA^ Lady Madgy, take 

in Lon- connected with 46 cheat, 
formerly the Savoy palace. 47 stoutly. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



147 



two or three of my pie-erust-eaters, my 
buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black 
gowns at Simon Eyre's heels ; take them, 
good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my 
brown queen of periwigs, with my deli- 
cate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the 
Savoy; see them linkt, countenance the 
marriage; and when it is done, cling, 
cling together, you Hamborow turtle- 
doves. I '11 bear you out, come to Simon 
Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou 
shalt eat minc'd-pies and marchpane.*^ 
Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my 
Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, 
and to bed ; kiss, and away ! Go, vanish ! 

Marg. Farewell, my lord. 

Rose. Make haste, sweet love. 

Marg. She 'd fain the deed were done. 

Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than 
deer we '11 run. 

Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery. 

Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish ! Avaunt, I 
say ! By the lord of Ludgate, it 's a mad 
life to be a lord mayor ; it 's a stirring 
life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful 
life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good 
face on it, in the honor of Saint Hugh. 
Soft, the king this day comes to dine 
with me, to see my new buildings; his 
majesty is welcome, he shall have good 
cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheei*. 
This day, my fellow prentices of London 
come to dine with me too, they shall have 
fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I prom- 
ised the mad Cappadocians, when we all 
served at the Conduit together,'*'' that if 
ever I came to be mayor of London, I 
would feast them all, and I '11 do 't, I '11 
do 't, by the life of Pharaoh ; by this 
beard, Sim Eyre will be no flineher. Be- 
sides, I have procur'd that upon every 
Shrove Tuesday, at the sound of the pan- 
cake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads 
shall clap up their shop windows, and 
away. This is the day, and this day 
they shall do 't, they shall do 't. 
Boys, that day are you free, let masters 

care, 
And prentices shall pray for Simon 
Eyre. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. A street near St. Faith's Clmrcli. 

Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and -five or six 
Shoemakers, all icith cudgels or such 
xceapons. 



Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. 
My masters, as we are the brave bloods 
of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to 
Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors 
to all good fellows, thou shalt have no 
wrong: were Hammon a king of spades, 
he should not delve in thy close without 
thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art 
thou sure 'tis thy wife? 

Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This 
morning, when I strokt on ^° her shoes, 
I lookt upon her, and she upon me, and 
sighed, askt me if ever I knew one Ralph. 
Yes, said I. For his sake, said she — 
tears standing in her eyes — and for thou 
art somewhat like him, spend this piece 
of gold. I took it ; my lame leg and my 
travel beyond sea made me unknown. 
All is one for that: I know she 's mine. 

Firk. Did she give thee this gold? 
glorious glittering gold ! She 's thine 
own, 't is thy wife, and she loves thee ; 
for I '11 stand ' to 't, there 's no woman 
will give gold to any man, but she thinks 
better of him than she thinks of them she 
gives silver to. And for Hammon, 
neither Hammon nor hangman shall 
wrong thee in London. Is not our old 
master Eyre lord mayor? Speak, my 
hearts. 

All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to 
his cost. 

Enter Hammon, his man, Jane, and 
others. 

Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they 
come. 

Ralph. Stand to 't, my hearts. Firk, let 
me speak first. 

Hodge. No, Ralph, let me. — Hammon, 
whither away so early? 

Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what 's 
that to thee? 

Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, 
and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how 
dost thou? Good Lord, how the world 
is changed with you ! God be thanked ! 

Ham. Villains, hands off ! How dare you 
touch my love? 

All. A^illains? Down with them! Cry 
clubs for pi'entices ! ^^ 

Hodge. Hold, ray hearts! Touch her, 
Hammon ? Yea, and more than that : 
we '11 carry her away with us. My mas- 
ters and gentlemen, never draw your 
bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the 



48 A sweetmeat 

made of sugar 
and almonds. 



49 Apprentices car- 
ried water from 
the conduits to 



their masters' 

homes, 
no fitted. 
51 "Clubs" was the 



rallying cry of the 
London appren- 
tices. 



148 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



back, men every inch of them, all spirit. 
All of Mammon's side. Well, and what of 

all this? 
Hodge. I '11 show you. — Jane, dost thou 
know this man"? 'T is Ralph, I can tell 
thee ; nay, 't is he in faith, thouoh he be 
lam'd by the wars. Yet look not strange, 
but run to him, fold him about the neck 
and kiss him. 
Jane. Lives then my husband? Oh, God, 
let me go ! 
Let me embrace my Ralph. 
Ham. What means my Jane? 

Jane. Nay, what meant you, to tell me he 

was slain ? 
Ham. Pardon me, dear love, for being 
misled. 
(To Ralph.) 'T was rnmor'd here in 
London thou wert dead. 
Firk. Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack 
home with him. 
Now, Master Hammon, where 's your 
mistress, your wifef 
Serv. 'Swounds, master, fight for her! 

AVill you thus lose her? 
All. Down with that creature ! Clubs ! 

Down with him ! 
Hodge. Hold, hold ! 

Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no 
wrong. 
Will my Jane leave me thus, and break 
her faith? 
Firk. Yea, sir! She must, sir! She 

shall, sir! What then? Mend it! 
Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my 
counsel: set the wench in the midst, and 
let her choose her man, and let her be his 
woman. 
Jane. Whom shall I choose? Whom 
should my thoughts af¥ect 
But him whom Heaven hath made to be 

my love? 
Thou ai't my husband, and these humble 

weeds 
Make thee more beautiful than all his 

wealth. 
Therefore, I will but put off this attire. 
Returning it into the owner's hand. 
And after ever be thy constant wife. 
Hodge. Not a rag, Jane ! The law 's on 
our side : he that sows in another man's 
ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee 
home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall 
not have so much as a busk-point •''- from 
thee. 
Firk. Stand to that, Ralph ; the appurte- 



52 A lace with a tag, 
which fastened 
the busk, or piece 



of wood or whale- 
bone used to stif- 



fen a corset. 
1 It was a fashion- 



nances are thine own. Hammon, look 
not at her! 
Serv. 0, swounds, no ! 
Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we '11 give you a 
new livery else ; we 'II make Shrove Tues- 
day Saint George's Day ^^ for you. 
Look not, Hammon, leer not ! I '11 firk 
you ! For thy head now, one glance, one 
sheep's eye, anything, at her ! Touch not 
a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to 
clouts. 
Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there 's no 

striving here. 
Ham. Good fellows, hear me speak; and, 
honest Ralph, 
Whom I have injured most by loving 

Jane, 
Mark what I offer thee : here in fair gold 
Is twenty pound, I '11 give it for thy 

Jane ; 
If this content thee not, thou shall have 
more. 
Hodge. Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make 

her not a whore. 
Ham. Say, wilt thou freely cease thy 
claim in her. 
And let her be my wife? 
All. No, do not, Ralph, 

Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost 
thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a 
bawd to his own wife for commodity? 
Take thy gold, choke with it ! Were I 
not lame, I would make thee eat thy 
words. 
Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and 

blood? indignity! 
Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be 

packing. 
Ham. I will not touch one penny, but in 
lieu. 
Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane, 
To Jane and thee I give that twenty 

pound. 
Since I have fail'd of her, during my life, 
I vow, no woman else shall be my wife. 
Farewell, good fellows of the gentle 

trade : 
Your morning mirth my mourning day 
hath made. 

Exit. 
Firk. {To the Serving-man.) Touch the 
gold, creature, if you dare ! Y' are best 
be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. 
Now let 's home, my hearts. 
Hodge. Stay! Who comes hei'e? Jane, 
on again with thy mask ! 

George's 



able 
wear 



custom to 
blue coats 



on St. 
day. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



149 



Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord 
Mayor, and Servants. 

Lincoln. Yonder 's the lying varlet niockt 
VIS so. 

L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah ! 

F^V^•. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean 
me, do you not? 

Lincoln. Where is my nephew married? 

Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, 
I am glad of it. They have a fair day, 
and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in 
Venus. 

L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my 
daughter Rose 
This morning should be married at Saint 

Faith's f 
"We have watch'd there these three hours 

at the least. 
Yet see we no such thing. 

Firk. Truly, I am soriy for 't ; a bride 's a 
pretty thing. 

Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder 's 
the bride and bridegroom you look for, I 
hope. Though you be lords, you are not 
to bar by your authority men from 
women, are you? 

L. Mayor. See, see, my daughter 's maskt. 

Lincoln. Tnie, and my nephew, 

To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame. 

Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor 
couple, they are lame and blind. 

L. Mayor. I '11 ease her blindness. 

Lincoln. I '11 his lameness cure. 

Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh ! My fel- 
low Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, 
and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. 
This is all my knaveiy. 

L. Mayor. What, have I found you, min- 
ion? 

Lincoln. O base wretch ! 

Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy 

guilt 
Can hardly be washt oi¥. Where are thy 

powers ? 
What battles have you made? O yes, I 

see. 
Thou fought'st with Shame, and Shame 

hath conquer'd thee. 
This lameness will not serve. 

L. Mayor. Unmask yourself. 

Lincoln. Lead home your daughter. 

L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence. 

Ralph. Hence ! Swounds, what mean 
you? Are you mad? I hope you can- 
not enforce my wife from me. Where 's 
Hammon? 

L. Mayor. Your wife? 



Lincoln. What, Hammon? 

Ecdph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the 

proudest of you that lays hands on her 

first, I 'II lay my crutch 'cross his pate. 
Firk. To him, lame Ralph ! Here 's 

brave sport ! 
Bcdph. Rose call you her? Why, her 

name is Jane. Look here else; do you 

know her now? 

(Unmasking Jane.) 
Lincoln. Is this your daughter? 
L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew. 

My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abus'd 

By this base, crafty varlet. 
Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, 

no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no 

crafty neither, but of the gentle craft. 
L. Mayor. Where is my daughter Rose? 

Where is my child? 
Lincoln. Where is my nephew Lacy mar- 
ried? 
Firk. "^Hiy, here is good lac'd mutton,'^* as 

I promist you. 
Lincoln. Villain, I'll have thee punisht 

for this wrong. 
Firk. Punish the journeyman villain, but 

not the journeyman shoemaker. 

Enter Dodger. 

LJodger. My lord, I come to bring unwel- 
come news. 
Your nephew Lacy and your daughter 

Rose 
Early this morning wedded at the Savoy, 
None being present but the lady may- 
oress. 
Besides, I learnt among the officers, 
The lord mayor vows to stand in their de- 
fense 
'Gainst any that shall seek to cross the 
match. 
Lincoln. Dares Evre the shoemaker up- 
hold the deed? 
Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a 
woman's quarrel, I Avarrant you, as deep 
as another, and deeper too. 
Dodger. Besides, his grace to-day dines 
with the mayor; 
Who on his knees humbly intends to fall 
And beg a pardon for your nephew's 
fault. 
Lincoln. But I '11 prevent him ! Come, 
Sir Roger Oateley; 
The king will do us justice in this cause. 
Howe'er their hands have made them man 

and wife, 
I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. 

Exeunt. 



54 a slang term for a woman. 



150 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Fare- 
well, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had 
stay'd, I would have so lam'd them with 
flouts! O heart, my eodpieee-point is 
ready to fly in pieces every time I think 
upon Mistress Rose. But let that pass, 
as my lady mayoress says. 

Hodge. This matter is answer'd. Come, 
Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my 
fine shoemakers, let 's to our master's the 
new lord mayor, and there swagger this 
Shrove Tuesday. I '11 promise you wine 
enough, for Madge keeps the cellar. 

All. rare ! Madge is a good wench. 

Firk. And I '11 promise you meat enough, 
for simp'ring Susan keeps the larder. 
I '11 lead you to victuals, my brave sol- 
diers ; follow your captain. brave ! 
Hark, hark! 

{Bell rings.) 

All. The pancake-bell ^^ rings, the pan- 
cake-bell ! Trilill, my hearts ! 

Firk. O brave! sweet bell! deli- 
cate pancakes! Open the doors, my 
hearts, and shut up the windows ! keep in 
the house, let out the pancakes! 
rare, my hearts ! Let 's march together 
for the honor of Saint Hugh to the great 
new hall ^^ in Gracious Street corner, 
which our master, the new lord mayor, 
hath built. 

Ralph. the crew of good fellows that 
Avill dine at my lord mayor's cost to-day I 

Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a 
most brave man. How shall prentices be 
bound to pray for him and the honor of 
the gentlemen shoemakers ! Let 's feed 
^nd be fat with my lord's bounty. 

Firk. musical bell, still! Hodge, 
my brethren ! There 's cheer for the 
heavens : venison-pasties walk up and 
down piping hot, like sergeants ; beef and 
brewis ^^ comes marching in dry-vats,''^ 
fritters and pancakes comes trowling in 
in wheel-barrows ; hens and oranges hop- 
ping in porters'-baskets, collops ^'° and 
eggs in scuttles, and tarts and custards 
comes quavering in in malt-shovels. 

Enter more Prentices. 

All. Whoop, look here, look here ! 
Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away 

so fast? 
1 Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great 

new hall, know you not why? The lord 



mayor hath bidden all the prentices in 
London to breakfast this morning. 

All. brave shoemakers, brave lord 
of incomijrehensible good-fellowship ! 
Whoo ! Hark you ! The pancake-bell 
rings. 

{Cast up caps.) 

Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every 
Shrove Tuesday is our year of jubilee; 
and when the pancake-bell rings, we are 
as free as my lord mayor; we may shut 
up our shojDS, and make holiday ; I '11 
have it call'd Saint Hugh's Holiday. 

All. Agreed, agreed ! Saint Hugh's Holi- 
day. 

Hodge. And this shall continue for evei'. 

All. brave! Come, come, my hearts! 
Away, away! 

Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle 
craft ! March fair, my hearts ! rare ! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. A street in London. 

Enter the King and Ms Train over the 
stage. 

King. Is our lord mayor of London such 

a gallant? 
Nobleman. One of the merriest madcaps 
in your land. 
Your grace will think, when you behold 

the man. 
He 's rather a wild ruffian than a mayor. 
Yet thus much I '11 ensure your majesty, 
In all his actions that concern his state 
He is as serious, provident, and wise, 
As full of gravity amongst the grave. 
As any mayor hath been these many 
years. 
King. 1 am with child °° till I behold this 
huffcap.^^ 
But all my doubt is, when we come in 

presence. 
His madness will be dasht clean out of 
countenance. 
Nobleman. It may be so, my liege. 
King. Which to prevent. 

Let some one give him notice, 't is our 

pleasure 
That he put on his wonted merriment. 
Set forward! 
All. On afore! 

Exeunt. 



55 Pancakes were a 
feature of the 
Shrove Tuesday 



menu ; hence the 
bell which rang 
for Shrove Tues- 



day services was 
called the pan- 
cake bell. 



56 Leadenhall. 

57 beef broth. 

58 barrels. 



50 bacon. 

60 in suspense. 

61 swaggerer. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



151 



Scene 4. A great hall 

Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, RalpJi, and otlur 
Shoemakers, all with napkins on their 
shoulders. 

Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gen- 
tlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these 
cannibals, these varlets, my officers'? 
Let them all walk and wait wpon my 
brethren; for my meaning is, that none 
but shoemakers, none but the livery of 
my company shall in their satin hoods 
wait upon the trencher of my sovereign. 

Firk. my lord, it will be rare! 

Eyre. No more, Firk ; come, lively ! Let 
your fellow-iDrentiees want no cheer; let 
wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as 
water. Hang these penny-pinching fa- 
thers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb- 
skins. Ri]?, knaves, avaunt ! Look to 
my guests ! 

Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits' end 
for room; those hundred tables will not 
feast the fourth part of them. 

Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables 
again, and again, till all my jolly pren- 
tices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, 
Ralph ! Frisk about, my nimble Firk ! 
Carouse me fathom-healths to the honor 
of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, 
Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk? 

Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have 
taken their liquor standing so long that 
they can stand no longer; but for meat, 
they would eat it an they had it. 

Eyre. Want they meat? Where's this 
swag-belly, this greasy kitchen-stuff 
cook? Call the varlet to me! Want 
meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, 
my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, 
beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole 
oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine 
upon the tables like pigs for want of 
good fellows to eat them. Want meat? 
Vanish, Firk ! Avaunt, Hodge ! 

Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man 
Fii'k; he means, their bellies want meat, 
not the boards; for they have drunk so 
much, they can eat nothing. 

The Second Three Men's Song 

Cold 's the wind, and wet 's the rain, 
Saint Hugh be our good speed: 

III is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
Nor helps good hearts in need. 



bowl, the jolly nut-bro\vn 



G2 pass. 

63 sound the whole 
range of notes. 

64 "A dish, made 



of milk. esgs, 
and susar, baked 
in a pot." (Web- 
ster.) 



65 a steak cut cross- 
ways. 

66 fur. 

67 ruffs for the neck. 



Trowl 62 the 
bowl, 

And iiere, kind mate, to thee: 
Let s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, 

And down it merrily. 

Down a down hey down a down, 
(Close tcith the tenor boy.) 

Hey derry derry, down a down! 
Ho, well done; to me let come! 

Eing compass,,63 gentle joy. 

Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, 

And here, kind mate, to thee: etc. 
{liepeat as often as there be men to drink; 

and at last ichen all have drunk, this 

verse : ) 
Colds the wind, and wet's the rain, 

Saint Hugh be our good speed : 
111 is tlie weather that bringeth no gain, 
JNor helps good hearts in need. 

Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery. 

Marg. Where is my lord? 

Eyre. How now, Lady Madgy? 

Marg. The king's most excellent majesty 
is new come; he sends me for thy honor; 
one of his most worshipful peers bade me 
tell thou must be merry, and so forth; 
but let that pass. 

Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, 
my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren ; 
look to my guests, the prentices. Yet 
stay a little! How now, Hans? How 
looks my little Rose? 

Hans. Let me request you to remember 
me. 
I know, your honor easily may obtain 
Free pardon of the king for me and 

Rose, 
And reconcile me to my uncle's grace. 

Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my hon- 
est journeyman ; look cheerily ! I '11 fall 
upon both my knees, till they be as hard 
as horn, but I '11 get thy pardon. 

Marg. Good my lord, have a care what 
you si^eak to his grace. 

Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot ! *'* 
hence, you hopper-arse! you barley-pud- 
ding, full of maggots! you broiled car- 
bonado ! ^^ avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephis- 
tophiles ! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak 
of you. Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother 
Miniver '"^-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; 
meddle with your partlets *^^ and your 
pishery-pashery, your flews ^^ and your 
whirligigs; go, rub,**^ out of mine alley! 
Sim Eyre knows hoAv to speak to a Pope, 

68 flaps ; as resem- 69 obstruction, a 

bling the hancincr term in bowling; 
chaps of a hound. hence the point of 

"alley." 



152 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an 
he v/eie here, and shall I melt, shall I 
droop before my sovereign'? No, come, 
my Lady Madgy ! Follow me, Hans ! 
About your business, my frolic free- 
booters ! Firk, frisk about, and about, 
and about, for the honor of mad Simon 
Eyre, lord mayor of London. 
Firk. Hey, for the honor of the shoe- 
makers ! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. An open yard before the hall. 

A long flourish, or two. Enter the King, 
Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Rose. 
Lacy and Rose kneel. 

King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was 

veiy foul 

Of your revolting from our kingly love 

And your own duty, yet we pardon you. 

Rise both, and. Mistress Lacy, thank my 

lord mayor 
For your young bridegroom here. 

Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and 
my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, 
shall set your sweet majesty's image 
cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this 
honor you have done poor Simon Eyre. 
I beseech your grace, pardon my rude 
behavior; I am a handicraftsman, yet 
my heart is without craft; I would be 
sorry at my soul, that my boldness should 
offend my king. 

King. Nay, I pray thee, good lord mayor, 
be even as merry 
As if thou wert among thy shoemakers ; 
It does me good to see thee in this humor. 

Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Diocle- 
sian? Then, hump! Prince am I none, 
yet am I princely born. By the lord of 
Ludgate, my liege, I '11 be as merry as a 
pie.'''° 

King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how 
old thou art. 

Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a 
younker ; you see not a white hair on my 
iiead, not a gray in this beard. Every 
hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in 
this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King 
of Babylon's ransom ; Tamar Cham's 
beard was a rubbing brush to 't : yet I 'II 
shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls '^'^ with 
it, to please my bully king. 

King. But all this while I do not know 
your age. 

70 magpie. 



Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year 
old, yet I can cry hump ! with a sound 
heart for the honor of Saint Hugh. 
Mark this old wench, my king: I danc'd 
the shaking of the sheets with her six and 
thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get 
two or three young lord mayors, ere I 
die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. 
Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. 
My sweet Majesty, let care vanisli, cast it 
upon thy nobles, it will make thee look 
always young like Apollo, and eiy hump ! 
Prince am I none, yet am I princely 
born. 

King. Ha, ha ! 

Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his 
like"? 

Nobleman. Not I, my lord. 

Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord 
Mayo r. 

King. Lincoln, what news with you? 

Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto 
yourself, 
For there are traitors here. 
All. Traitors'? Where'? Who'? 

Eyre. Traitors in my house'? God for- 
bid! Where be my officers'? I'll spend 
my soul, ere my king feel harm. 
King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln '? 
Lincoln. Here he stands. 

King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy ! — Lin- 
coln, speak. 
What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's 
charge "? 
Lincoln. This, my dear liege : your Grace, 
to do me honoi-, 
Heapt on the head of this degenerate boy 
Desertless favors; you made choice of 

him 
To be commander over powers in France. 

But he 

King. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a 
while ! 
Even in thine eyes I read what thou 

wouldst speak. 
I know how Lacy did neglect our love, 
Ran himself deeply, in the highest de- 
gree. 

Into vile treason 

Lincoln. Is he not a traitor'? 

King. Lincoln, he was; now have we par- 
d'ned him. 
'T was not a base want of true valor's 

fire. 
That held him out of France, but love's 
desire. 

71 The tennis-balls of the time were stuflfed with hair. 



THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 



153 



Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon 

luy back. 
King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln ; I forgive 

you both. 
Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the 
boy to wed 
One whose mean birth will much disgrace 
his bed. 
King. Are they not married ■? 
Lincoln. No, my liege. 

Both. "We are. 

King. Shall I divorce them then? be 
it far 
That any hand on earth should dare untie 
The sacred knot, knit by God's majesty ; 
I would not for my crown disjoin their 

hands 
That are conjoin'd in holy nuptial bauds. 
How say'st thou. Lacy, wouldst thou lose 
thy Rose? 
Lacy. Not for all India's wealth, my sov- 
ereign. 
King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy 

would forego f 
Rose. If Rose were askt that question, 

she 'd say no. 
King. You hear them, Lincohi'? 
Lincoln. Yea, my liege, I do. 

King. Yet canst thou find i' th' heart to 
part these two? 
Who. seeks, besides you, to divorce these 
lovers ? 
L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am 

her father. 
King. Sir Roger Oatelev, our last mavor, 

I think? 
Nobleman. The same, my liege. 
King. Would you offend Love's laws? 

Well, you shall have your wills, you sue 

to me, 
To prohibit the match. Soft, let me 

see — 
You both are married, Lacy, art thou 
not? 
Lacy. I am, dread sovereign. 
King. Then, upon thy life, 

I charge thee, not to call this woman wife. 
L. Mayor. I thank your grace. 
Rose. my most gracious lord ! 

(Kneels.) 
King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell 
you true, 
Although as yet I am a bachelor, 
Yet I believe I shall not marry you. 
Bose. Can you divide the body from the 
soul. 
Yet make the body live? 
King. Yea, so profound? 

I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide. 



This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be 

your bride. 
Are you pleas'd, Lincoln? Oateley, are 

you pleas'd? 
Both. Yes, my lord. 

King. Then must my heart be eas'd; 

For, credit me, my conscience lives in 

pain, 
Till these whom I divorc'd, be join'd 

again. 
Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me 

thine ! 
Be what you would be ! Kiss now ! So, 

that 's fine. 
At night, lovers, to bed ! — Now, let me 

see, 
Which of you all mislikes this harmony. 
L. Mayor. Will you then take from me 

my child perforce? 
King. Why tell me, Oateley: shines not 

Lacy's name 
As bright in the world's eye as the gay 

beams 
Of any citizen? 
Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord, 

I do mislike the match far more than he; 
Her blood is too too base. 
King. Lincoln, no more. 

Dost thou not know that love respects no 

blood. 
Cares not for difference of birth or state? 
The maid is young, well born, fair, vir- 
tuous, 
A Avorthy bride for any gentleman. 
Besides, your nephew for her sake did 

stoop 
To bear necessity, and, as I hear, 
Forgetting honors and all courtly pleas- 
ures. 
To gain her love, became a shoemaker. 
As for the honor which he lost in France, 
Thus I redeem it : Lacy, kneel thee 

down I — 
Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy ! Tell me now, 
Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou 

chide. 
Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride? 
L. Mayor. I am content with what your 

grace hath done. 
Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there 's no 

remedy. 
King. Come on, then, all shake hands: 

I '11 have you friends ; 
Where there is much love, all discord 

ends. 
What says my mad lord mayor to all this 

love? 
Eyre. my liege, this honor you have 
done to my fine journeyman here, Row- 



154 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



land Laey, and all these favors which 
you have shown to me this day in my 
poor house, will make Simon Eyre live 
longer by one dozen of warm summers 
more than he should. 
King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall 
be thy name; 
If any grace of mine can length thy life, 
One honor more I '11 do thee : that new 

building, 
Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected, 
Shall take a name from us ; we '11 have it 

call'd 
The Leadv?nhall, because in digging it 
You found the lead that covereth the 
same. 
Eyre. I thank your majesty. 
Marg. God bless your grace ! 

King. Lincoln, a word with you! 

Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and more 
Shoemakers. 

Eyre. How now, my mad knaves'? Peace, 
speak softly, yonder is the king. 

King. With the old troop which there w^e 
keep in pay. 
We will incorporate a new suj^ply. 
Before one summer more pass o'er my 

head, 
France shall repent, England was in- 
jured. 
What are all these? 

Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege. 

Sometime my fellows; in their companies 
I liv'd as merry as an emperor. 

King. My mad lord mayor, are all these 
shoemakers "? 

Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gen- 
tlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, 
courageous cordwainers ; they all kneel to 
the shrine of holy Saint Hugh. 

All the Shoemakers. God save your maj- 
esty! 

King. Mad Simon, would they anything 
with US'? 

Eyre. Mum, mad knaves ! Not a word ! 
I '11 do 't, I warrant you. They are all 
beggars, my liege ; all for themselves, and 
I for them all on both my knees do en- 
treat, that for the honor of poor Simon 
Eyre and the good of his brethren, these 
mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe 
some privilege to my new Leadenhall, 
that it may be lawful for us to buy and 
sell leather there two days a week. 

T2 merry-making. 



King. Mad Sim, I gTant your suit, you 
shall have patent 
To hold two market-days in Leadenhall, 
Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the 

times. 
Will this content you"? 
All. Jesus bless your gTace! 

Eyre. In the name of these my poor breth- 
ren shoemakers, I most humbly thank 
your grace. But before I rise, seeing 
you are in the giving vein and we in the 
begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. 
King. W^hat is it, my lord mayor'? 
Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor ban- 
quet that stands sweetly waiting for your 
sweet presence. 
King. I shall undo thee. Eyre, only with 
feasts ; 
Already have I been too troublesome; 
Say, have I not '? 
Eyre. my dear king, Sim Eyre was 
taken unawares upon a day of shroving,'^- 
which I promist long ago to the prentices 
of London. 
For, an 't please your highness, in time 

past, 
I bare the water-tankard,'''^ and my coat 
Sits not a whit the worse uj^on my back; 
And then, ujDon a morning, some mad 

boys. 
It was Shrove Tuesday, even as 't is now, 
gave me my breakfast, and I swore then 
by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I 
came to be lord mayor of London, I 
would feast all the prentices. This day, 
my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an 
hundred tables five times covered ; they 
are gone home and vanisht ; 
Yet add more honor to the gentle trade. 
Taste of Eyre's banquet, Simon 's happy 
made. 
King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, 
and will say, 
I have not met more pleasure on a 

day. 
Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to 

you all. 
Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our 

cheer. — 
Come, lords, a while let 's revel it at 

home ! 
When all our sports and banquetings are 

done, 
Wars must right wrongs which French- 
men have begun. 

Exeunt. 

73 cf. p. 150, n. 49. 



THOMAS HETWOOD 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



Thomas Heywood (c. 1575-1642) was of a 
Lincolnshire family, and may have been a 
member of the college of Peterliouse, Cam- 
bridge. We get our tirst definite information 
about him from Henslowe's Diary in 159G. 
He seems to have begun writing for the stage 
about 1594, and continued active until within 
a few years of his death, thus almost span- 
ning the greatest years of the Elizabethan 
drama. His productivity was amazing: he 
himself tells us that he had a hand or " a 
main finger " in two himdred and twenty 
plays, of which only nineteen (four in two 
parts) survive. Meanwhile he was acting, 
perhaps till 1620 or so. He did also a con- 
siderable amount of miscellaneous writing in 
prose and loose, easy-running verse. 

As The Shoemakers' Holiday represents 
domestic, or bourgeois, drama on the side of 
comedy, so A Woman Killed with Kindness 
is an example, and the best example, of do- 
mestic, or bourgeois, tragedy. The two plays 
spring from the same environment, and were 
written for identical audiences, by men who 
had a good deal in common. Both Dekker 
and Heywood were of the middle class them- 
selves, and reflect in their work the temper 
and moral soundness of the solid citizenry of 
London. Like the earlier play, A Woman 
Killed with Kindness was written for Hens- 
loive, and brought the same price of three 
pounds ; as an interesting illustration of the 
comparative value of plays and costumes in 
the manager's eyes, we may note that on 
March 7, 1G03, the day after he paid for the 
play, he spent ten shillings on a black satin 
dress for Mrs. Frankford. 

No other piece of dramatic criticism has 
had the influence of Aristotle's attempt in his 
Poetics to formulate, from the practice of 
the Athenian dramatists, the laws of tragedy 
and comedy. One of Aristotle's conclusions 
was that tragedy was concerned with the fate 
of persons of high rank, or at least illustrious 
above their fellows. This limitation was ac- 
cepted by Renascence scholars, and in gen- 
eral governed the practice of Elizabethan, 
Restoration, and eighteenth-century writers 
of tragedy. It is, for instance, true of 
Shakespeare's tragedy, for even in Romeo and 
Juliet, though the personages may not be 
called illustrious in a strict sense, yet we 
think of the Capulets and Montagues as of 
the aristocracy of Verona, and the star- 
crossed lovers themselves are by their passion 
and unhappy fate sensibly, if not actually, 

155 



raised above ordinary citizens. There were, 
however, in the Elizabethan period men who 
realized that tragic feeling was not neces- 
sarily confined to the palace; that circum- 
stance might lift to tragic dignity the lives 
of obscure people. One of the most power- 
ful of pre-8hakespereah plays, so grim and 
stark in its realism, so impressive in the por- 
trayal of the murderess its heroine, that con- 
jecture as to its authorship has even been 
busy with Shakespeare's name, is Arden of 
Feversham, written before 1590. Tliis drama- 
tization of Holinshed's account of a murder 
of a husband by a wife and her paramour, 
is the first extant example, though we hear 
of such plays earlier, of a group of murder 
plays, domestic tragedies, frequently taken 
from real life. For a number of years about 
the turn of the century, under the influence 
of a general swing toward realism manifest 
also in comedy, where Ben Jonson led a re- 
volt against romantic comedy and chronicle- 
history, plays of this sort were especially 
popular. Henslowe's Diary gives us the 
names of several no longer extant, and sur- 
viving plays such as A Warning for Fair 
Women (1599), Two Lamentable Tragedies 
(1599), and The Yorkshire Tragedy (1605), 
are home-bred tragedies dealing in rather 
artless fashion with family strife and blood- 
shed. Another kind of domestic drama, also 
popular in the same period, was that which 
showed the trials of a virtuous wife at the 
hands of a prodigal and unfaithful husband; 
such plays, though full of pathos, usually 
stopped short of tragedy, and ended in the 
reform of the erring husband and his recon- 
ciliation with his patient wife. The Shoe- 
makers' Holiday, in the episode of Jane, has 
a hint of the motive, and, in Patient (Irissil, 
Dekker deals with the subject more at large. 
How a Man May Choose a Good Wife from a 
Bad (1602), The London Prodigal (1605), 
and Marston's The Dutch Courtesan (1605) 
are representative of the type. 

A Woman Killed with Kindness, belong- 
ing specifically to the first of the above-men- 
tioned groups, is thus related to a consider- 
able body of plays of its own day. Heywood 
may fairly be called the most important of 
writers of domestic drama, not alone because 
of the number of examples he has given us, 
but from his sincere and afi'ecting handling 
of his material.' Once he treats the wronged- 
wife motive, in his comedy The Wise Woman 
of Hogsdon (printed 1638). LTsually, how- 
ever, he deals seriously with domestic in- . 



156 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



felicit}', and always from the point of view 
of a husband whose wife has transgressed. 
The story of Jane Shore in the two-part 
chronicle play Edward 1 V ( 159S ) , although 
involving two kings, is in effect a domestic 
tragedy ; " the whole treatment of that deli- 
cate subject, the relation of a true and honor- 
able man to the wife who has wronged him, 
but whom he continues to love in a spirit 
chastened by his wrongs, is handled with the 
same delicacy, the same wide tolerance and 
sympathy, and yet with the ethical soundness, 
which Heywood displays with so much effect 
in A Woman Killed with Kindness" (Schel- 
ling, Elizabethan Drama, I. 283). Heywood 
returned to the theme in The English Travel- 
ler (1G33), a very ffne play, and in The Late 
Lancashire Witches (1034,) where the wife, 
having fallen from grace by indulging in 
witchcraft, is handed over to justice by her 
husband. What chieffy distinguishes Hey- 
wood's domestic tragedies in which an adult- 
erous wife figures from those by other men 
is the wife's treatment at the hands of her 
husband. The Elizabethan code of morals 
justified summary and bloody vengeance. 
Such a punishment, indeed, Mrs. Frankford 
expects : 

". . . Mark not my face, 
Nor hack me with your sword ; but let me go 
Perfect aud undeformed to my tomb. 
I am not worthy that I should prevail 
In the least suit; no, not to speak to you. 
Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence; 
Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave ; 
This granted, I am ready for my grave." 

Heywood's delicacy of feeling and perception 
of true honor in such circumstances win our 
admiration, as he shows the husband remem- 
bering that vengeance is God's and leaving 
the wife to the torture of her guilty con- 
science. So, in The English Traveller, young 
Geraldine, discovering the adultery of Mrs. 
Wincot, with whom he has exchanged vows of 
fidelity, forbears punishment more severe than 
a passionate upbraiding of her crime, and al- 
lows her to die of a broken heart. It is no 
easy matter for a dramatist to handle a situ- 
ation of this sort in such a way as to pre- 
serve our sympathy and respect for the in- 
jured husband. lit would have been far 
easier, as well as more theatrically effective, 
for Heywood to have had Frankford take 
refuge behind " the unwritten law," and sat- 
isfy the natural expectation of his audience 
\v\t\\ a scene of bloody retribution. Heywood 
makes his solution possible and sympathetic 
by a thorough characterization of Frankford 
as a Christian gentleman, and by a masterly 
depiction of the man's emotion at the crisis. 
He prays for patience before he disturbs the 
guilty pair, his first natural impulse toward 
immediate revenge displays itself when he 
pursues Wendoll with drawn sword, and he 
has to struggle in private with his anger be- 
fore he can pronounce the lenient sentence on 
his wife. We see in action his better nature 
• contending with his worse, and the struggle 



humanizes as the victory ennobles him. Hey- 
wood commands our admiration, moreover, 
by the fine restraint with which he handles 
the story. Neither in the climactic scenes 
nor in the equally difficult scenes of Mrs. 
Frankford's repentance and death in act five, 
does he allow intrusion of sentimentality. 
Frankford indulges in no false heroics, Mrs. 
Frankford in no mawkish agonizings. No 
lietter illustration could be found of the dif- 
ference between true sentiment and false 
sentimentality, the sentimental dramatists of 
the eighteenth century could have studied this 
play with profit. The only speeches which do 
not ring true are those of Wendoll in V. iii, 
but from him we should not expect honest 
penitence. 

It must be admitted that the play, consider- 
ing it as a whole, is not a model structurally. 
It is typical of one method of Elizabethan 
construction, which violates unity of action 
by a combination of two plots essentially un- 
connected. Heywood was a frequent oft'ender 
in this respect: The English Traveller and 
The Captives are flagrant examples. In this 
case the sub-plot does not, as sometimes, of- 
fer so violent a contrast in feeling with the 
main plot that the dignity of the play is 
practically destroyed. Here tlie sub-plot, 
dealing as it does with a question of per- 
sonal and family honor, in a way supports 
the more serious ethical problem of the 
main plot. Tliere is also this to be said for 
the sub-plot, that by the rapidity of its de- 
velopment it helps to conceal the bareness of 
the main plot, whose exposition is very leis- 
urely. But the actual binding of the plots 
is of the flimsiest: the two groups of people 
are brought together in the opening scene, 
Wendoll and Cranwell are transferred from 
one group to the other, the people of the 
sub-plot are present at Mrs. Frankford's 
death, but of interaction between the groups 
there is none. As for the main plot itself, 
barring the slowness of the exposition, it is 
well done, with one important exception. The 
climactic upbuilding to the scene of the dis- 
covery is strong; devices like Frankford's 
unwillingness to believe Nicholas's story, the 
card game, and the feigned letter are ef- 
fectively used. The climax is stirring, the 
pathos of the situation enhanced by the skil- 
ful introduction of the children, and the last 
act avoids anticlimax; the business of the 
lute is particularly effective. The use of sus- 
pense is notable, in Frankford's hesitation be- 
fore entering the house and at tlie door of 
the chamber, and in the pause before Mrs. 
Frankford's fate is made known. The one 
great flaw in the play is the ease with which 
Mrs. Frankford falls. This is altogether a 
matter of characterization. Nothing in the 
exposition of the woman's character pre- 
pares us for the abruptness of her yielding, 
nor is Wendoll presented as so attractive as 
to make it credible. Heywood was a master 
in portraying a gentleman — he was no hand 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



157 



at a villain, WendoU is tliroughout stiff, 
stagy, impossible. 

Bourgeois tragedy seems to have lost popu- 
lar favor not long after 1605. Save for two 
or three plays of Heywood's, and fine single 
examples in ^liddleton's and Rowley's Tii^e 
Fair Quarrel (printed 1617) and The Witch 
of Edmonton (1621), assigned to Dekker, 
Ivowley and Ford, domestic drama of a seri- 
ous sort was practically abandoned during the 
rest of the Elizabethan period. The senti- 
mental drama of the eighteenth century re- 
vived interest in domestic problems from a 
moral point of view, but it was not until Lillo 



wrote George Barnwell in 1731 that bourgeois 
tragedy appeared again upon the London 
stage. By that time the sentimentalizing and 
moralizing tendency had become so strong 
that Barnwell is as strenuously didactic as 
a Morality. Not until we come to the modern 
realistic drama do we find any achievement 
in domestic tragedy so appealing as A Woman 
Killed with Kindness. Tlie simplicity of 
method, the sanity, the sound ethics, the 
freedom from preaching, of this, the Hower ot 
Elizabethan domestic tragedies, are enough to 
insure for Heywood an honorable place in the 
history of the drama. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 

By THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



Sir Francis Acton, Brother to Mistress 

Frankford. 
Sir Chaules Mountford. 
Master John Frankford. 
Master jMalby, friend to Sir Francis. 
Master Wendoll, friend to Frankford. 
Master Cranwell. 
Master Shafton, false friend to Sir 

Charles. 
Old ]\Iountford, Uncle to Sir Charles. 
Master Sandy. 
Master Roder. 
Master Tidy, Cousin to Sir Charles. 



PROLOGLT]. 

I COME but like a harbinger, being sent 
To tell you what these prej^arations mean. 
Look for no glorious state ; our Muse is 

bent 
Upon a barren subject, a bare scene. 
We could afford this twig- a timber-tree, 
Whose strength might boldly on your 

favors build ; 
Our russet, tissue ; drone, a honey-bee ; 
Our barren plot, a large and spacious field ; 
Our coarse fare, banquets ; our thin water, 

Avine ; 
Our brook, a sea ; our bat's eyes, eagle's 

sight; 
Our poet's dull and earthy Muse, divine; 
Our ravens, doves ; our crow's black 

feathers, white. 
But gentle thoughts, when they may give 

the foil,i 
Save them that yield, and spare where 

they may spoil. 

1 defeat. 



Household Servants to 
Frankford. 



Nicholas, 

Jenkin, 

Roger Brickbat, 

Jack Slime, 

Spigot, Butler, 

Sheriff. 

Keeper of Prison. 

Sheriff's Officers, Sergeant, Huntsmen, Fal- 
coners, Coachmen, Carters, Servants, Mu- 
sicians. 

Mistress Anne Frankford. 

Susan, Sister to Sir Charles Mountford. 

Cicely, Maid to Mistress Frankford. 

Women Servants in Frankford's household. 
ScEXE. — Yorkshire. 

ACT L 

Scene 1. Boom in Frankford's house. 

Enter Master Frankford, Mistress Frank- 
ford, Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles 
Mountford, Master Malhy, Master Wen- 
doU, and Master Cranwell. 

Sir F. Some music, there! None lead 

the bride a dance"? 
Sir C. Yes, would she dance The Shaking 
of the Sheets; - 
But that 's the dance her husband means 
to lead her. • 
Wen. That 's not the dance that eveiy 
man must dance, 
According to the ballad. 
Sir F. Music, ho! 

By your leave, sister, — by your husband's 

leave, 
I should have said, — the hand that but 
this day 

2 A ■well-known ballad and dance tune. 



158 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Was given you in the church I '11 bor- 
row. — Sound ! 
This marriage music hoists me from the 

ground. 
Frank. Aye, you may caper ; you are light 

and free ! 
Marriage hath yok'd my heels; pray, 

then, pardon me. 

Sir F. I'll have you dance too, brother! 

Sir C. Master Frankford, 

You are a happy man, sir, and much joy 

Succeed your marriage mirth : you have 

a wife 
So qualified, and with such ornaments 
Both of the mind and body. First, her 

birth 
Is noble, and her education such 
As might become the daughter of a 

prince ; 
Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and 

her own hand 
Can teach all strings to speak in their 

best grace. 
From the shrilFst treble to the hoarsest 

base. 
To end her many praises in one word. 
She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest 

daughter, 
Only found by yours, though many a 

heart hath sought her. 
Frank. But that I know your virtues and 

chaste thoughts, 
I should be jealous of your praise. Sir 

Charles. 
Cran. He speaks no more than you ap- 
prove. 
Mai. Nor flatters he that gives to her her 

due. 
Mrs. F. I would your praise could find a 

fitter theme 
Than my imperfect beauties to speak 

on ! 
Such as they be, if they my husband 

please, 
They suffice me now I am married. 
His sweet content is like a flattering 

glass, 
To make my face seem fairer to mine 

eye; 
But the least wrinkle from his stormy 

brow 
Will blast the roses in my cheeks that 

grow. 
Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and 

patient ! 
How strangely the word husband fits 

your mouth, 



Not married three hours since! Sister, 
't is good ; 

You that begin betimes thus must needs 
prove 

Pliant and duteous in your husband's 
love. — 

Gramereies, brother ! Wrought her to 't 
alread}-, — 

"Sweet husband," and a curtsey, the first 
day? 

Mark this, mark this, you that are bach- 
elors, 

And never took the grace ^ of honest 
man ; 

Mark this, against * you marry, this one 
jjhrase : 

In a good time that man both wins and 
woos 

That takes his wife down ^ in her wed- 
ding shoes. 
Frank. Your sister takes not after you, 
Sir Francis, 

All his wild blood your father spent on 
you ; 

He got her in his age, when he grew 
civil. 

All his mad tricks were to his land en- 
tail'd. 

And you are heir to all; your sister, she 

Hath to her dower her mother's mod- 
esty. 
Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state 
live you ! 

This morning, which to many seems a 
burden. 

Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleas- 
ure. 

This lady is no clog, as many are; 

She doth become you like a well-made 
suit. 

In which the tailor hath us'd all his art ; 

Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze, 

Forc'd on your back in summer. She 's 
no chain 

To tie your neck, and curb you to the 
yoke ; 

But she 's a chain of gold to adorn your 
neck. 

You both adorn each other, and your 
hands, 

Methmks, are matches. There 's equality 

In this fair combination ; you are both 

Scholars, both young, both being de- 
scended nobly. 

There 's music in this sympathy ; it car- 
ries 

Consort ^ and expectation of much joy, 

3 attained the honor. 4 in anticipation of the time when. 5 reduces her to suhmission. 6 harmony. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



159 



Which God bestow on you from this first 
day 

Until your dissolution, — that 's for ay ! 
Sir F. We keep you here too long, good 
brother Frankford. 

Into the hall; away! Go cheer your 
guests. 

What! Bride and bridegroom both 
withdrawn at once^ 

If you be miss'd, the guests will doubt 
their welcome, 

And charge you with unkindness. 
Frank. To prevent it, 

I '11 leave you here, to see the dance 
within. 
Mrs. F. And so will I. 

Exeunt Master and Mistress Frankford. 
Sir F. To part you it were sin. — 

Now, gallants, while the town musi- 
cians 

Finger their frets within, and the mad 
lads 

And country lasses, every mother's child, 

With nosegays and bride-laces ^ in their 
hats, 

Dance all their country measures, rounds, 
and jigs, 

What Shalt we do? Hark! They 're all 
on the hoigh ; ^ 

They toil like mill-horses, and turn as 
round, — 

Marry, not on the toe! Aye, and they 
caper. 

Not without cutting; you shall see, to- 
morrow, 

The hall-floor peckt and dinted like a 
mill-stone, 

Made with their high shoes. Though 
their skill be small, 

Yet they tread heavy where their hob- 
nails fall. 
Sir C. Well, leave them to their sports ! — 
Sir Francis Acton, 

I '11 make a match with you ! Meet me 
to-morrow 

At Chevy Chase; I'll fly my hawk with 
yours. 
Sir F. For what ■? For what? 
Sir C. Wliy, for a hundred pound. 

Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that ! 
Sir C. Here are ten angels ; ° 

I '11 make them good a hundred pound to- 
morrow 

Upon my hawk's wing. 
Sir F. 'T is a match ; 't is done. 

Another hundred pounds upon your 
dogs ;— 



7 streamers. 



8 excited. 



gold coins worth 
ten shillings. 



Dare ye. Sir Charles'? 
Sir C. I dare ; were I sure to lose, 

I durst do more than that; here is my 

hand. 
The hrst course for a hundred pound ! 
Sir F. A match. 

Wen. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton's 
hawk; 
As much upon his dogs ! 
Cran. I 'm for Sir Charles Mountford : I 
have seen 
His hawk and dog both tried. What ! 

Clap you hands,^° 
Or is 't no bargain ? 
Wen. Yes, and stake them down. 

Were they five hundred, they were all 
my own. 
Sir F. Be stirring early with the lark to- 
morrow ; 
I '11 rise into my saddle ere the sun 
Rise from his bed. 
Sir C. If there you miss me, say 

I am no gentleman ! I '11 hold my day. 
Sir F. It holds on all sides. — Come, to- 
night let 's dance ; 
Early to-morrow let 's prepare to ride : 
We 'd need be three hours up before the 
bride. Exeunt. 

Scene 2. Yard of the same. 

Enter Nicholas and Jenkin, Jack Slime, 
Roger Brickbat, with Country Wenches, 
and two or three Musicians. 

Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, 
to trace withal ; Jack Slime, traverse you 
with Cicely Milkpail; I will take Jane 
Trubkin, and Eoger Brickbat shall have 
Isabel Motley. And now that they are 
busy in the parlor, come, strike up ; we '11 
have a crash ^^ here in the yard. 

Nich. My humor is not compendious: 
dancing I possess not, though I can foot 
it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands 
of Cicely Milkpail, I consent. 

Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never 
brought up like serving courtiers, yet we 
have been brought up with serving crea- 
tures,— aye, and God's creatures, too ; for 
we have "been brought up to serve sheep, 
oxen, horses, hogs, and such like; and, 
though we be but country fellows, it may 
be in the way of dancing we can do the 
horse-trick as well as the serving-men. 

Brick. Aye, and the cross-point too. 

Jen. Slime ! Brickbat ! Do not you 
know that comparisons are odious? 

11 revel. 



10 shake hands on it. 



160 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Now we are odious ourselves, too ; there- 
fore there are no comparisons to be made 
betwixt us. 

Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous; 
I am quarrelsome, and not seditious ; I 
am peaceable, and not contentious; I am 
brief, and not compendious. 

Slime. Foot it quickly! If the music 
overcome not my melancholy, I shall 
quarrel; and if they suddenly do not 
strike up, I shall presently strike thee 
down. 

Jen. No quarreling, for God's sake ! 
Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave be- 
tween ye. 

Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel. 
Come, what shall it bef Rogero? 

Jen. Rogero? No; we will dance The 
Begimiing of the World. 

Cicely. I love no dance so well as John 
come kiss me now. 

Nich. I that have ere now deserv'd a 
cushion, call for the Cushion-dance. 

Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well 
as Tom Tyler. 

Jen. No; we'll have The Hunting of the 
Fox. 

Slime. The Hoy, The Hay! There's 
nothing like The Hay.'^" 

Nich. I have said, I do say, and I will 
say again 

Jen. Every man agree to have it as Nick 
says! 

All. Content. 

Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall 
be 

Cicely. Wliat, Master Nicholas"? What^ 

Nich. Put on your Smock a' Monday. 

Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off! 
Come, for God's sake, agree of some- 
thing : if you like not that, put it to the 
musicians; or let me speak for all, and 
we '11 have Sellenger's Round. 

All. That, that, that! 

Nich. No, I am resolv'd thus it shall be; 
first take hands, then take ye to your 
heels. 

Jen. Why, would you have us run away? 

Nich. No; but I would have you shake 
your heels. — Music, strike up ! 

They dance; Nick dancing, speaks stately 
and scurvily, the rest after the country 
fashion. 



Jen. Hey ! Lively, my lasses ! Here 's a 
turn for thee ! 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. Chevy Chase. 

Wind horns. Enter Sir Charles Mount- 
ford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cran- 
well, Wendoll, Falconers, and Huntsmen. 

Sir C. So; well cast off! Aloft, aloft! 
Well flown! 
Oh, now she takes her at the souse, ^^ and 

strikes her 
Down to the earth, like a swift thunder- 
clap. 
Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of 

my way. 
Sir F. A hundred pound from me. 
Sir C. What, falconer ! 
Falc. At hand, sir! 

Sir C. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl and 
'gins to plume ^* her. 
Rebeck ^^ her not ; rather stand still and 

check her! 
So, seize her gets,^^ her jesses, and her 

bells ! 
Away ! 
Sir F. My hawk kill'd, too. 
Sir C. Aye, but 't was at the quenre,^'' 

Not at the mount like mine. 
Sir F. Judgment, my masters ! 

Cran. Yours miss'd her at the ferre.^^ 
Wen. Aye, but our merlin first had plum'd 
the fowl, 
And twice renew'd ^^ her from the river 

too. 
Her bells. Sir Francis, had not both one 

weight. 
Nor was one semi-tune above the other. 
Methinks, these Milan bells do sound too 

full, 
And spoil the mounting of your hawk. 
Sir C. 'T is lost. 

Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise 
seiz'd a fowl 
Within her talons, and you saw her paws 
Full of the feathers; both her petty 

singles -° 
And her long singles grijjp'd her more 

than other; 
The terrials -^ of her legs were stain'd 

with blood. 
Not of the fowl only; she did discom- 
fit 



12 All these were 
well-known dance 
tunes. 

13 while the victim 
was rising from 



the ground. 

14 pluck. 

15 recall. was attached 
i(> same as jesses: 1 7 swoop. 

straps on a is unexplained. 



hawk's legs, to lo renewed the at- the long sinples 

which the leash tack upon. were the middle 

-0 the outer claws claws. 

of a hawk's feet; 21 une.xplained. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



161 



Some of her feathers; but she brake 

away. 
Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler.^- 
Sir C. How! 

Sir F. Aye, and your dogs are trindle- 

tails -^ and eurs. 
Sir C. You stir my blood. 

You keep not one good hound in all your 

kennel. 
Nor one good hawk upon your perch. 
Sir F. How, knight ! 

Sir C. So, knight. You Avill not swag- 
ger, sir? 
Sir F. Why, say I did? 
Sir C. Why, sir, 

I say you would gain as much by swag- 

g'ring 
As you have got by wagers on your dogs. 
You will come short in all things. 
Sir F. _ Not in this ! 

Now I '11 strike home. 

{Strikes Sir Charles.) 
Sir C. Thou shalt to thy long home, 

Or I will want my will. 
Sir F. All they that love Sir Francis, 

follow me! 
Sir C. All that affect Sir Charles, draw 

on my part ! 
Cran. On this side heaves my hand. 
Wen. Here goes my heart. 

They divide themselves. Sir Charles 
Mountford, Cranwell, Falconer, and 
Huntsman, fight against Sir Francis Ac- 
ton, Wendoll, his Falconer and Hunts- 
man; and Sir Charles hath the better, 
and beats them aivai/, killing both of Sir 
Francis's men. Exeunt all but Sir 
Charles Mountford. 
Sir C. My God, what have I done! 
What have I done ! 
My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood. 
In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor 

innocents, 
For whom we are to answer! Well, 'tis 

done. 
And I remain the victor. A great eon- 
quest, 
When I would give this right hand, nay, 

this head. 
To breathe in them new life whom I 

have slain ! — 
Forgive me, God ! 'T was in the heat 

of blood, 
And anger quite removes me from my- 
self. 
It was not I, but rage, did this vile mur- 
der; 
Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it. 



Sir Francis Acton, he is fled the field ; 
With him all those that did partake his 

quari^el ; 
And I am left alone with sorrow dumb, 
And in my height of conquest overcome. 
Enter Susan. 

Susan. God! My brother wounded 
'mong the dead ! 
Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends! 
The rumor of this fear stretcht to my 

ears, 
And I am come to know if you be 
wounded. 
Sir C. Oh, sister, sister! Wounded at 

the heart. 
Susan. My God forbid ! 
Sir C. In doing that thing which he for- 
bade, 
I am Avounded, sister. 
Susan. I hope, not at the heart. 

Sir C. Yes, at the heart. 
Susan. God! A surgeon, there. 

Sir C. Call me a surgeon, sister, for my 
soul ! 
The sin of murder, it hath pierc'd my 

heart 
And made a wide wound there; but for 

these scratches, 
They are nothing, nothing. 
Susan. Charles, what have you done? 

Sir Francis hath great friends, and will 

pursue you 
Unto the utmost danger ~* of the law. 
Sir C. My conscience is become mine 
enemy, 
And will pursue me more than Acton 
can. 
Susan. Oh, fly, sweet brother! 
Sir C. Shall I fly from thee? 

Why, Sue, art weary of my company? 
Susan. Fly from your foe! 
Sir C. You, sister, are my friend, 

And flying you, I shall pursue my end. 
Susan. Your company is as my eyeball 
dear; 
Being far from you, no comfort can be 

near. 
Yet fly to save your life ! What would I 

care 
To spend my future age in black de- 
spair, 
So you were safe? And yet to live one 

week 
Without my brother Charles, through 

every cheek 
My streaming tears would doAvnwards 
run so rank,^^ 



22 bungler. 



23 curly-tailed, low-bred. 



24 power. 



25 copiously. 



162 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Till they could set on either side a bank, 
And in the nndst a channel; so my face 
For two salt-water brooks shall still find 

place. 
Sir C. Thou shall not weep so much ; for 

I will stay, 
In spite of danger's teeth. I '11 live with 

thee, 
Or I '11 not live at all. I will not sell 
My country and my father's patrimony, 
Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of 

life. 

Enter Sheriff, with Officers. 

Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwil- 
ling instrument 
Of your attach ~^ and apprehension. 
I 'm sorry that the blood of innocent men 
Should be of you exacted. It was told 

me 
That you were guarded with a troop of 

friends. 
And therefore I come thus arm'd. 
Sir C. Oh, Master Sheriff! 

I came into the field with many friends, 
But see, they all have left me ; only one 
Clings to my sad misfortune, my dear 

sister. 
I know you for an honest gentleman ; 
I yield my weapons, and submit to you. 
Convey me where you please ! 
Sher. To prison, then, 

To answer for the lives of these dead 
men. 
Susan. God ! God ! 
Sir C. Sweet sister, every strain 

Of sorrow from your heart augnnents my 

pain ; 
Your grief abounds, and hits against my 
breast. 
Sher. Sir, will you go'? 
Sir C. Even where it likes you best. 

Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

Scene 1. Frankford's studif. 

Enter Master Frank ford. 

Frank. How happy am I amongst other 
men, 
That in my mean estate embrace con- 
tent! 
I am a gentleman, and by my birth 
Companion with a king; a king's no 

more. 
I am possess'd of many fair revenues, 
Suflficient to maintain a gentleman ; 



Touching my mind, I am studied in all 

arts, 
The riches of my thoughts; and of my 

time 
Have been a good proficient ; -'^ but, the 

chief 
Of all the sweet felicities on earth, 
I have a fair, a chaste, and loving 

wife, — 
Perfection all, all truth, all ornament. 
If man on earth may truly happy be. 
Of these at once possest, sure, I am he. 
Enter Nicholas. 
Nieh. Sir, there 's a gentleman attends 
without 
To speak with you. 
Frank. On horseback? 

Nich. Yes, on horseback. 

Frank. Entreat him to alight, I will at- 
tend him. 
Know'st thou him, Nick? 
Nich. Know him? Yes; his name's Wen- 
doll. 
It seems, he comes in haste : his horse is ' 

booted 
Up to the flank in mire, himself all 

spotted 
And stain'd with plashing. Sure, he rid 

in fear, i' 

Or for a wager. Horse and man both 

sweat ; 
I ne'er saw two in such a smoking heat. 
Frank. Entreat him in : about it in- 
stantly ! 

Exit Nicholas. 
This Wendoll I have noted, and his car- 
riage 
Hath pleas'd me much ; by observation 
I have noted many good deserts in him. 
He 's affable, and seen -^ in many things ; 
Discourses well ; a good companion ; 
And though of small means, yet a .gen- 
tleman 
Of a good house, though somewhat prest 

by want. 
I have preferr'd him to a second place 
In my opinion and my best regard. 
Enter Wendoll, Mistress Frankford, and 
Nicholas. 
Mrs. F. Oh, Master Frankford! Master 
Wendoll here 
Brings you the strangest news that e'er 
you heard. 
Frank. What news, sweet wife? What 

news, good Master Wendoll? 
Wen. You knew the match made 'twixt 
Sir Francis Acton 



26 arrest. 



27 have made good use of. 



28 accomplished. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



163 



And Sir Charles Mountfordf 
Frank. True; with their hounds and 

hawks. 
Wen. The matches were both play'd. 
Frank. Ha"? And which won"? 

Wen. Sir Francis, your wife's brother, 
had the worst, 
And lost the wager. 
Frank. Why, the worse his chance; 

Perhaps the fortune of some other day 
Will change his luck. 
Mrs. F. Oh, but you hear not all. 

Sir Francis lost, and yet was loth to 

yield. 
At length the two knights grew to dii¥er- 

ence. 
From words to blows, and so to banding 

sides ; 
Where valorous Sir Charles slew, in his 

spleen, 
Two of your brothei''s men, — his fal- 
coner, 
And his good huntsman, whom he lov'd 

so well. 
More men were wounded, no more slain 
outright. 
Frank. Now, trust me, I am sorry for the 
knight. 
But is my brother safe"? 
Wen. All whole and sound, 

His body not being blemish'd with one 

wound. 
But poor Sir Charles is to the prison led. 
To answer at th' assize for them that 's 
dead. 
Frank. I thank your pains, sir. Had the 
news been better. 
Your will was to have brought it, Master 
Wen doll. 
■• Sir Chai'les will find hard friends; his 
case is heinous 
And will be most severely censur'd on.-^ 
I 'm sorry for him. Sir, a word with 

you ! 
I know you, sir, to be a gentleman 
In all things ; your possibilities ^^ but 

mean : 
Please you to use my table and my 

purse ; 
They 're youi's. 
Wen. Lord, sir! I shall ne'er de- 

serve it. 
Frank. sir, disparage not your worth 
too miich : 
You are full of quality ^^ and fair desert. 
J Choose of my men which shall attend on 
you. 
And he is yours. I will allow you, sir, 

29 judged. 30 resources. 3i natural 



Your man, your gelding, and your table, 
all 

At my own charge ; be my companion ! 
Wen. Master Frankford, I have oft been 
bound to you 

By many favors ; this exceeds them all. 

That I shall never merit j'our least 
favor; 

But when your last remembrance I for- 
get, 

Heaven at my soul exact that weighty 
debt ! 
Frank. There needs no protestation ; for I 
know you 

Virtuous, and therefore grateful. — ■ 
Prithee, Nan, 

Use him with all thy loving'st courtesy ! 
Mrs. F. As far as modesty may well ex- 
tend. 

It is my duty to receive your friend. 
Frank. To dinner ! Come, sir, from this 
present day. 

Welcome to me for ever ! Come, away ! 

Exeunt Frankford, Mistress Frankford, 
and Wendoll. 
Nich, I do not like this fellow by no 
means : 

I never see him but my heart still 
yeanis."- 

Zounds ! I could fight with him, yet 
know not why ; 

The devil and he are all one in mine eye. 

Enter Jenkin. 

Jen. Nick ! What gentleman is that 
comes to lie at our house'? My master 
allows him one to wait on him, and I be- 
lieve it will fall to thy lot. 
Nich. I love my master; by these hilts, I 
do; 
But rather than I '11 ever come to serve 

him, 
I '11 turn away my master. 

Enter Cicely. 

Cic. Nich'las! where are you, Nieh'lasl 
You must come in, Nich'las, and help the 
young gentleman off with his boots. 

Nich. If I pluck off his boots, I '11 eat the 
spurs. 
And they shall stick fast in my throat 
like burrs. 

Cic. Then, Jenkin, come you! 

Jen. Nay, 't is no boot ^^ for me to deny 
it. My master hath given me a coat 
here, but he takes pains himself to brush 
it once or twice a day with a holly wand. 

Cic. Come, come, make haste, that you 

gifts. 32 grieves. sa use. 



164 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



may wash your hands again, and help to 
serve in dinner! 
Jen. You may see, my masters, though it 
be afternoon with you, 't is yet but early 
days with us, for we have not din'd yet. 
Stay but a little ; I '11 but go in and help 
to bear up the first course, and come to 
you again presently. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. The Jail. 

Enter Mulhy and Cranwell. 

Mai. This is the sessions-day; pray can 
you tell me 

How young Sir Charles hath sped? Is 
he acquit, 

Or must he try the laws' strict penalty? 
Cran. He 's elear'd of all, spite of his 
enemies, 

Whose earnest labor was to take his life. 

But in this suit of pardon he hath spent 

All the rcA^enues that his father left him ; 

And he is now turn'd a plain country- 
man, 

Reform'd in all things. See, sir, here he 
comes. 

Enter Sir Charles and hi$ Keeper. 

Keep. Discharge your fees, and you are 

then at freedom. 
Sir C. Here, Master Keeper, take the 
poor remainder 
Of all the wealth I have! My heavy 

foes 
Have made my purse light ; but, alas ! to 

me 
'T is wealth enough that you have set me 
free. 
Mai. God give you joy of your delivery! 
I am glad to see you abroad, Sir Charles. 
Sir C. The poorest knight in England, 
Master Malby. 
My life has cost me all my patrimony 
My father left his son. Well, God for- 
give them 
That are the authors of my penury ! 

Enter Shafton. 

Shaft. Sir Charles! A hand, a hand! 
At liberty? 
Now, by the faith I owe, I am glad to 

see it. 
What want you? Wherein may I pleas- 
ure you? 
Sir C. Oh me! Oh, most unhappy gen- 
tleman ! 



I am not worthy to have friends stirr'd 
up. 

Whose hands may help me in this plunge 
of want. 

I would I were in Heaven, to inherit 
there 

Th' immortal birthright which my Savior 
keejDS, 

And by no unthrift can be bought and 
sold; 

For here on earth what pleasures should 
we trust ! 
Shaft. To rid you from these contempla- 
tions, 

Three hundred pounds you shall receive 
of me ; 

Nay, five for fail.^* Come, sir, the sight 
of gold 

Is the most sweet receipt for melancholy, 

And will revive your spirits. You shall 
hold law 

With your proud adversaries. Tush ! let 
Frank Acton 

Wage, with his knighthood, like expense 
with me. 

And he will sink, he will. — Nay, good Sir 
Charles, 

Applaud your fortune and your fair es- 
cape 

From all these perils. 
Sir C. Oh, sir! they have undone me. 

. Two thousand and five hundred pound a 
year 

My father at his death possest me of; 

All which the envious Acton made me 
spend ; 

And, notwithstanding all this large ex- 
pense, 

I had much ado to gain my liberty; 

And I have only now a house of pleas- 
ure, 

With some five hundred pounds reserv'd, 

Both to maintain me and my loving sis- 
ter. 
Shaft. (Aside.) That must I have, it lies 
convenient for me. 

If I can fasten but one finger on him, 

With my full hand I '11 gripe him to the 
heart. 

'T is not for love I proffer'd him this 
coin, 

But for my gain and pleasure. — Come, 
Sir Charles, 

I know you have need of money ; take my 
offer. 
Sir C. Sir, I accept it, and remain in- 
debted 

Even to the best of my unable ^^ power. 



34 to prevent failure. 



35 feeble. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



165 



Come, gentlemen, and see it tend'red 
down! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. Frankford's house. 

Enter Wendoll, melanclioly. 

Wen. I am a villain, if I apprehend ^'^ 
But such a thought ! Then, to attempt 

the deed, 
Slave, thou art damn'd without redemp- 
tion. — 
I Ml drive away this passion with a song. 
A song! Ha, ha! A song! As if, 

fond ^^ man. 
Thy eyes could swim in laughter, when 

thy soul 
Lies drench'd and drowned in red tears 

of blood ! 
I '11 pray, and see if God within my 

heart 
Plant better thoughts. Why, prayers 

are meditations, 
And when I meditate (oh, God forgive 

me ! ) 
It is on her divine perfections. 
I will forget her; I will arm myself 
Not t' entertain a thought of love to 

her; 
And, when I come by chance into her 

presence, 
I '11 hale these balls until my eye-strings 

crack. 
From being pull'd and drawn to look 

that way. 

Enter, over the Stage, Frankford, his 
Wife, and Nicholas, and exeunt. 

God, God ! With wdiat a violence 

1 'm hurried to mine own destruction ! 
There goest thou, the most perfeetest 

man 
That ever England bred a gentleman. 
And shall I wrong his bed"?— Thou God 

of thunder! 
Stay, in Thy thoughts of vengeance and 

of wrath, 
Tliy great, almighty, and all-judging 

hand 
From speedy execution on a villain, — 
A villain and a traitor to his friend. 

Enter Jenkin. 



Wen. He doth maintain me; he allows me 
largely 
Money to sjoend. 
Joi. By my faith, so do not you me: I 

cannot get a cross ^* of you. 
Wen. My gelding, and my man. 
Jen. That 's Sorrel and I. 
Wen. This kindness grows of no alli- 
ance "^ 'twixt us. 
Jen. Nor is my service of any great ac- 
quaintance. 
Wen. I never bound him to me by desert. 
Of a mere stranger, a poor gentleman, 
A man by whom in no kind he could 

gain, 
He hath plac'd me in the height of all 

his thoughts, 
Made me companion with the best and 

chiefest 
In Yorkshire. He cannot eat without 

me, 
Nor laugh without me ; I am to his body 
As necessary as his digestion. 
And equally 'do make him whole or 

sick. 
And shall I wrong this man 1 Base man ! 

Ingrate ! 
Hast thou the power, straight with thy 

gory hands, 
To rip thy image from his bleeding heart. 
To scratch thy name from out the holy 

book 
Of his remembrance, and to wound his 

name 
That holds thy name so dearf Or rend 

his heart 
To whom thy heart was knit and join'd 

together "? — 
And yet I must. Then Wendoll, be con- 
tent! 
Thus villains, when they would, cannot 
repent. 
Jen. What a sti'ange humor is my new 
master in ! Pray God he be not mad ; if 
he should be so, I shoidd never have any 
mind to serve him in Bedlam. *° It may 
be he 's mad for missing of me. 
Wen. What, Jenkin ! Where 's your mis- 
tress *? 
Jen. Is your worship married'? 
Wen. Why dost thou ask? 
Jen. Because you are my master; and if I 
have a mistress, I would be glad, like a 
good servant, to do my duty to her. 
Wen. I mean Mistress Frankford. 
Jen. Many, sir, her husband is riding out 
of town, and she went very lovingly to 
bring him on his way to horse. Do you 



Jen. Did your worship call? 

36 conceive. 37 foolish. 38 a coin with a cross on one side 39 kinship. 40 lunatic asylum. 



166 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



see, sir? Here she comes, and here I go. 
Wen. Vanish ! 

Exit Jenkin. 

Enter Mistress Frankford. 

Mrs. F. You are well met, sir; now, in 
troth, my husband 
Before he took horse, had a great desire 
To speak with you; we sought about the 

house, 
Halloo'd into the fields, sent every way, 
But eould not meet you. Therefore, he 

enjoin'd me 
To do unto you his most kind com- 
mends, — 
Nay, more : he wills you, as you prize his 

love. 
Or hold in estimation his kind friend- 
ship, 
To make bold in his absence, and com- 
mand 
Even as himself were present in the 

house ; 
For you must keep his table, use his serv- 
ants. 
And be a present Frankford in his ab- 
sence. 
Wen. I thank him for his love. — 

{Aside.) Give me a name, you, whose 

infectious tongues 
Are tipt with gall and poison : as you 

would 
Think on a man that had your father 

slain, 
Murd'red your children, made your wives 

base strumpets. 
So call me, call me so; print in my face 
The most stigmatic title of a villain, 
For hatching treason to so true a friend ! 
Mrs. F. Sir, you are much beholding to 
my husband; 
You are a man most dear in his regard. 
Wen. I am bound unto your husband, and 
you too. 
(Aside.) I will not speak to wrong a 

gentleman 
Of that good estimation, my kind friend. 
I will not ; zounds ! I will not. I may 

choose, 
And I will choose. Shall I be so mis- 
led. 
Or shall I purchase to my father's crest 
The motto of a villain"? If I say 
I will not do it, what thing can enforce 

me"? 
What can compel me? What sad des- 
tiny 
Hath such command upon my yielding 
thoughts'? 



I will not; — ha! Some fury pricks me 

on; 
The swift fates drag me at their chariot 

wheel. 
And hurry me to mischief. Speak I 

must : 
Injure myself, wrong her, deceive his 
trust ! 
Mrs. F. Are you not well, sir, that you 
seem thus troubled? 
There is sedition in your countenance. 
Wen. And in my heart, fair angel, chaste 
and wise. 
I love you ! Start not, speak not, answer 

not; 
I love you, — nay, let me speak the rest ; 
Bid me to swear, and I will call to record 
The host of Heaven. 
Mrs. F. The host of Heaven forbid 

Wen doll should hatch such a disloyal 
thought? 
Wen. Such is my fate; to this suit was I 
born, 
To wear rich pleasure's crown, or for- 
tune's scorn. 
Mrs. F. My husband loves you. 
Wen. I know it. 

Mrs. F. He esteems you. 

Even as his brain, his eye-ball, or his 
heart. 
Wen. I have tried it. 

Mrs. F. His purse is your exchequer, and 
his table 
Doth freely serve you. 
Wen. So I have found it. 

3£rs. F. Oh, with what face of brass, what 
brow of steel. 
Can you, unblushing, speak this to the 

face 
Of the espous'd wife of so dear a friend? 
It is my husband that maintains your 

state. — 
Will you dishonor him that in your 

power 
Hath left his whole affairs? I am his 

wife. 
It is to me you speak. 
Wen. O speak no more ; 

For more than this I know, and have re- 
corded 
Within the red-leav'd table of my heart. 
Fair, and of all belov'd, I was not fear- 
ful 
Bluntly to give my life into your hand, 
And at one hazard all my earthly 

means. 
Go, tell your husband ; he will turn me 

off, ■ 
And I am then undone. I care not, I; 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



167 



'T was for your sake. Perchance, in ratje 
he '11 kill me ; 

I care not, 't was for you. Say I incur 

The general name of villain through the 
world, 

Of traitor to my friend ; I care not, I. 

Beggary, shame, death, scandal, and re- 
proach, — 

For you I '11 hazard all. Why, what 
care I? 

For you I '11 live, and in your love I '11 
die. 
Mrs. F. You move me, sir, to passion and 
to pity. 

The love I bear my husband is as pre- 
cious 

As my soul's health. 
Wen. I love your husband too. 

And for his love I will engage my life. 

Mistake me not ; the augmentation 

Of my sincere affection borne to you 

Doth no whit lessen my regard to him. 

I will be secret, lady, close as night; 

And not the light of one small glorious 
star 

Shall shine here in my forehead, to be- 
wray 

That act of night. 
Mrs. F. What shall I say! 

My soul is wandering, and hath lost her 
way. 

Oh, Master Wendoll ! Oh ! 
Wen. Sigh not, sweet saint ; 

For evei'y sigh you breathe draws from 
my heart 

A drop of blood. 
Mrs. F. I ne'er offended yet: 

My fault, I fear, will in my brow be 
writ. 

Women that fall, not quite bereft of 
grace, 

Have their offenses noted in their face. 

I blush, and am asham'd. Oh, Master 
Wendoll, 

Pray God I be not born to curse your 
tongue. 

That hath enchanted me ! This maze I 
am in 

I fear will prove the labyrinth of sin. 

Enter Nicholas behind. 

Wen. The path of pleasure and the gate 

to bliss, 
Which on your lips I knock at with a 

kiss! 
Nich, I '11 kill the rogue. 
Wen. Your husband is from home, your 

bed 's no blab. 

41 secret practices. 



Nay, look not down and blush ! 
Exeunt Wendoll and Mistress Frankford. 
Nich. Zounds ! I '11 stab. 

Aye, Nick, was it thy chance to come 

just in the nick? 
I love my master, and I hate that slave; 
I love my mistress, but these tricks I 

like not. 
My master shall not pocket up this 

wrong ; 
I 'II eat my fingers first. What say'st 

thou, metal? 
Does not the rascal Wendoll go on legs 
That thou nuist cut off? Hath he" not 

ham-strings 
That thou must hough? Nay, metal, 

thou shalt stand 
To all I say. I '11 henceforth turn a 

spy, 

And watch them in their close convey- 
ances.^^ 

I never look'd for better of that rascal, 

Since he came miching*^ first into our 
house. 

It is that Satan hath corrupted her; 

For she was fair and chaste. I '11 have 
an eye 

In all their gestures. Thus I think of 
them : 

If they proceed as they have done before, 

Wendoll 's a knave, my mistress is a 

Exit. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. Sir Charles Mountford's house. 

Enter Sir Charles Mountford and Susan. 

Sir C. Sister, you see we are driven to 
hard shift. 

To keep this poor house we have left 
unsold. 

I 'm now enforc'd to follow husbandry, 

And you to milk; and do we not live 
well? 

Well, I thank God. 
Susan. brother! here's a change. 

Since old Sir Charles died, in our fa- 
ther's house. 
Sir C. All things on earth thus change, 
some up, some down ; 

Content 's a kingdom, and I wear that 
crown. 

Enter Shafton, with a Sergeant. 

42 sneaking. 



168 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Shaft. Good morrow, moiTow, Sir 

Charles ! What ! With your sister, 

Plying your husbandry'? — Sergeant, 

stand off ! — 
You have a pretty house here, and a gar- 
den, 
And goodly ground about it. Since it 
lies 

So near a lordship that I lately bought, 

I would fain buy it of you. I will give 

you 

Sir C. Oh, pardon me; this house suc- 
cessively 

Hath long'd to me and my progenitors 

Three hundred years. My great-great- 
grandfather, 

He in whom first our gentle style '^^^ be- 
gan, . 

Dwelt here, and in this ground uTcreast 
this mole-hill 

Unto that mountain which my father left 
me. 

Where he the first of all our house began, 

I now the last will end, and keep this 
house, — 

This virgin title, never yet deflower'd 

By any unthrift of the Mountfords' line. 

In brief, I will not sell it for more 
gold 

Than you could hide or pave the ground 
withal. 
Shaft. Ha, ha! a proud mind and a beg- 
gar's purse ! 

Wliere 's my three hundred pounds, be- 
sides the use '? ** 

I have brought it to an execution 

By course of law. What ! Is my money 
ready 1 
Sir C. An execution, sir, and never tell 
me 

You put my bond in suit"? You deal ex- 
tremely. 
Shaft. Sell me the land, and I'll acquit 

you straight. 
Sir C. Alas, alas! 'T is all trouble hath 
left me 

To cherish me and my poor sister's life. 

If this were sold, our names should then 
be quite 

Raz'd from the bead-roll*^ of gentility. 

You see what hard shift we have made 
to keep it 

Allied still to our name. This palm you 
see, 

Labor hath glow'd within; her silver 
brow. 

That never tasted a rough winter's blast 



Without a mask or fan, doth with a 

grace 
Defy cold winter, and his storms out- 
face. 
Susan. Sir, we feed sparing, and we labor 
hard. 

We lie uneasy, to reserve to us 

And our succession this small spot of 
ground. 
Sir C. I have so bent my thoughts to hus- 
bandly,'**' 

That I protest I scarcely can remember 

What a new fashion is ; how silk or satin 

Feels in my hand. W^hy, pride is grown 
to us 

A mere, mere stranger. I have quite 
forgot 

The names of all that ever waited on 
me. 

I cannot name ye any of my hounds, 

Once from whose echoing mouths I heard 
all music 

That e'er my heart desir'd. What should 
I say?" 

To keep this place, I have chang'd my- 
self away. 
Shaft. Arrest him at my suit! — Actions 
and actions 

Shall keep thee in perpetual bondage 
fast; 

Nay, more, I '11 sue thee by a late appeal, 

And call thy former life in question. 

The keeper is my friend ; thou shalt have 
irons. 

And usage such as I '11 deny to dogs. — 

Away with him. 
Sir C. You are too timorous. '*''^ 

But trouble is my master, 

And I will serve him truly. — My kind sis- 
ter, 

Thy tears are of no use to mollify 

The flinty man. Go to my father's 
brother, 

My kinsmen, and allies ; entreat them for 
me, 

To ransom me from this injurious man 

That seeks my ruin. 
Shaft. Come, irons! Come away; 

I '11 see thee lodg'd far from the sight of 
day. 

Exeunt, except Stisan. 
Susan. My heart 's so hard'ned with the 
frost of gTief, 

Death cannot pierce it through. — Tyrant 
too fell ! 

So lead the fiends condemned souls to 
hell. 



43 rank as gentry. 

44 interest. 



45 list; properly a 
list of names to 



be prayed for. 
46 economy. 



47 Neilson suggests tyrannous. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



169 



Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. 

Malby, hast 
Shall v/e 



prison 



Sir F. Again to 

thou seen 
A poor slave better tortur'd 

hear 
The music of his voice cry from the 

grate,*^ 
Meat, for the Lord's sake? No, no; yet 

I am not 
Throughly reveng'd. They say, he hath 

a pretty wench 
Unto his sister; shall I, in mercy-sake 
To him and to his kindred, bribe the 

fool 
To shame herself by lewd, dishonest lust? 
I '11 proffer largely ; but, the deed being 

done, 
I '11 smile to see her base confusion. 
Mai. Methinks, Sir Francis, you are full 

reveng'd 
For greater wrongs than he can joroffer 

you. 
See where the poor sad gentlewoman 

stands! 
Sir F. Ha, ha! Now will I flout her 

poverty, 
Deride her fortunes, scoff her base es- 
tate; 
My very soul the name of Mountford 

hates. 
But stay, my heart ! Oh, what a look 

did fly 
To strike ihy soul through with thy 



piercing eye 



I am enchanted ; all my spirits are fled, 
And Avith one glance my envious spleen 
struck dead. 
Susan. Acton ! That seeks our blood ! 

Runs away. 
Sir F. chaste and fair! 

Mai. Sir Francis! Why, Sir Francis! 
Zounds, in a trance 1 
Sir Francis! What cheer, man? Come, 
come, how is 'f? 
Sir F. Was she not fair"? Or else this 
judging eye 
Cannot distinguish beauty. 
Mai. She was fair. 

Sir F. She was an angel in a mortal's 
shape. 
And ne'er descended from old Mount- 
ford's line. 
But soft, soft, let me call my wits to- 
gether ! 
A poor, poor wench, to my great adver- 
sary 



Sister, whose very souls denounce stern 

war 
One against other! How now, Frank, 

turn'd fool 
Or madman, whether"? But no ! Master 

of 
My perfect senses and directest wits. 
Then why should I be in this violent 

humor 
Of passion and of love? And with a 

person 
So different every way, and so oppos'd 
In all contractions '^^ and still-warring 

actions? 
Fie, fie! How I disjiute against my 

soul ! 
Come, come ; I '11 gain her, or in her fair 

quest 
Purchase my soul free and immortal rest. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. Frank ford's house. 

Enter three or four Serving-men, one with, 
a voider ^° and a wooden knife, to take 
away all; another the salt and bread; 
another with the table-cloth and napkins; 
another the carpet; ^^ Jenkin with two 
lights after them. 

Jen. So; march in order, and retire in 
battle array ! My master and the guests 
have supp'd already; all's taken away. 
Here, now spread for the serving-men in 
the hall ! — Butler, it belongs to your 
office. 

But. I know it, Jenkin. What d' ye call 
the gentleman that supp'd there to-night? 

Jen. Who? My master? 

But. No, no ; Master Wendoll, he 's a daily 
guest. I mean the gentleman that came 
but this afternoon. 

Jen. His name 's Master Cranwell. God's 
light ! Hark, within there ; my master 
calls to lay more billets ^- upon the fire. 
Come, come ! Lord, how we that are in 
office here in the house are troubled ! 
One spread the carpet in the parlor, and 
stand ready to snuff the lights ; the rest 
be ready to prepare their stomachs ! 
More lights in the hall, there! Come, 
Nicholas. 

Exeunt all hut Nicholas. 

Nich. I cannot eat; but had I Wendell's 
heart, 
I would eat that. The rogue grows im- 
pudent. 



48 grated window of 
the debtor's prison. 



lo dealings. 



50 crumb-tray. 



51 table-cloth. 



52 logs. 



170 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Oh ! I have seen such vile, notorious 

tricks, 
Ready to make my eyes dart from my 

head. 
I '11 tell my master ; by this air, I will ; 
Fall what may fall, I '11 tell him. Here 

he comes. 

Enter Master Frankford, as it were 
brushing the crumbs from his clothes 
with a napkin, as newly risen from sup- 
per. 

Frank. Nicholas, what make you here? 

Why are not you 
At supper in the hall, among your fel- 
lows? 
Nich. Master, I stay'd your rising from 

the boai'd, 
To speak with you. 
Frank. Be brief then, gentle Nicholas; 
My wife and guests attend ^^ me in the 

parlor. 
Why dost thou pause? Now, Nicholas, 

you want money, 
And, unthrift-like, would eat into your 

wages 
Ere you had earn'd it. Here, sir, 's half- 

a-crown ; 
Play the good husband,''^ — and away to 



supper 



Nich. By this hand, an honorable gentle- 
man ! I will not see him wrong'd. 
Sir, I have serv'd you long; you enter- 

tain'd me 
Seven years before your beard ; you knew 

me, sir, 
Before you knew my mistress. 
Frank. What of this, good Nicholas? 
Nich. I never was a make-bate ^^ or a 
knave ; 
I have no fault but one — I 'm given to 

quarrel, 
But not with women. I will tell you, 

master. 
That which will make your heart leap 

from your breast. 
Your hair to startle from your head, your 
ears to tingle. 
Frank. What preparation 's this to dis- 
mal news? 
Nich. 'Sblood ! sir, I love you better than 
your wife. 
I '11 make it good. 
Frank. You are a knave, and I have much 
ado 
With wonted patience to contain my rage, 
And not to break thy pate. Thou art a 
knave. 



I 'U turn you, with your base compari- 
sons. 
Out of my doors. 
Nich. Do, do. 

There is not room for Wendoll and me 

too. 
Both in one house. master, master. 
That Wendoll is a villain ! 
Frank. Aye, saucy? 

Nich. Strike, strike, do strike; yet hear 

me ! I am no fool ; 
I know a villain, when I see him act 
Deeds of a villain. Master, master, the 

base slave 
Enjoys my mistiness, and dishonors you. 
Frank. Thou hast kill'd me with a 

weapon, whose sharp point 
Hath prick'd quite through and through 

my shiv'ring heart. 
Drops of cold sweat sit dangling on my 

hairs. 
Like morning's dew upon the golden 

flowers, 
And I am plung'd into strange agonies. 
What did'st thou say? If any word that 

touclit 
His credit, or her reputation. 
It is as hard to enter my belief. 
As Dives into heaven. 
Nich. I can gain nothing: 

They are two that never wrong'd me. I 

knew before 
'T was but a thankless office, and per- 
haps 
As much as is my service, or my life 
Is worth. All this I know ; but this, and 

more, 
More by a thousand dangers, could not 

hire me 
To smother such a heinous wrong from 

you. 
I saw, and I have said. 
Frank. (Aside.) 'T is probable. Though 

blunt, yet he is honest. 
Though I durst pawn my life, and on 

their faith 
Hazard the dear salvation of my soul, 
Yet in my trust I may be too secure. 
May this" be true? Oh, may it? Can 

it be? 
Is it by any wonder possible? 
Man, woman, what thing mortal can we 

trust. 
When friends and bosom wives prove so 

unjust? — 
What instance ^^ hast thou of this strange 

report ? 
Nich. Eyes, eyes. 



58 await. 



54 thrifty man. 



55 breeder of qu.arrels. 



56 evidence. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



171 



Frank. Thy eyes may be deceiv'd, I tell 
thee ; 

For should an angel from the heavens 
drop down, 

And preach this to me that thyself hast 
told, 

He should have much ado to win belief; 

In both their loves I am so confident. 
Nich. Shall I discourse the same by cir- 
cumstance? 
Frank. No more ! To supper, and com- 
mand your fellows 

To attend us and the strangers ! Not a 
word, 

I charge thee, on thy life ! Be secret 
then ; 

For I know nothing. 
Nich. I am dumb ; and, now that I have 
eas'd my stomach,^" 

I will go fill my stomach. 

Exit. 
Frank. Away! Begone! — 

She is well born, descended nobly; 

Virtuous her education ; her repute 

Is in the general voice of all the country 

Honest and fair; her carriage, her de- 
meanor. 

In all her actions that concern the love 

To me her husband, modest, chaste, and 
godly. 

Is all this seeming gold plain copper? 

But he, that Judas that hath borne my 
purse. 

Hath sold me for a sin. O God ! O 
God ! 

Shall I put up these wrongs ? No ! 
Shall I trust 

The bare report of this suspicious groom, 

Before the double-gilt, the well-hatch'd ■''^ 
ore 

Of their two hearts'? No, I will lose 
these thoughts; 

Distraction I will banish from my bi'ow, 

And from my looks exile sad discon- 
tent, 

Their wonted favors in my tongue shall 
flow; 

Till I know all, I '11 nothing seem to 
know. — 

Lights and a table there ! Wife, Master 
' Wendoll, 

And gentle Master Cranwell ! 

Enter Mistress Frankford, Master Wen- 
doll. Master Cranwell, Nicholas, and Jen- 



57 anger. 

r.s of noble origin. 

59 shun. 



so pack. 

61 well done. 

62 be my partner. 



kin with cards, carpets, stools, and other 
necessaries. 

Frank. ! Master Cranwell, you are a 
stranger here. 
And often balk ^^^ my house ; faith, y' are 

a churl ! — 
Now we have supp'd, a table, and to 
cards ! 

Jen. A pair^o of cards, Nicholas, and a 
carpet to cover the table ! Where 's 
Cicely, with her counters and her box? 
Candles and candlesticks, there ! Fie ! 
We have such a household of serving- 
creatures! Unless it be Nick and I, 
there 's not one amongst them all that 
can say bo to a goose. — Well said,"^ 
Ni-ck ! 

{They spread a carpet: set down lights 
and cards.) 

Mrs. F. Come, Mr. Frankford, who shall 
take my part? ^^ 

Frank. Marry, that will I, sweet wife. 

Wen. No, by my faith, when you are to- 
gether, I sit out. It must be Mistress 
Frankford and I, or else it is no match. 

Frank. I do not like that match. 

Nich. (Aside.) You have no reason, 
marry, knowing all. 

Frank. 'T is no great matter, neither. — 
Come, Master Cranwell, shall you and I 
take them up? 

Cran. At your pleasure, sir. 

Frank. I must look to you, Master Wen- 
doll, for you '11 be playing false. Nay, 
so will my wife, too. 

Nich. (Aside.) Aye, I will be sworn she 
will. 

Mrs. F. Let them that are taken playing 
false, forfeit the set ! 

Frank. Content; it shall go hard but I'll 
take you. 

Cran. Gentlemen, what shall our game be? 

Wen. Master Frankford, you play best at 
noddy. ^^ 

Frank. You shall not find it so; indeed, 
you shall not. 

Mrs. F. I can iilay at nothing so well as 
double-ruff. 

Frank. If Master Wendoll and my wife 
be together, there 's no inlaying against 
them at double-hand. 

Nich. I can tell yon, sir, the game that 
Master Wendoll is best at. 

Wen. What game is that, Nick? 

63 This, and the other games mentioned, were all popular at 
the time. The doubles entendrrx throughout the scene 
should he noted ; such scenes, punnins: on the terms em- 
ployed in various games, occur in several Elizabethan plays. 



172 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Nich. Marry, sir, knave out of doors. 
Wen. She and I will take you at lo- 

dam, 
Mrs. F. Husband, shall we play at saint? 
Frank. (Aside.) My saint 's turn'd devil. 
— No, we '11 none of saint : 
You are best at new-cut, wife, you '11 
play at that. 
Wen. If you play at new-cut, I 'm soonest 

hitter of any here, for a Avager. 
Frank. (Aside.) 'T is me they play on. — 
Well, you may draw out ; 
For all your cunning', 't will be to your 

shame ; 
I '11 teach you, at your new-cut, a new 

game. 
Come, come ! 
Cran. If you cannot agree upon the game. 

To post and pair ! 
Wen. We shall be soonest pairs ; and my 
good host. 
When he comes late home, he must kiss 
the post.'''' 
Frank. Whoever wins, it shall be to thy 

cost. 
Cran. Faith, let it be vide-ruff, and let 's 

make honors ! 
Frank. If you make honors, one thing let 
me crave : 
Honor the king and queen, except the 
knave. 
Wen. Well, as you please for that. — 

Lift«5 who shall deal? 
Mrs. F. The least in sight. What are 

you, Master Wendoll? 
Wen. I am a knave. 
Nich. (Aside.) I '11 swear it. 

Mrs. F. la queen. 

Frank. (Aside.) A quean,''^ thou should'st 
say. — Well, the cards are mine : 
They are the grossest pair'^^ that e'er I 
felt. 
Mrs. F. Shuffle, I'll cut: would I had 

never dealt ! 
Frank. I have lost my dealing. 
Wen. Sir, the fault 's in me ; 

This queen I have more than mine own, 

you see. 
Give me the stock ! •"■ 
Frank. My mind 's not on my game. 

Many a deal I 've lost ; the more 's your 

shame. 
You have serv'd me a bad trick, Master 
Wend oil. 
Wen. Sir, you must take your lot. To 
end this strife. 



I know I have dealt better with your 
wife. 
Frank. Thou hast dealt falsely, then. 
Mrs. F. What's trumps? 
Wen. Hearts. Partner, I rub.^^ 
Frank. (Aside.) Thou robb'st me of my 
soul, of her chaste love; 
In thy false dealing thou hast robb'd my 

heart. — 
Booty you play ; ^'^ I like a loser stand. 
Having no heart, or here or in my 

hand, 
I will give o'er the set, I am not well. 
Come, who will hold my cards? 
Mrs. F. Not well, sweet Master Frank- 
ford? 
Alas, what ails you? 'T is some sudden 
qualm. 
Wen. How kmg have you been so. Mas- 
ter Frankford? 
Frank. Sir, I was lusty, and I had my 
health. 
But I grew ill when you began to deal. — 
Take hence this table ! — Gentle Master 

Cranwell, 
Y' are welcome; see your chamber at 

your pleasure ! 
I am sorry that this megrim '^° takes me 

so, 
I cannot sit and bear you company. — 
Jenkin, some lights, and show him to his 
chamber ! 

Exeunt Cranwell and Jenkin. 
Mrs. F. A nightgown for my husband; 
quickly, there ! 
It is some rheum or cold. 
Wen. Now, in good faith, 

This illness you have got by sitting late 
Without your gown. 
Frank. I know it. Master Wendoll. 

Go, go to bed, lest you complain like 

me! — 
Wife, prithee, wife, into my bed-cham- 
ber! 
The night is raw and cold, and rheu- 
matic. 
Leave me my gown and light ; I '11 walk 
away my fit. 
Wen. Sweet sir, good night ! 
Frank. Myself, good night! 

Exit Wendoll. 

Mrs. F. Shall I attend you, husband? 

Frank. No, gentle wife, thou 'It catch cold 

in thy head. 

Prithee, begone, sweet ; I '11 make haste 

to bed. 



04 be shut out. 

65 cut. 

86 strumpet. 



67 pack. 

08 take all the cards 
of the suit. 



60 "To play booty 
was to join with 
confederates to 



victimize another 
player." (N. E. 
T>.) 



70 headache. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



173 



BIrs. F. No sleep will fasten on mine eyes, 
you know, 
Until you come. 

Exit Mrs. Frankford. 

Frank. Sweet Nan, I prithee, go ! — 

I have bethought me ; get me by degrees 

The keys of all my doors, which I will 

mould 
In wax, and take their fair impression, 
To have by them new keys. This being 

compast. 
At a set hour a letter shall be brought 

me, 
And when they think they may securely 

play, 
They nearest are to danger. — Nick, I 

must rely 
Upon thy trust and faithful secrecy. 
Nich. Build on my faith ! 
Frank. To bed, then, not to rest ! 

Care lodges in my brain, grief in my 
breast. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. Old Mountford's house. 

Enter Susan, Old Mount ford, Sandy, 
Roder, and Tidy. 

Old Mount. You say my nephew is in 

great distress ; 
Vfho brought it to him but his own lewd 

life? 
I cannot spare a cross. I must confess, 
He was my brother's son ; why, niece, 

what tiien? 
This is no world in which to pity men. 
Susan. I was not born a beggar, though 

his extremes 
Enforce this language from me. I pro- 
test 
No fortune of mine own could lead my 

tongue 
To this base key. I do beseech you, 

uncle, 
For the name's sake, for Christianity, 
Nay, for God's sake, to pity his distress. 
He is denied the freedom of the prison. 
And in the hole is laid with men con- 

demn'd ; 
Plenty he hath of nothing but of irons, 
And it remains in you to free him thence. 
Old Mount. Money I cannot spare; men 

should take heed. 
He lost my kindred when he fell to need. 

Exit. 



Susan. Gold is but earth; thou earth 
enough shalt have, 
When thou hast once took measure of thy 

grave. 
You know me, Master Sandy, and my 
suit. 
Sandy. I knew you, lady, when the old 
man liv'd; 
I knew you ere your brother sold his' 

land. 
Then you were Mistress Sue, triek'd up 

in jewels; 
Then you sung well, play'd sweetly on 

the lute ; 
But now I neither know you nor your 
suit. 

Exit. 
Susan. You, Master Roder, was my 
brother's tenant; 
Rent-free he plac'd you in that wealthy 

farm. 
Of which you are possest. 
Roder. ' True, he did; 

And have I not there dwelt still for his 

sake? 
I have some business now; but, without 

doubt. 
They that have hurl'd him in, will help 
him out. 

Exit. 
Susan. Cold comfort still. Whatsay.you, 

, cousin Tidy? 
Tidy. I say this comes of roysting,'^^ swag- 
gering. 
Call me not cousin; each man for him- 
self! 
Some men are born to mirth, and some 

to sorrow : 
I am no cousin unto them that borrow. 

Exit. 
Susan. Charity, why art thou fled to 
heaven. 
And left all things upon this earth un- 
even ? 
Their scoffing answers I will ne'er return, 
But to myself his grief in silence mourn. 

■ Enter Sir Francis and Malhy. 

Sir F. She is poor, I 'II therefore tempt 
her with this gold. 
Go, Malby, in ray name deliver it, 
And I will stay thy answer. 
Mai. Fair mistress, as I understand your 
grief 
Doth grow from want, so I have here in 

store 
A means to furnish you, a bag' of gold, 



71 roistering. 



174 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Which to your hands I freely tender you. 
Susan. I thank you, Heavens ! I thank 
you, gentle sir : 
God make me able to requite this favor! 
Mai. This gold Sir Francis Acton sends 
by me, 
And prays you — 
Susan. Acton? God ! That name I 'm 
born to curse. 
Hence, bawd; hence, broker! See, I 

spurn his gold. 
My honor never shall for gain be sold. 
Sir F. Stay, lady, stay! 
Susan. Erom you I '11 posting hie, 

Even as the doves from feather'd eagles 

fly. 

Exit. 
Sir F. She hates my name, my face; how 
should I woo? 

I am disgrac'd in every thing I do. 

The more she hates me, and disdains my 
love, 

The more I am rapt in admiration 

Of her divine and chaste ijerfeetions. 

Woo her with gifts I cannot, for all gifts 

Sent in my name she spurns; with looks 
I cannot. 

For she abhors my sight; nor yet with 
letters, 

For none she will receive. How then? 
how then? 

Well, I will fasten such a kindness .on 
her. 

As shall o'ercome her hate and conquer it. 

Sir Charles, her brother, lies in execu- 
tion 

For a great sum of money ; and, besides, 

The appeal is sued still for my hunts- 
men's death. 

Which only I have power to reverse. 

In her I '11 bury all my hate of him. — 

Go seek the keeper, Malby, bring him to 
me! 

To save his body, I his debts will pay; 

To save his life, I his appeal will stay. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. A prison cell. 

Enter Sir Charles Mount ford, with irons, 
his feet hare, his garments all ragged 
and torn. 

Sir C. Of all on the earth's face most 
miserable, 

72 ceased. 



Breathe in this hellish dungeon thy la- 
ments ! 

Thus like a slave ragg'd, like a felon 
gyv'd, — 

That hurls the6 headlong to this base 
estate. 

Oh, unkind uncle ! Oh, my friends in- 
grate ! 

Unthankful kinsmen ! Mountford 's all 
too base. 

To let thy name be fetter'd in disgrace. 

A thousand deaths here in this grave I 
die; 

Fear, hunger, sorrow, cold, all threat my 
death. 

And join together to deprive my breath. 

But that wliich most torments me, my 
dear sister 

Hath left ^- to visit me, and from my 
friends 

Hath brought no hopeful answer; there- 
fore, I 

Divine they will not heli? nn' misery. 

If it be so, shame, scandal, and con- 
tempt 

Attend their covetous thoughts; need 
make their graves ! 

Usurers they live, and may they die like 
slaves ! 

Enter Keeper. 

Keep. Knight, be of comfort, for I bring 

thee freedom 
From all thy troubles. 
Sir C. Then, I am doom'd to die: 

Death is the end of all calamity. 
Keep. Live ! Your appeal is stay'd ; the 

execution 
Of all your debts diseharg'd ; your cred- 
itors 
Even to the utmost penny satisfied. 
In sian whereof your shackles I knock 

off. 
You are not left so much indebted to us 
As for your fees; all is diseharg'd; all 

paid. 
Go freely to your house, or where you 

please ; 
After long miseries, embrace your ease. 
Sir C. Thou grumblest out the sweetest 

music to me 
That ever organ play'd. — Is this a 

dream ? 
Or do my waking senses apprehend 
The pleasing taste of these applausive ''^ 

news ? 
Slave that I was, to wrong such honest 

friends, 

73 joyful. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



175 



My loving kinsman, .and my near allies ! 

Tongue, 1 aviII bite thee for the scandal 
breatb'd 

Against such faithful kinsmen ; they are 
all 

Compos'd of pity i^.nd compassion, 

Of melting cliarity and of moving ruth. 

That which I spoke before was in my 
rage; 

They are my friends, the mirrors of this 
age; 

Bounteous and free. The noble Mount- 
ford's race 

Ne'er bred a covetous thought, or humor 
base. 

Enter Susan. 

Susan. I cannot longer stay from visiting 

My woful brother. While I could, I 
kept 

My hapless tidings from his hojjef ul ear. 
Sir C. Sister, how much am I indebted to 
thee 

And to thy travail ! 
Susan. What, at liberty"? 

Sir C. Thou seest I am, thanks to thy in- 
dustry. 

Oh! Unto which of all my courteous 
friends 

Am I thus bound*? My uncle Mount- 
ford, he 

Even of an infant lov'd me; was it he? 

So did my cousin Tidy; was it he? 

So Master Roder, Master Sandy, too. 

Which of all these did this high Idndness 
do? 
Susan. Charles, can you mock me in your 
poverty, 

Kjiowing your friends deride your mis- 
ery? 

Now, I protest I stand so much amaz'd. 

To see your bonds free, and your irons 
knock'd off, 

That I am rapt into a maze of wonder; 

The rather for I know not by what 
means 

This happiness hath chane'd. 
Sir C. Why, by my uncle, 

My cousins, and my friends; who else, I 
pray, 

Would take upon them all my debts to 
pay? 
Susan. Oh, brother! they are men all of 
flint, 

Pictures of marble, and as void of pity 

As chased bears. I begg'd, I sued, I 
kneel'd, 

74 too base in their conduct. (Ward.) 75 remind. 



Laid open all your griefs and miseries. 

Which they derided; more than that, de- 
nied us 

A part in their alliance; but, in pride, 

Said that our kindred with our plenty 
died. 
Sir C. Drudges too much,'^* — what did 
they ? Oh, known evil ! 

Rich fly the poor, as good men slum the 
devil. 

Whence should my freedom come? Of 
whom alive. 

Saving of those, have I deserv'd so well? 

Guess, sister, call to mind, remember "'^ 
me ! 

These have I rais'd, they follow the 
world's guise. 

Whom rich in honor, they in woe despise. 
Susan. My wits have lost themselves ; let 's 

ask the keeper! 
Sir C. Gaoler! 
Keep. At hand, sir. 

Sir C. Of courtesy resolve me one de- 
mand ! 

What was he took the burden of my 
debts 

From off my back, stayed my appeal to 
death, 

Discharg'd my fees, and brought me lib- 
erty ? 
Keep. A courteous knight, one eall'd Sir 

Francis Acton. 
Sir C. Ha ! Acton ! Oh me ! More dis- 
tress'd in this 

Than all my troubles ! Hale me back. 

Double my irons, and my sparing meals 

Put into halves, and lodge me in a dun- 
geon 

More deep, more dark, more cold, more 
comfortless ! 

By Acton freed ! Not all thy manacles 

Could fetter so my heels, as this one 
word 

Hath thrall'd my heart; and it must now 
lie bound 

In more strict prison than thy stony 
gaol. 

I am not free, I go but under bail. 
Keep. My charge is done, sir, now I have 
my fees. 

As we get little, we will nothing leese.'^^ 
Sir C. By Acton freed, my dangerous op- 
posite ! 

WTiy, to what end? On what occasion? 
Ha! 

Let me forget the name of enemy. 

And with indifference balance '''' this high 
favor ! 



76 lose. 



77 weigh impartially. 



176 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Susan. (Aside.) His love to me, upon 

my soul, 't is so ! 
That is the root from whence these 

strange things grow. 
Sir C. Had this proceeded from my fa- 
ther, he 
That by the law of Nature is most bound 
Irt offices of love, it had deserv'd 
My best employment to requite that 

grace. 
Had it proceeded from my friends, or 

him, 
From them this action had deserv'd my 

life,— 
And from a stranger more, because from 

such 
There is less execution of good deeds. 
But he, nor father, nor ally, nor friend, 
More than a stranger, both remote in 

blood. 
And in his heart oppos'd my enemy. 
That this high bounty should proceed 

from him, — 
Oh ! there I lose myself. What should I 

say. 
What think, what do, his bounty to re- 
pay? 
Susan. You wonder, I am sure, whence 

this strange kindness 
Proceeds in Acton; I will tell you, 

brother. 
He dotes on me, and oft hath sent me 

gifts. 
Letters, and tokens; I refus'd them all. 
Sir C. I have enough, though poor: my 

heart is set. 
In one rich gift to pay back all my debt. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. Frankford's house. 

Enter Frankford and Nicholas, with 
keys. 

Frank. This is the night that I must play 
my part, 
To try two seeming angels. — Where 's 
my keys? 
Nich. They are made according to your 
mould in wax. 
I bade the smith be secret, gave him 

money, 
And here they are. The letter, sir! 
{Gives Nicholas letter.) 
Frank. True, take it, there it is; 

And when thou seest me in my pleas- 
ant'st vein, 

T8 influence with. 



Ready to sit to supper, bring it me ! 
Nich. I'll do't; make no more question 
but I '11 do it. 

Exit. 
Enter Mistress Frankford, Cranwell, 
Wendoll, and Jenkin. 

Mrs. F. Sirrah, 't is six o'clock already 
struck ; 
Go bid them spread the cloth, and serve 
in supper! 
Jen. It shall be done, forsooth, mistress. 
Where 's Spigot, the butler, to give us 
out salt and trenchers'? 

Exit. 
Wen. We that have been a hunting all the 
• day, 
Come with prepared stomachs. — Master 

Frankford, 
We wish'd you at our sport. 
Frank. My heart was with you, and my 
mind was on you. — 
Fie, Master Cranwell ! You are , still 

thus sad. — 
A stool, a stool ! Where 's Jenkin, and 

where 's Nick f 
'T is supper time at least an hour ago. 
What's the best news abroad? 
Wen. I know none good. 
Frank. {Aside.) But I know too much 
bad. 

Enter Butler and Jenkin, xvith a table- 
cloth, bread, trenchers, and salt; then 
exeunt. 

Cran. Methinks, sii", you might have that 
interest ^^ 

In your wife's brother, to be more re- 
miss "^ 

In his hard dealing against poor Sir 
Charles, 

Who, as I hear, lies in York Castle, 
needy 

And in great want. 
Frank. Did not more weighty business of 
mine own 

Hold me away, I would have labor'd 
peace 

Betwixt them with all care; indeed I 
would, sir. 
Mrs. F. 1 '11 write unto my brother ear- 
nestly 

In that behalf. 
Wen. A charitable deed, 

And will beget the good opinion 

Of all your friends that love you, Mis- 
tress Frankford. 

79 lenient. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



177 



Frank. That 's you, for one ; I know you 

love Sir Charles, 
{Aside.) And my wife too, well. 
Wen. He deserves the love 

Of all true gentlemen; be yourselves 

judge ! 
Frank. But supper, ho ! — Now, as thou 

lov'st me, Wendoll, 
Which I am sure thou dost, be merry, 

pleasant, 
And frolic it to-night ! — Sweet Mr. Cran- 

well, 
Do you the like ! — Wife, I protest, my 

heart 
Was ne'er more bent on sweet alacrity. 
Where be those lazy knaves to serve in 

supper? 

Enter Nicholas. 

Nich. Here 's a letter, sir. 

Frank. Whence comes it, and who brought 

it? 
NicJi. A stripling that below attends your 
answer. 
And, as he tells me, it is sent from York. 
Frank. Have him into the cellar, let him 
taste 
A cup of our March beer; go, make him 
drink ! 
Nidi. I '11 make him drunk, if he be a 

Trojan. 80 
Frank. (After reading the letter.) My 
boots and spurs! Where's Jenkinl 
God forgive me. 
How I neglect my business! — Wife, look 

here ! 
I have a matter to be tried to-morrow 
By eight o'clock; and my attorney writes 

me, 
I must be there betimes with evidence, 
Or it will go against me. Whei'e 's my 
boots f 

■Re-enter Jenkin, with boots and spurs. 

Mrs. F. I hope your business craves no 
such despatch, 
That you must ride to-night ? 
Wen. (Aside.) I hope it doth. 

Frank. God's me ! No such despatch ? 
Jenkin, my boots ! Where 's Nick ? 

Saddle my roan. 
And the gray dajiple for himself! — Con- 
tent ye. 
It much concerns me. — Gentle Master 

Cranwell, 
And Master Wendoll, in my absence use 

80 good fellow. 81 armed. 



The very ripest pleasure of my house ! 
Wen. Lord ! Master Frankford, will you 
ride to-night? 
The ways are dangerous. 
Frank. Therefore will I ride 

Appointed ^^ well ; and so shall Nick, my 
man. 
3Irs. F. I 'II call you up by five o'clock 

to-morrow. 
Frank. No, by my faith, wife, I '11 not 
trust to that : 
'T is not such easy rising in a morning 
From one I love so dearly. No, by my 

faith, 
I shall not leave so sweet a bedfellow. 
But with much pain. You have made 

me a sluggard 
Since I first knew you. 
3Irs. F. Then, if you needs will go 

This dangerous evening, Master Wendoll, 
Let me entreat you bear him company. 
Wen. With all my heart, sweet mistress. — 

My boots, there ! 
Frank. Fie, fie, that for my private busi- 
ness 
I should disease ^- a friend, and be a 

trouble 
To the whole house! — Nick! 
Nich. Anon, sir ! 

Frank. Bring forth my gelding! — As you 
love me, sir, 
Use no more words : a hand, good Master 
Cranwell ! 
Cran. Sir, God be your good speed ! 
Frank. Good night, SAveet Nan; nay, nay, 

a kiss, and part ! 
(Aside.) Dissembling lips, you suit ^^ not 
with my heart. 

Exeunt Frankford and Nicholas. 
Wen. (Aside.) How business, time, and 
hours, all gracious prove. 
And are the furtherers to my new-born 

love ! 
I am husband now in Master Frank- 
ford's place. 
And must command the house. — My 

pleasure is 
We will not sup abroad so publicly. 
But in your private chamber, Mistress 
Frankford. 
3Irs. F. Oh, sir ! you are too public in 
your love. 

And Master Frankford's wife 

Cran. Might I crave favor, 

I would entreat you I might see my 

chamber. 
I am on the sudden grown exceeding ill. 
And would be spar'd from supper. 



82 inconvenience. 



83 agree. 



178 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Wen. Light there, ho ! — 

See you want nothing, sir, for if you do, 
You injure that good man, and wrong me 
too. 
Cran. I will make bold ; good night ! 

Exit. 
Wen. How all conspire 

To make our bosom ^* sweet, and full en- 
tire ! 
Come, Nan, I prithee, let us sup within ! 
Mrs. F. Oh ! what a clog unto the soul is 
sin ! 
We pale offenders are still full of fear ; 
Every suspicious eye brings danger near; 
When they, Avhose clear hearts from of- 
fense are free, 
Despise report, base scandals do outface. 
And stand at mere defiance with dis- 
grace. 
Wen. Fie, fie ! You talk too like a puri- 
tan. 
Mrs. F. You have tempted me to mis- 
chief. Master WendoU : 
I have done I know not what. Well, you 

plead custom; 
That which for want of wit I granted 

erst, 
I now must yield through fear. Come, 

come, let 's in ; 
Once over shoes, we are straight o'er 
head in sin. 
Wen. My jocund soul is joyful beyond 
measure ; 
I '11 be profuse in Frankford's richest 
treasure. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. Another part of the house. 

Enter Cieehj, Jenkin, Butler, and other 
Serving-men. 

Jen. My mistress and Master Wendoll, 
my master, sup in her chamber to-night. 
Cicely, you are preferr'd, from being the 
cook, to be chambermaid. Of all the 
loves betwixt thee and me, tell me what 
thou think'st of this? 

Cic. Mum ; there 's an old proverb, — Avhen 
the cat 's away, the mouse may play. 

Jen. Now you talk of a cat, Cicely, I 
smell a rat. 

Cic. Good words, Jenkin, lest you be call'd 
to anSAver them ! 

Jen. Why, God made my mistress an hon- 
est woman! Are not these good words'? 
Pray God my new master play not the 

84 intimacy. 



knave with my old master ! Is there any 
hurt in this'? God send no villainy in- 
tended; and if they do sup together, pray 
God they do not lie together! God make 
my mistress chaste, and make us all His 
servants ! What harm is there in all 
this? Nay, more; here in my hand, thou 
shalt never have my heart, unless thou 
say, Amen. 
Cic. Amen; I pray God, I say. 

Enter Serving-man. 

Serving-man. My mistress sends that you 
should make less noise, to lock up the 
doors, and see the household all got to 
bed. You, Jenkin, for this night are 
made the porter, to see the gates shut 
in. 

Jen. Thus by little and little I creep into 
office. Come, to kennel, my masters, to 
kennel; 'tis eleven o'clock already. 

Serving-man. When you have lock'd the 
gates in, you must send up the keys to 
my mistress. 

Cic. Quickly, for God's sake, Jenkin ; for 
I must carry them. I am neither pillow 
nor bolster, but I know more than both. 

Jen. To bed, good Spigot ; to bed, good 
honest serving-creatures; and let us sleep 
as snug as pigs in pease-straw ! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. Outside the house. 

Enter Frankford and Nicholas. 

Frank. Soft, soft ! We 've tied our geld- 
ings to a tree. 
Two flight-shot ®^ off, lest by their thun- 
dering hoofs 
They blab our coming back. Hear'st 
thou no noise? 
Nich. Hear? I hear nothing but the owl 

and you. 
Frank. So ; now my watch's hand points 
upon twelve, 
And it is dead midnight. Where are my 
keys ? 
Nich. Here, sir. 

Frank. This is the key that opes my out- 
ward gate; 
This, the hall-door; this, the withdraw- 

ing-chamber ; 
But this, that door that 's bawd unto my 
shame, 

-r* 85 bow-shots. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



179 



Fountain and sj^^'iiiS' oi ^^^ iiiy bleeding 

lliuugiits, 
Where the most hallowed order and true 

knot 
Of nuptial sanctity hath been profan'd. 
It leads to my polluted bed-chamber, 
Once my terrestrial heaven, now my 

earth's hell. 
The place where sins in all their ripeness 

dwell. — 
But I forget myself ; now to my gate ! 
Nich. It must ojae with far less noise 
Than Cripplegate,*'' or your plot 's 

dash'd. 
Frank. So; reach me mj' dark lantern 

to the rest ! 
Tread softly, softly! 
Nicli. I will walk on eggs this pace. 

Frank. A general silence hath surpris'd 

the house, 
And this is the last door. Astonishment, 
Fear, and amazement, beat upon my 

heart, 
Even as a madman beats upon a drum. 
Oh, keep my eyes, you Heavens, before 

I enter, 
From any sight that may transfix my 

soul; 
Or, if there be so black a spectacle, 
Oh, strike mine eyes stark blind; or, if 

not so. 
Lend me such patience to digest my 

grief. 
That I may keep this white and virgin 

hand 
From any violent outrage, or red mur- 
der ! — 
And with that prayer I enter. 

Exeunt into the house. 

Scene 5. The hall of the house. 

Enter Nicholas. 

Nich. Here's a circumstance!^'' 

A man may be made cuckold in the time 
That he 's about it. An *^ the case were 

mine. 
As 't it my master's, 'sblood ! (that he 

makes me swear!) 
I would have plac'd his aetion,^^ enter'd 

there ; 
I would, I would ! 

Enter Frankford. 

Frank. Oh ! oh ! 

Nich. Master! 'Sblood! Master, master! 



i One of the old 87 formality, 
gates of London. 88 if. 



89 established 
case. (Ward 



Frank. Oh me unhappy! I have found 

them lying 
Close in each other's arms, and fast 

asleei^. 
But that I Avould not damn two precious 

souls, 
Bought with my Savior's blood, and send 

them, laden 
With all their scarlet sins upon their 

backs, 
Unto a fearful judgment, their two lives 
Had met upon my rapier. 
Nich. Master, w^iat, have you left them 

sleeping still? 
Let me go wake 'em I 
Frank. Stay, let me pause awhile ! — 

Oh, God! Oh, God! That it were pos- 
sible 
To undo things done; to call back yester- 
day ; 
That Time could turn up his swift sandy 

glass. 
To untell °° the days, and to redeem these 

hours ! 
Or that the sun 
Could, rising from the west, draw his 

coach backward; 
Take from th' account of time so many 

minutes, 
Till he had all these seasons call'd again. 
Those minutes, and those actions done in 

them. 
Even from her first offense; that I might 

take her 
As spotless as an angel in my arms! 
But, oh ! I talk of things impossible. 
And cast beyond the moon.^^ God give 

me patience; 
For I will in, and wake them. 

Exit. 

Nich. Here's patience perforce! 

He needs must trot afoot that tires his 

horse. 

Enter Wendoll running over the stage in a 
night-go ivn/'- Frankford after him with 
his sword drawn; a maid in her smock 
stays his hand, and clasps hold on him. 
He pauses for a while. 

Frank. I thank thee, maid; thou, like the 

angel's hand, 
Hast stay'd me from a bloody sacrifice. — 
Go, villain ; and my wrongs sit on thy 

soul 
As heavy as this grief doth upon mine ! 

his 90 count backwards. impossible wish. 

■ ) 91 proverbial for any 92 dressing-gown. 



180 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



When thou record'st my many courtesies, 
And shalt comj^are them with thy treach- 
erous heart, 
Lay them together, weigh them equally, — 
'T will be revenge enough. Go, to thy 

friend 
A Judas ; pray, pray, lest I live to see 
Thee, Judas-like, hang'd on an elder- 
tree ! 

Enter Mistress Frankford in her smock, 
night-gown, and night-attire* 

WIrs. F. Oh, by what word, what title, or 

what name. 
Shall I entreat your pardon"? Pardon! 

Oh! 
I am as far from hoj^ing such sweet 

grace, 
As Lucifer from Heaven. To call you 

husband, — 
Oh me, most wretched ! I have lost that 

name; 
I am no more your wife. 
Nich. 'Sblood, sir, she swoons. 

Frank. Spare thou thy tears, for I will 

weep for thee; 
And keep thy count'nance, for I '11 blush 

for thee. 
Now, I protest, I thmk 't is I am tainted, 
For I am most asham'd ; and 't is more 

hard 
For me to look ujion thy guilty face 
Than on the sun's clear brow. What 

would'st thou speak"? 
Mrs. F. I would I had no tongue, no ears, 

no eyes. 
No apprehension, no capacity. 
When do you spurn me like a dog"? 

When tread me 
Under feet ? When drag me by the hair ? 
Though I deserve a thousand thousand 

fold, 
More than you can inflict — yet, once my 

husband. 
For womanhood, to which I am a shame. 
Though once an ornament — even for His 

sake, 
That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not 

my face, 
Nor hack me with yoi;r sword ; but let 

me go 
Perfect and imdef ormed to my tomb ! 
I am not worthy that I should prevail 
In the least suit ; no, not to speak to you. 
Nor look on you, nor to be in your pres- 
ence ; 
Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave; 

93 rank. 



This granted, I am ready for my grave. 
Frank. My God, with patience arm me! — 
Rise, nay, rise. 
And I '11 debate with thee. Was it for 

want 
Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou 

not suiDplied 
With every pleasure, fashion, and neAV 

toy,— 
Nay, even beyond my calling"? ^^ 
Mrs. F. I was. 

Frank. Was it, then, disability in me ; 
Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer 
man"? 
Mrs. F. Oh, no ! 

Frank. Did I not lodge thee in my bosom "? 

Wear thee here in my heart"? 
Mrs. F. You did. 

Frank. I did, indeed; witness my tears, I 
did— 
Go, bring my infants hither! — 
{Two Children are brought in.) 

Oh, Nan ! Oh, Nan !' 
If neither fear of shame, regard of 

honor, 
The blemish of my house, nor my dear 

love, 
Could have withheld thee from so lewd 

a fact,94 
Yet for these infants, these young, harm- 
less souls, 
On whose white brows thy shame is char- 

acter'd. 
And grows in greatness as they wax in 

years, — 
Look but on them, and melt away in 

tears ! — 
Away with them ; lest, as her spotted 

body 
Hath stain'd their names with stripe of 

bastardy. 
So her adulterous breath may blast their 

spirits 
With her infectious thoughts ! Away 
with them ! 

Exeunt Children. 
Mrs. F. In this one life, I die ten thou- 
sand deaths. 
Frank. Stand up, stand up ! I will do 
nothing rashly. 
I will retire awhile into my study, 
And thou shalt hear thy sentence pres- 
ently. 

Exit. 
Mrs. F. 'T is welcome, be it death. Oh 
me, base strumpet. 
That, having such a husband, such sweet 
children. 



A WOIMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



181 



Must enjoy neither! Oh, to redeem my 
honor, 

I 'd have this hand cut off, these my 
breasts sear'd; 

Be rack'd. strappado'd, put to any tor- 
ment : 

Nay, to whip but this scandal out, I 'd 
hazard 

The rich and dear redemption of my 
soul ! 

He cannot be so base as to forgive me. 

Nor I so shameless to accept his pardon. 

Oh, women, women, you that yet have 
kejit 

Your holy matrimonial vow unstain'd. 

Make me your instance; when you tread 
awiy, 

Your sins, like mine, will on your con- 
science lie. 

Enter Ciceln, Spigot, all the Serving-men, 
and Jenkin, as newlg come out of bed. 

All. Oh, mistress, mistress! What have 

you done, mistress "? 
Nich. 'Sblood, what a caterwauling: keep 

you here ! 
Jen. Lord, mistress, how comes this to 
pass"? My master is run away in his 
shirt, and never so much as call'd me to 
bring his clothes after him. 
3Irs. F. See what guilt is ! Here stand I 
in this place, 
Asham'd to look my servants in the face. 

Enter Franhford and Cranivell; ivliom 
seeing, she falls on her knees. 

Frank. My words are regist'red in 

Heaven already. 
With patience hear me ! I '11 not martyr 

thee. 
Nor mark thee for a strumpet; but with 

usage 
Of more humility torment thy soul. 
And kill thee even with kindness. 
Cran. Master Frankford — 
Frank. Good Master Cranwell! — Woman, 

hear thy judgment ! 
Go make thee ready in thy best attire; 
Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy 

apparel ; 
Leave nothing that did ever call thee mis- 
tress, 
Or by whose sight, being left here in the 

house, 
I may remember such a woman by. 
Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy 

chamber ; 

95 nearby. 96 allow. 



Take with thee every thing which hath 

thy mark. 
And get thee to my manor seven mile off, 
Where live ; — 't is thine ; I freely give it 

thee. 
My tenants by ^^ shall furnish thee with 

wains 
To carry all thy stuff within two hours; 
No longer will I limit °^ thee my sight. 
Choose which of all my servants thou 

lik'st best. 
And they are thine to attend thee. 
Mrs. F. A mild sentence. 

Frank. But, as thou hop'st for Heaven, 

as thou believ'st 
Thy name 's recorded in the book of life, 
I charge thee never after this sad day 
To see me, or to meet me; or to send. 
By word or writing, gift or otherwise, 
To move me, by thyself, or by thy 

friends ; 
Nor challenge any part in my two chil- 
dren. 
So farewell, Nan ; for we will henceforth 

be 
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall 

see. 
Mrs. F. How full my heart is, in mine 

eyes appears; 
What wants in words, I will supply in 

tears. 
Frank. Come, take your coach, your stuff; 

all must along'. 
Servants and all make ready; all be- 
gone ! 
It was thy hand cut two hearts out of 

one. 

Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. Before Sir Francis Acton's 
house. 

Enter Sir Charles Mountford, gentleman- 
like, and Susan, gentlewoman-like. 

Susan. Brother, why have you trick'd ^"^ 
me like a bride. 
Bought me this gay attire, these orna- 
ments'? 
Forget you our estate, our poverty? 
Sir C. Call me not brother, but imagine 
me 
Some barbarous outlaw, or i:ncivil 
kern ; ^^ 



97 adorned. 



98 Irish irregular foot-soldier. 



182 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



For if thou shutt'st thine eye, and only 

hear'st 
The words that I shall utter, thou shalt 

judge me 
Some staring ruffian, not thy brother 

Charles. 

Oh, sister! 

Susan. Oh, brother ! what doth this 

strange language mean? 
Sir C. Dost love me, sister? Would'st 

thou see me live 
A bankrupt beggar in the world's dis- 
grace, 
And die indebted to mine enemies'? 
Wouldst thou behold me stand like a 

huge beam 
In the world's eye, a by-word and a 

scorn ? 
It lies in thee of these to acquit me free, 
And all my debt 1 may outstrip by thee. 
Susan. By me"? Why, I have nothing, 

nothing left; 
I owe even for the clothes upon my 

back; 

I am not worth 

Sir C. sister, say not so ! 

It lies in you my downcast state to raise ; 
To make me stand on even points with 

the world. 
Come, sister, you are rich ; indeed, you 

are. 
And in your power you have, without 

delay 
Acton's five hundred pounds back to re- 
pay. 
Susan. Till now I had thought you lov'd 

me. By my honor 
(Which I have kept as spotless as the 

moon), 
I ne'er was misti'ess of that single doit "" 
Which I reserv'd not to supply your 

wants ; 
And do you think that I would hoard 

frpm you? 
Now, by my hopes of Heaven, knew I 

the means 
To buy you from the slavery of your 

debts 
(Especially from Acton, whom I hate), 
I would redeem it with my life or blood ! 
Sir C. I challenge it, and, kindred set 

apart. 
Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to your 

heart. 
What do I owe to Acton? 
Susan. Why, some five hundred pounds ; 

towards which, I swear, 
In all the world I have not one denier.^ 



Sir C. It will not prove so. Sister, now 
resolve - me : 
What do you think (and speak your eon- 
science) 
Would Acton give, might he enjoy your 
bed ? 
Susan. He would not shrink to spend a 
thousand pound 
To give the Mouiitfords' name so deep a 
wound. 
Sir C. A thousand pound ! I but five 
hundred owe : 
Grant him your bed ; he 's paid with in- 
terest so. 
Susan. Oh, brother! 

Sir C. Oh, sister! only this one way, 

With that rich jewel you my debts nuay 

pay. 
In speaking this my cold heart shakes 

with shame; 
Nor do I woo you in a brother's name, 
But in a stranger's. Shall I die in debt 
To Acton, my grand foe, and you still 

wear 
The precious jeAvel that he holds so dear? 
Susan. My honor 1 esteem as dear and 
precious 
As my redemption. 
Sir C. I esteem you, sister. 

As dear, for so dear prizing it. 
Susan. Will Charles 

Have me cut off my hands, and send 

them Acton? 
Rip up my breast, and with my bleeding 

heart 
Present him as a token? 
Sir C. Neither, sister; 

But hear me in my strange assertion ! 
Thy honor and my soul are equal in my 

regard ; 
Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy 

shame. 
His kindness, like a burden, hath sur- 

charg'd me, 
And under his good deeds I stooping go, 
Not with an upright soul. Had I re- 
main 'd 
In prison still, there doubtless I had died. 
Then, unto him that freed me from that 

prison, 
Still do I owe this life. What mov'd my 

foe 
To enfranchise me? 'T Avas, sister, for 

your love ; 
With full five hundred pounds he bought 

your love ; — 
And shall he not enjoy it? Shall the 
weight 



99 any small coin. 



1 penny. 



I 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



183 



Of all this heavy burden lean on me, 

And will not you bear part ? You did 
jjartake 

The joy of my release; will you not 
stand 

In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt? 

Shall I be only eharg'd? 
Susan. But that I know 

These arguments come from an honor'd 
mind, 

As in your most extremity of need 

Scorning to stand in debt to one you 
hate, — 

Nay, rather would engage your un^taiu'd 
honor. 

Than to be held ingrate, — I should con- 
demn you. 

I see. your resolution, and assent ; 

So Charles will have me, and I am eon- 
tent. 
Sir C. For this I trick'd you up. 
Susan. But here 's a knife. 

To save mine honor, shall slice out my 
life. 
Sir C. I know thou pleasest me a thou- 
sand times 

More in that resolution than thy grant. — 

Observe her love; to soothe it to my suit, 

Her honor she will hazard, though not 
lose; 

To bring me out of debt, her rigorous 
hand 

Will pierce her heart, — wonder! — that 
will choose, 

Rather than stain her blood, her life to 
lose. 

Come, you sad sister to a woful brother, 

This is the gate. I '11 bear him such a 
present. 

Such an acquittance for the knight to 
seal. 

As will amaze his senses, and surprise 

With admiration all his fantasies. 

Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. 

Susan. Before his unchaste thoughts shall 
seize on me, 
'T is here shall my imprison'd soul set 
free. 
Sir F. How ! Mountf ord with his sister, 
hand in hand ! 
What miracle's afoot? 
Mai. It is a sight 

Begets in me much admiration.^ 
Sir C. Stand not amaz'd to see me thus 
attended ! 
Acton, I owe thee money, and, being un- 
able 

3 wonder. 



To bring thee the full sum in ready coin, 
Lo ! for thy more assurance, here 's a 

pawn, — 
My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste 

honor 
I prize above a million. Here! Nay, 

take her; 
She 's worth your money, man ; do not 

forsake her. 
Sir F. I would he were in earnest ! 
Susan. Impute it not to my immodesty. 
My brother, being rich in nothing else 
But in his interest that he hath in me. 
According to his poverty hath brought 

you 
Me, all his store; whom, howsoe'er you 

prize. 
As forfeit to your hand, he values highly, 
And would not sell, but to acquit your 

debt, 
For any emperor's ransom. 
Sir F. Stern heart, relent, 

Thy former cruelty at length repent ! 
Was ever known, in any former age. 
Such honorable, wrested* courtesy"? 
Lands, honors, life, and all the world 

forego. 
Rather than stand engag'd to such a 

foe ! 
Sir C. Acton, she is too poor to be thy 

bride. 
And I too much oppos'd to be thy 

brother. 
There, take her to thee; if thou hast the 

heart 
To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey; 
To blur our house, that never yet was 

stain'd ; 
To murder her that never meant thee 

harm ; 
To kill me now, whom once thou sav'dst 

from death : — 
Do them at once ; on her all these rely. 
And perish with her spotless chastity. 
Sir F. You overcome me in your love, Sir 

Charles. 
I cannot be so cruel to a lady 
I love so dearly. Since you have not 

spar'd 
To engage your reputation to the world, 
Your sister's honor, which you prize so 

dear, 
Nay, all the comforts which you hold on 

earth. 
To grow out of my debt, being your 

foe, — 
Your honoi-'d thoughts, lo ! thus I recom- 
pense. 

4 over-wrought. 



184 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Your metamorphos'd foe receives your 

gift 
In satisfaction of all former wrongs. 
This jewel I will wear here in my heart ; 
And where before I thought her, for her 

wants, 
Too base to be my bride, to end all strife, 
I seal you my dear brother, her my wife. 
Susan. You still exceed us. I will yield 

to fate, 
And learn to love, where I till now did 

hate. 
Sir C. With that enchantment you have 

charm'd my soul 
And made me rich even in those very 

words ! 
I pay no debt, but am indebted more; 
Rich in your love, I never can be poor. 
Sir F. All's mine is yours; we are alike 

in state ; 
Let 's knit in love Avhat was oppos'd in 

hate ! 
Come, for our nuptials we will straight 

provide. 
Blest only in our brother and fair bride. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. Frank-ford's house. 

Enter Cramvell^ Frankford, and 
Nicholas. 

Cran. Why do you search each room 

about your house. 
Now that you have despatch'd your wife 

away ? 
Frank. Oh, sii", to see that nothing may be 

left 
That ever was my wife's. I lov'd her 

dearly ; 
And when I do but think of her unkind- 

ness. 
My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid 

which torment, 
I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, 
A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire,^ 
Nor anything that ever was call'd hers, 
Left me, by which I might remember 

her. — 
Seek round about. 
Nich. 'Sblood! master, here's her lute 

flung in a corner. 
Frank. Her lute ! God ! Upon this 

instrument 
Her fingers have run quick division," 
Sweeter than that which now divides our 

hearts. 



These frets have made me pleasant, that 

have now 
Frets of my heart-strings made. Mas- 
ter Cran well ! 
Oft hath she made this melancholy weod, 
Now mute and dumb for her disastrous 

chance. 
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many 

a strain 
To her own ravishing voice; which being 

well strung. 
What pleasant strange airs have they 

jointly sung! — 
Post with it after her ! — Now nothing 's 

left; 
Of her and hers I am at once bereft. 
Nich. I'll 7-ide and overtake her; do my 

message, 
And come back again. 

Exit. 

Cran. Meantime, sir. if you please, 

I'll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform 

him 
Of what hath past betwixt you and his 

sister. 
Frank. Do as you please. — How ill am I 

bested, 
To be a widower ere my wife be dead ! 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. A country road. 

Enter Mistress Frankford, with Jcnkin, 
her maid Cicely, her Coachmen, and three 
Carters. 

Mrs. F. Bid my coach stay ! Why should 
I ride in state, 
Beinc: hurl'd so low down by the hand 

of fate? 
A seat like to my fortunes let me have, — 
Earth for my chair, and for my bed a 
grave ! 
Jen. Comfort, good mistress; you have 
watered your coach with tears already. 
You have but two miles now to go to 
your manor. A man cannot say by my 
old master Frankford as he may say by 
me, that he wants manors; for he hath 
three or four, of which this is one that 
we are going to now. 
Cic. Good mistress, be of good cheer! 
Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you 
not; we all mourn to see you so sad. 
Carter. Mistress, I spy one of my land- 
lord's men 
Come riding post : 't is like he brings 
some news. 



5 wire used to support a ruff. 



6 variation. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



ISf) 



Mrs. F. Comes he from Master Frank- 
ford, he is welcome; 
So are his news, because they come from 
him. 

Enter Nicholas. 

Nich. There ! 

Mrs. F. I know the lute. Oft have I 

sung to thee; 
We both are out of tune, both out of 

time. 
Nich. Would that had been the worst in- 
strument that e'er you played on ! My 
master commends him to ye ; there 's all 
he can find that was ever yours; he hath 
nothing- left that ever you could lay 
claim to but his own heart, and he could 
afford you that! All that I have to de- 
liver you is this : he prays you to forget 
him ; and so he bids you farewell. 
Mrs. F. I thank him; he is kind, and ever 

was. 
All you that have true feeling of my 

grief, 
That know my loss, and have relenting 

hearts, 
Gird me about, and help me with your 

tears 
To wash my sjDotted sins ! My lute shall 

groan ; 
It cannot weep, but shall lament my 

moan. 

Enter Wendoll behind. 

Wen. Pursu'd with horror of a guilty 

soul, 
And with the sharp scourge of repent- 
ance lasli'd, 
I fiy from mine own shadow. my 

stars ! 
What have my parents in their lives de- 

serv'd. 
That you should lay this penance on their 

son? 
Wlien I but think of Master Frankf ord's 

love. 
And lay it to my treason, or compare 
My murdering him for his relieving 

me, 
It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash, 
To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the 

owl, 
Asham'd of day, live in these shadowy 

woods. 
Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast. 
Yet longing to receive some perfect 

knowledge 



How he hath dealt with her. {Seeing 
Mistress Frankf ord.) my sad 
fate ! . 

Here, and so far from home, and thus 
attended ! 

God ! I have divorc'd the truest tur- 

tles '' 

That ever liv'd togethei", and, being di- 
vided. 

In several places make their several 
moan; 

She in the fields laments, and he at 
home ; 

So poets write that Orpheus made the 
trees 

And stones to dance to his melodious 
harp, 

Meaning the rustic and the bai'barous 
hinds, 

That had no understanding part in them : 

So she from these rude carters tears ex- 
tracts. 

Making their flinty hearts with grief to 
rise. 

And draw down rivers from their rocky 
eyes. 
Mrs. F. (To Nicholas.) If you return 
unto my master, say 

(Though not from me, for I am all un- 
worthy 

To blast his name so with a strumpet's 
tongue) 

That you have seen me weep, wish my- 
self dead ! 

Nay, you may say, too, for my vow is 
pass'd, 

Last night you saw me eat and drink my 
last. 

This to your master you may say and 
swear ; 

For it is writ in heaven, and decreed 
here. 
Nich. I'll say you wept; I'll swear you 
made me sad. 

Why, how now, eyes'? What now'? 
What's here to do'? 

1 'm gone, or I shall straight turn baby 

too. 
Wen. (Aside.) I cannot weep, my heart 
is all on fire. 

Curs'd be the fruits of my unchaste de- 
sire ! 
Mrs. F. Go, break this lute upon my 
coach's wheel, 

As the last music that I e'er shall 
make, — 

Not as my husband's gift, but my fare- 
well 



7 turtle doves. 



186 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



To all earth's joy; and so your master 

tell! 
Nich. If I can for crying. 
Wen. {Aside.) Grief, have done, 

Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run. 
Mrs. F. You have beheld the wofull'st 

wretch on earth, — 
A woman made of tears; would you had 

words 
To express but what you see ! My in- 
ward grief 
No tongue can utter; yet unto your 

power 
You may describe my sorrow, and dis- 
close 
To thy sad master my abundant woes. 
Nich. I '11 do your commendations.^ 
Mrs. F. Oh, no! 

I dare not so presume; nor to my chil- 
dren ; 
I am diselaim'd in both ; alas ! I am. 
Oh, never teach them, when they come to 

speak. 
To name the name of mother : chide 

their tongue. 
If they by chance light on that hated 

word; 
Tell them 't is naught ; for when that 

word they name. 
Poor, pretty souls ! they harp on their 

own shame. 
Wen. {Aside.) To recompense their 

wrongs, what canst thou do? 
Thou hast made her husbandless, and 

childless too. 
Mrs. F. I have no more to say. — Speak 

not for me; 
Yet you may tell your master what you 

see 
Nich. I 'il do 't. 

Exit. 
Wen. {Aside.) I'll speak to her, and 

comfort her in grief. 
Oh, but her wound cannot be cur'd with 

words ! 
No matter, though ; I '11 do my best good 

will 
To work a cure on her whom I did kill. 
Mrs. F. So, now unto my coach, then to 

my home, 
So to my death-bed ; for from this sad 

hour, 
I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor 

taste 
Of any cates ° that may preserve my 

life. 
I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor 

rest ; 



But when my tears have wash'd my black 

soul white. 
Sweet Savior, to thy hands I yield my 

sprite. 
Wen. {Coming forward.) Mistress 

Frankf ord ! 
Mrs. F. Oh, for God's sake, fly ! 

The devil doth come to tempt me, ere I 

die. 
My coach! — This sin, that with an 

angel's face 
Conjur'd ^° mine honor, till he sought my 

wrack, 
In my repentant eye seems ugly, black. 

Exeunt all except Wendell and Jenkin; 
the Carters whistling. 

Jen. What, my young master, that fled 
in his shirt ! How come yuu by your 
clothes again "? You have made our 
house in a sweet pickle, ha' ye not, think 
you? \Yhat, shall I serve you still, or 
cleave to the old house? 
Wen. Hence, slave ! Away, with thy un- 

season'd mirth ! 
Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, 

and howl. 
Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on 

fate. 
Thou art not for my turn. 
Jen. Marry, an you will not, another will ; 
farewell, and be hang'd ! Would you 
had never come to have kept this coil ^^ 
within our doors ! We shall ha' you run 
away like a sprite again. 

Exit. 
Wen. She 's gone to death ; I live to want 

and woe. 
Her life, her sins, and all upon my 

head. 
And I must now go wander, like a Cain, 
In foreign countries and remoted climes, 
Where the rejDort of my ingratitude 
Cannot be heard. I '11 over first to 

France, 
And so to Germany and Italy ; 
Where, when I have recover'd, and by 

travel 
Gotten those perfect tongues,^" and that 

these rumors 
May in their height abate, I will re- 
turn : 
And I divine (however now dejected). 
My worth and ]iarts being by some great 

man prais'd. 
At my return I may in court be rais'd. 

Exit. 



8 present your re- 
spects. 



9 food. 
10 seduced by his charm. 



11 made this trouble. 



12 those languages 
perfectly. 



A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



187 



Scene 4. Before the Manor House. 

F.nter Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles 
Mountford, Cranwell, Malby, and Susan. 

Sir. F. Brother, and now my wife, I 

think these troubles, 
Fall on my head by justice of the 

heavens, 
For being' so strict to you in your ex- 
tremities ; 
But Ave are now aton'd.^^ I would my 

sister 
Could with like happiness o'ercome her 

griefs 
As we have ours. 
Susan. You tell us. Master Cranwell, won- 
drous things 
Touching the patience of that gentleman, 
With what strange virtue he demeans ^^ 

his grief. 
Cran. I told you Avhat I was a witness of; 
It was my fortune to lodge there that 

night. 
Sir F. Oh, that same villain, WendoU ! 

'T was his tongue 
That did corrupt her; she was of herself 
Chaste and devoted well. Is this the 

house ? 
Cran. Yes, sir; I take it, here your sister 

lies. 
Sir F. My brother Frankford show'd too 

mild a spirit 
In the revenge of such a loathed crime. 
Less than he did, no man of spirit could 

do. 
I am so far from blaming his revenge. 
That I commend it. Had it been my 

ease. 
Their souls at once had from their 

breasts been freed ; 
Death to such deeds of shame is the due 

meed. 

Enter Jenkin and Cicely. 

Jen. Oh, my mistress, my mistress ! my 
poor mistress ! 

Cicely. Alas ! that ever I was born ; what 
shall I do for my poor mistress*? 

Sir C. Why, what of her? 

Jen. Oh, Lord, sir ! she no sooner heard 
that her brother and her friends had 
come to see how she did, but she, for very 
shame of her guilty conscience, fell into 
such a swoon, that we had much ado to 
get life into her. 



Susan. Alas, that she should bear so hard 
a fate ! 
Pity it is repentance comes too late. 

Sir F. Is she so weak in body*? 

Jen. O sir, I can assure you there 's no 
hope of life in her; for she will take no 
sust'nance : she hath plainly starv'd her- 
self, and now she is as lean as a lath. 
She ever looks for the good hour. Many 
gentlemen and gentlewomen of the coun- 
try are come to comfort her. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. Mistress Frankford's Bed- 
chamber. 

Mistress Frankford in bed; enter Sir 
Charles Mountford, Sir Francis Acton, 
Malby, and Susan. 

Mai. How fare you. Mistress Frankford? 
Mrs. F. Sick, sick, oh, sick ! Give me 
some air, I pray you ! 

Tell me, oh, tell me, where is JMaster 
Frankford ? 

Will not he deign to see me ere I die? 
Mai. Yes, Mistress Frankford ; divers 
gentlemen, 

Your loving neighbors, Avith that just re- 
quest 

Have mov'd, and told him of your Aveak 
estate : 

Who, though Avith much ado to sxei be- 
lief, 

Examining of the general circumstance. 

Seeing your sorroAv and your penitence, 

And hearing thereAvithal the great de- 
sire 

You have to see him, ere you left the 
Avorld, 

He gave to us his faith to folIoAV us, 

And sure he Avill be here immediately. 
Mrs. F. You have half reviv'd me with 
the pleasing neAvs, 

Raise me a little higher in my bed. 

Blush I not, broth^er Acton? Blush I 
not. Sir Charles? 

Can you not read my fault Avrit in my 
cheek? 

Is not my crime there? Tell me, gentle- 
men. 
Sir C. Alas, good mistress, sickness hath 
not left you 

Blood in your face enough to make you 
blush. 



13 reconciled. 



14 exercises. 



188 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mrs. F. Then, sickness, like a friend, my 
fault would hide. — 

Is my husband come"? My soul but tar- 
ries 

His arrive ; then I am fit for heaven. 
Sir F. I came to chide you, but my words 
of hate 

Are tuni'd to pity and compassionate 
g-rief. 

I came to rate ^^ you, but my brawls, you 
see, 

Melt into tears, and I must weep by 
thee. — 

Here 's Master Frankford now. 

Enter Frankford. 

Frank. Good morrow, brother; morrow, 

gentlemen ! 
God, that hath laid his cross upon our 

heads, 
Might (had He pleas'd) have made our 

cause of meeting 
On a more fair and more contented 

ground ; 
But He that made us made us to this 

woe. 
Mrs. F. And is he come"? Methinks that 

voice I know. 
Frank. How do you, woman? 
Mrs. F. Well, Master Frankford, well; 

but shall be better, 
I hope within this hour. Will you 

vouchsafe. 
Out of your grace and your humanity, 
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand? 
Frank. This hand once held my heart in 

faster bonds. 
Than now 't is gripp'd by me. God par- 
don them 
That made us first break hold ! 
Mrs. F. Amen, amen! 

Out of my zeal to Heaven, whither I 'm 

now bound, 
I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
And once more beg your ]iardon. O 

good man, 
And father to my children, pardon me. 
Pardon, oh, pardon me : my fault so 

heinous is. 
That if you in this world forgive it not. 
Heaven will not clear it in the world to 

come. 
Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my 

knees, 
That kneel I cannot; but on my heart's 

knees 



My prostrate soul lies thrown down at 

your feet, 
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, 
oh, pardon me ! 
Frank. As freely, from the low depth of 
my soul, 
As my Redeemer hath forgiven His 

death, 
I jDaixlon thee. I will shed tears for 

thee; pray with thee; 
And, in mere pity of thy Aveak estate, 
I '11 wish to die with thee. 
All. So do we all. 

Nich. So will not I ; 

I '11 sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not 
die. 
Sir F. Oh, Master Frankford, all the 
near alliance 
I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee. 
You are my brother by the nearest 

way; 
Her kindred hath fall'n of¥, but yours 
doth stay. 
Frank. Even as I hope for pardon, at 
that day 
When the Great Judge of Heaven in 

scarlet sits. 
So be thou pardon'd ! Though thy rash 

offence 
Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears 
Unite our souls. 
Sir C. Then comfort. Mistress Frank- 
ford! 
You see your husband hath forgiven your 

fall; 
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your 
fainting soul ! 
Susan. How is it with you? 
Sir F. How do you feel yourself? 

Mrs. F. Not of this world. 
Frank. 1 see you are not, and I weep to 
see it. 
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ! 
Both those lost names I do restore thee 

back. 
And with this kiss I wed thee once again. 
Though thou art wounded in thy honor'd 

name. 
And with that grief upon thy death-bed 

liest. 
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou 
diest. 
Mrs. F. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in 
heaven art free; 
Once more thy wife, dies thus embracing 
thee.^^ 

(Dies.) 



15 upbraid. 



10 Verity suggests, Once more (i. e. Kiss me once more) ; thy wife dies, etc. 



A WOIVIAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 



189 



Frank. New-married, and new-widow'd. — 

Ob ! she 's dead, 
And a cold grave must be her nuptial 

bed. 
Sir C. Sir, be of good comfort, and your 

heavy sorrow 
Part equally amongst us; storms divided 
Abate their force, and with less rage are 

guided. 
Cran. Do, Master Frankford; he that 

hath least part, 
Will find enough to drown one troubled 

heart. 
Sir F. Peace with thee. Nan ! — Brothers 

and gentlemen. 
All we that can plead interest in her 

grief. 
Bestow upon her body funeral tears ! 
Brother, had you with threats and usage 

bad 
Punish'd her sin, the grief of her of- 
fense 
Had not with such true sorrow touch'd 

her heart. 
Frank. I see it had not ; therefore, on her 

grave 
Will I bestow this funeral epitaph, 
Which on her marble tomb shall be en- 

grav'd. 
In golden letters shall these words be 

fill'd;!^ 
Here lies she whom her husband's kind- 
ness kilVd. 



THE EPILOGUE. 

An honest crew, disposed to be merry, 

Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine. 
The drawer brought it, smiling like a 

cherry. 
And told them it was pleasant, neat ^^ 

and fine. 
''Taste it," quoth one. He did so. "Fie !" 

quoth he; 
"This wine was good ; now 't runs too near 

the lee." " 

Another sipp'd, to give the wine his due, 

And said unto the rest it drunk too flat ; 
The third said it was old ; the fourth, too 
new; 
"Nay," quoth the fifth, "the sharpness 
likes '^^ me not." 
Thus, gentlemen, you see how, in one hour, 
The wine was ncAv, old, flat, sharp, sweet, 
and sour. 

Unto this wine we do allude ~^ our play, 

Which some will judge too trivial, some 

too grave : 

You as our guests we entertain this day, 

And bid you welcome to the best we have. 

Excuse us, then; good wine may be dis- 

grac'd, 
When every several mouth hath sundry 
taste. 



17 cut and filled in with gold. (N.) 



18 pure. 



19 pleases. 



20 compare. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 



PHILASTER 



Francis Beaumont (1585-1616) came of 
an old Leicestershire family, his father being 
a Justice of Common Pleas. He entered Ox- 
ford in 1597, and the Middle Temijle as a 
law student in 1600. He may have been 
writing for the stage as early as 1605, and 
was soon working in collaboration witli 
Fletcher. He cannot be traced on the stage 
after 1612. He died a montli before Shakes- 
peare, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

John Fletcher (1579-1625) was the son of 
a clergyman wlio rose to be liisliop of London. 
From the time that he entered Cambridge 
in 1591 we lose sight of him until he appears 
in 1607 as a dramatist. He continued active 
as a playwright till his death of the plague, 
collaborating at first with Beaumont, after- 
ward with Shakespeare, Massinger, Field, 
and others. Tradition has it tliat Beaumont 
and Fletcher lived together in terms of closest 
intimacy on the Bankside. In the share 
which each contributed to the work going 
under their names there has been great in- 
terest from their own day to ours, but only 
six or seven plays are now believed to be of 
their joint authorship. 

To Beaumont and Fletcher is usually as- 
cribed the honor of introducing to the Eng- 
lish stage a new type of play, the tragi- 
comedy, or, as it has sometimes been loosely 
called, the romance. Philaster was staged 
somewhere between 1608 and 1610. By that 
time Shakespeare had perfected romantic 
love-comedy, introduced by Lyly, chronicle- 
history, and tragedy; Ben .Jonson had intro- 
duced the comedy of humors, Jonson and Mid- 
dleton had established realistic comedy, and 
the vogue of domestic drama was practically 
over. Realism, owing largely to Jonson's in- 
fluence, had been the prevailing force for a 
number of years, and the time was ripe for a 
swing of the pendulum of popular taste back 
toward romanticism. Into the vexed ques- 
tion of priority between Shakespeare and 
Beaumont and Fletcher, specifically between 
the dates of production of Cymbeline and 
Philaster, it is not profitable here to venture. 
The more generally accepted opinion is to the 
effect that the younger dramatists were the 
innovators; certain it is that to them we 
owe the popularization and fixing of the 
chief features of the new type. 

In order to account for the wide differ- 
ence in spirit and manner between this tragi- 
comedy and earlier work it is necessary to 



understand certain social changes which had 
been taking place, liie drama of 1580-1600 
is marked by a very healthy tone; during 
the next ten years an element of decadence 
crept in, and, broadly speaking, the drama 
degenerated steadily until the closing of the 
theaters in 1642. Times had changed since 
the brave days of Queen Bess. As G. C. 
Macaulay says (Camb. llist. Engl. Lit., VI. 
121): "The genuinely national interest in 
the drama which especially characterized the 
last fifteen years of Elizabeth had, to a 
great extent, passed away, and the taste of 
the court had become gradually more and 
more the prevailing influence." Now the 
court of James was morally much less sound 
than that of Elizabeth. Corruption, political 
and social, was rife, and as the drama in- 
creasingly came to be the plaything of the 
court it reflected with increasing faithfulness 
the moral tone of the court. The immediate 
effect was a stimulation to greater brilliance, 
but at the expense of depth and a true inter- 
pretation of national life. " Closely con- 
nected with the want of moral earnestness 
was the demand for theatrical entertain- 
ments which did not make any serious ap- 
peal to the intellect; and hence, on the one 
hand, the exaggerated love of pageantry, 
which was gratified by the magnificence of 
the masques presented at court, and, on the 
other, the growing preference . . . for plots 
full of interesting events and surprising turns 
of fortune, rather than such as were de- 
veloped naturally from situation and char- 
acters: the result being a comparative neg- 
lect of character interest, and a disregard for 
the principle of artistic unity" (Camh. Hist., 
VI. 122). To be purveyors of entertainment 
of this new sort for court audiences Beau- 
mont and Fletcher were by birth and breed- 
ing well fitted. We get with them for the 
first time men of good family writing for the 
stage and it is not surprising that they 
should have been leaders in a new court 
drama. 

Philaster is so thoroughly typical an ex- 
ample of Beaumont and Fletcher's tragi- 
comedy that an analysis of it along the lines 
suggested by Professor Thorndike's study will 
serve to characterize the genre. The scene of 
the play is Sicily, but so far as realism of 
setting is concerned it might be anywhere else 
in the world; the locality of these plays is 
perfectly immaterial — the action always oc- 
curs in a No-man's Land of romance. As 



190 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 



191 



usual however, in Elizabethan drama, the 
speech and manner of the inhabitants even of 
No-man"s Land occasionally bear a strange 
resemblance to those of the citizens of a more 
familiar city on the banks of the Tliames ; 
the captain's oration to the mob might be 
delivered by Simon Eyre to a band of shoe- 
maker apprentices, and it is with a right 
London swagger that the scene goes. The 
plot, probably invented, is highly ingenious, 
very complicated, and utterly improbable. 
With a story of pure sentimental love is con- 
trasted one of base sensual passion ; from the 
conflict of the two sorts of love arise the 
' complications, for upon the discovery of 
IVlegra's intrigue with Pharamond hangs her 
spiteful accusation regarding Arethusa and 
the supposed Bellario, the working out of 
which hlls tiie rest of the play. The action 
is developed by a series of striking situations, 
each of which is carefully planned to secure 
the greatest degree of theatrical effectiveness, 
regardless of its probability or improbability. 
The play begins on a note of excitement in 
Philaster's almost hysterical defiance of 
Pharamond, capped by an obviously feigned 
submission, followed by a surprise as 
Arethusa woos Philaster and the rivals are 
again brought into Conflict. Between two 
scenes of lust is laid the strongly contrasting, 
sentimental conversation of Arethusa and Bel- 
lario. The fourth scene of act 11 is a good 
illustration of a situation developed for its 
own sake. V\'ith its cleverly arranged e.xits 
and entrances, its working up to the unex- 
pected appearance of Megra on the balcony, 
and her sensational charge, it is most skil- 
fully handled; but we should note tliat the 
revelation of the intrigue, out of which all 
possible effect is obtained, has no permanent 
interest of its own, and that the one point 
in which the scene advances plot is in the 
rousing of suspicion about Arethusa, which 
could have been done far more simply. The 
appeal of the third act is mainly through im- 
passioned rhetoric. Replete with sensation 
are the wood scenes of act IV, with turn and 
counterturn, surprising meetings and equally 
surprising exits, culminating in the amazing 
episodes where Philaster wounds Arethusa 
and the sleeping Bellario. Probability would 
suggest that in the third scene Bellario, who 
could not very well help seeing that Are- 
thusa's life was endangered, might easily have 
prevented bloodshed by revealing his identity, 
but in that event, of course, the, play would 
have ended then and there; Bellario, there- 
fore, keeps silence and meekly disappears at 
Philaster"s command. The conduct of the 
rest of the scene is highly ingenious as Bel- 
lario takes on himself the crime of wound- 
ing Arethusa, while Philaster, not to be out- 
done in generosity, crawls out from, under his 
bush to confess his guilt. The union of 
Philaster and Arethusa in act V seems to 
clear her honor, though the charge against 



her has never been refuted, but we are in dif- 
ficulties once more when the king pronounces 
bis sentence of death on the lovers. At this 
critical juncture the mob constitutes itself a 
dcits ex macliina, and Philaster "s quelling of 
the riot seems to establish him in favor. 
Here Megra, who has almost been forgotten, 
reiterates her charge, and Philaster is on the 
point of killing himself when Bellario makes 
his confession. Ihe skill with which this 
denouement is secured is undeniable, as is 
also the artihciality of structure wliich 
makes it possible. No better example could 
be found of the use of surprise in tragi- 
comedy, for the audience is as much astounded 
as are the persons of the play by Bellario's 
metamorphosis. Coleridge has called at- 
tention to Shakespeare's preference for the 
"expectation method" of denouement as con- 
trasted with the " surprise method." Shakes- 
peare uses the former consistently; with him, 
as, for instance, in the church scene in Much 
Ado About Xotliing, no character assumes dis- 
guise without informing the audience of the 
fact and its purpose. The audience is therefore 
at all times more cognizant of the true situa- 
tion than are the persons of the play — is sure 
that the truth will be revealed in time to 
avert a tragic conclusion, and the play is kept 
in the realm of comedy. The sole intention 
of Beaumont and Fletcher, on the contrary, 
is to provide as sensational an ending as pos- 
sible, and they delight in harrowing the feel- 
ings of the audience till the last moment. 
Where in Shakespeare the spectators think 
of the characters, their emotions, and their 
behavior in the situation, in tragicomedy 
their attention is directed to the event itself. 
The violent contrast of tragic and comic feel- 
ing involved in the surprise method is an 
essential characteristic of tragicomedy. The 
gist of the complications in Philaster is ex- 
pressed in Philaster's reproach to Bellario 
in the last scene : 

" .■Vll these jealousies 

Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered 

What now we know." 

Such stressing of plot, or, more accurately, 
of situation, is practically certain to result 
in a slurring of characterization. Anything 
like psychological analysis or logical develop- 
ment of character is sacrificed to immediate 
theatrical effectiveness. The behavior o^ 
Philaster is a case in point. When viewed 
coolly he stands forth a cad of deepest dye. 
His readiness to believe the worst of Are- 
thusa in the face of her own and Bellario's 
protestations of innocence shakes our confi- 
dence in him. and when this egregious hero 
attempts to kill ffrst his mistress and later 
a sleeping boy all semblance of consistency 
and lifelikeness is destroyed. Most of the 
characters are exaggerated or intensified on 
some one side ; they are too indubitably bad 
or too angelically good. Euphrasia's senti- 
mental devotion, Megra's lustfulness, Phara- 



192 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



mond's poltroonery, Pliilaster's sensibility, 
are emphasized to the point of impossibility. 
Essentially they are not much more than 
types, which appear again and again in tragi- 
comedy and the later Fletcherian romantic 
tragedy. As always, the chief figures are of 
high rank, and make no impression of reality. 
Lamb's well-known apology for the behavior 
of the people in Kestoration comedy on the 
ground that they live in a world of their 
own, like fairies, might be applied to Phil- 
aster, Bellario, Megra, and the rest. 

Whatever criticism may be passed upon 
plotting and characterization, no dissent is 
possible from the unanimous opinion as to 
the dramatic propriety and poetic beauty of 
Beaumont and Fletcher's verse. Smooth, 
easy-rvnming, adapting itself with perfect 
facility to the action, as adequate for the ex- 
pression of frantic passion or heart-broken 
pathos as for the badinage of courtiers, ever 
W'ithout strain or visible effort, it is the per- 
fection of dramatic blank verse. Nothing 
quite like it had been heard on the Elizabethan 
stage before; small wonder that it delighted 
the auditors and readers of its own day, and 
that it was regarded by the Restoration as 
the perfect model of dramatic dialogue. At 
its best it has a haunting beauty, especially 
when Arethusa or Bellario is speaking. Bel- 
lario's reply to Philaster's 

" Oh, but thou dost not know 
What 'tis to die " — 

" Yes, I do know, my lord : 
'Tis less than to born; a lasting sleep, 
A quiet resting from all jealousy, 
A thing we all pursue; I know, besides, 
It is but giving over of a game 
That must be lost " ; 



and Bellario's speech in V. ii: 

" Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing 
Worthy your noble thoughts; 't is not a life, 
'T is but a piece of childhood thrown away " — 
the exquisite tenderness of these is beyond 
praise. 

On the basis of stylistic differences at- 
tempts have been made to assign various parts 
of tlie play to one or the other of the joint 
authors, and while such identifications are al- 
ways dangerous, it may be well to summarize 
the conclusions reached by Thorndike and 
Gayley, two of the most careful and recent 
of investigators. To Beaumont are assigned 
Li (to entrance of King), ii; II. i, ii (to en- 
trance of Megra, Gayley), iii, iv (to re-en- 
trance of Dion) ; III. 1, ii (in part) ; IV. i, ii, 
iii, iv; V. i, ii, v. To Fletcher: I. i (from 
entrance of King) ; II. ii (only from entrance 
of Megra, Gayley), iv. (from re-entrance 
of Dion) ; III. "ii (in part) ; V. iii, iv. This 
gives to Beaumont much the greater share 
in the composition, and most of the finest 
poetry of the play, like Philaster's descrip- 
tion of Bellario in I. ii, and all the wood 
scenes. 

Philaster was popular in its, o\vn day, held 
the stage up to the closing of the theaters, 
was put on as soon as they reopened (Pepys 
saw it in 1G61 and 1668), and had several 
revivals in the eighteenth century. Its 
theatrical effectiveness and the astonishing 
brilliance of the verse are quite sufficient to 
account for 'its longevity, and its importance 
in the Jiistory of the drama is enhanced by 
the fact that in tragicomedy may be found 
the roots of the heroic drama of the Restora- 
tion. 



PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 

By FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 

NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



The King of Sicily. 

Philaster, Heir to the Crown. 

Phabamond, Prince of Spain. 

Dion, a Lord. 

Clereaiont, 1 Nohle Gentlemen, his associ- 

Thrasiline, J ates. 

An Old Captain. 

Five Citizens. 

A Country Fellow. 

Two Woodmen. 

ACT L 

Scene 1. The presence chamber in the 

palace. 

Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 

Cle. Here's nor lords nor ladies. 

Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at 



The King's Guard and Train. 
Arethusa, Daughter of the King. 
Euphrasia, Daughter of Dion, but disguised 

like a Page and called Bellario. 
Megra, a Jasoivious Lady. 
Galatea, a xcise, modest Lady attending the 

Princess. 
Two other Ladies. 

Scene. — ^Sicily. 

it. They reeeiv'd strict charge from the 
King to attend here; besides, it was 
boldly published that no officer should 
forbid any gentleman that desired to at- 
tend and hear. 
Cle. Can you guess the cause? _ 

Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



193 



Prince that 's come to marry our king- 
dom's lieir and be our sovereign. 

Thra. Many tliat will seem to know much 
say she looks not on him like a maid in 
love. 

Dion. Faith, sir, the nuiltitude, that sel- 
dom know any thing but their own opin- 
ions, speak that they Avould have; but 
the prince, before his own aj^i^roach, re- 
ceiv'd so many eonlident messages from 
the state, that I think she 's resolv'd to be 
rul'd. 

Cle. Sir, it is thought, witli her ho shall 
enjoy both these kingdoms of Sicily and 
Calabria. 

Dion. Sir, it is without controversy so 
meant. But 't will be a ti'oublesome la- 
bor for him to enjoy both these kingdoms 
with safety, the right heir to one of tliem 
living, and living so virtuously: espe- 
cially, the people admiring the braveiy 
of his mind and lamenting his injuries. 

Cle. Who? Philaster? 

Dion. Yes; whose father, we all know, 
was by our late King of Calabria un- 
righteously deposed from his fruitful 
Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those 
wars, which I would give my hand to be 
washed from. 

Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state-policy 
will not let me know Avhy, Philaster being 
heir to one of these kingdoms, the King 
should suffer him to w"alk abroad with 
such free liberty. 

Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more 
constant than to inquire after state- 
news. But the King, of late, made a 
hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicily 
and his own, with offering but to im- 
prison Philaster; at which the city was 
in arras, not to be charm'd down by any 
state-order or proclamation, till they 
saw Philaster ride through the streets 
pleas'd and without a guard : at which 
they threw their hats and their arms 
from them ; some to make bonfires, some 
to drink, all for his deliverance : which 
wise men say is the cause the King la- 
bors to bring in the power of a foreign 
nation to awe his own with. 

Enter Galatea, a Lady, and Megra. 

Thra. See, the ladies ! W^iat 's the first ? 
Dion. A wise and modest gentlewoman 

tliat attends the princess. 
Cle. The second"? 
Dion. She is one that may stand still dis- 



creetly enough and ill-favor'dly dance 
her measure; simper when she is courted 
by her friend, and slight her husband. 

Cle. The last? 

D'on. Faith, I think she is one whom thg 
state keeps for the agents of our con- 
federate princes; she'll cog ^ and lie 
with a whole army, before the league 
shall break. Her name is common 
through the kingdom, and the trophies 
of her dishonor advanced beyond Her- 
cules' Pillars.- She loves to try the 
several constitutions of men's bodies; 
and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of 
her own body by making experiment 
upon it for the good of the common- 
wealth. 

Cle. She 's a profitable member. 

Meg. Peace, if you love me! You shall 
see these gentlemen stand their ground 
and not court us. 

Gal. What if they should? 

La. What- if they should ! 

Meg. Nay, let her alone. — What if they 
should? Why, if they should, I say they 
were never abroad. What foreigner 
would do so? It writes them directly 
untravell'd. 

Gal. Why, what if they be? 

La. What if they be ! 

Meg. Good madam, let her go on. — ^What 
if they be? Why, if they be, I will 
justify, they cannot maintain discourse 
with a judicious lady, nor make a leg,^ 
nor say "Excuse me." 

Gal. Ha, ha, ha! 

Meg. Do you laugh, madam? 

Dion. Your desires upon you, ladies ! 

Bleg. Then you must sit beside us. 

Dion. I shall sit near you then, lady. 

3Ieg. Near me, perhaps ; but there 's a 
lady endures no stranger; and to me you 
appear a veiy strange fellow. 

La. Methinks he's not so strange; he 
would quickly be acquainted. 

Thra. Peace, the King! 

Enter King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and 
Train. 

King. To give a stronger testimony of 

love 
Than sickly promises (which commonly 
In princes find botli birth and burial 
In one breath ) we have drawn you, 

worthy sir, 
To make your fair endearments to our 

daughter. 



1 cheat. 



The rocky promontories formin<; the Straits of Oibraltnr were so 
called from the legend that they were torn asunder by Hercules. 



3 bow. 



194 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



And worthy services known to our sub- 
jects, 

Now lov'd and wondered at; next, our 
intent 

To plant you deeply our immediate heir 

Both to our blood and kingdoms. For 
this lady, 

(The best part of your life, as you eon- 
firm me, 

And I believe,) though her few years 
and sex 

Yet teach her nothing but her fears and 
blushes, 

Desires without desire, discourse and 
knowledge 

Only of what herself is to herself. 

Make her feel moderate health ; and when 
she sleeps. 

In making no ill day, knows no ill 
dreams. 

Think not, dear sir, these undivided 
parts. 

That must mould up a virgin, are put 
on 

To show her so, as borrowed ornaments 

To speak her perfect love to you, or 
add 

An artificial shadow to her nature, — 

No, sir; I boldly dare proclaim her yet 

No woman. But woo her still, and think 
her modesty 

A sweeter mistress than the offer'd lan- 
guage 

Of any dame, were she a queen, whose 
eye 

Speaks common loves and comforts to 
her servants.* 

Last, noble son (for so I now must call 
you), 

What I have done thus public, is not 
only 

To add a comfort in particular 

To you or me, but all; and to confirm 

The nobles and the gentry of these king- 
doms 

By oath to your succession, which shall 
be 

Within this month at most. 
Thra. This will be hardly done. 
Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done. 
Dion. When 't is at best, 't will be but half 
done, whilst 

So brave a gentleman is wrong'd and 
flung off. 
Thra. I fear. 
Cle. Who does not"? 

Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I 
fear too. 



Well, we shall see, we shall see. No 

more. 
PhcL Kissing your white hand, mistress, 

I take leave 
To thank your royal father ; and thus far 
To be my own free trumpet. Under- 
stand, 
Great King, and these your subjects, 

mine that must be, 
(For so deserving you have spoke me, 

sir. 
And so deserving I dare speak myself,) 
To what a person, of what eminence, 
Ripe expectation, of what faculties. 
Manners and virtues, you would wed 

your kingdoms; 
You in me have your wishes. Oh, this 

country ! 
By more than all the gods, I hold it 

happy ; 
Happy in their dear memories that have 

been 
Kings great and good; happy in yours 

that is; 
And from you (as a chronicle to keep 
Your noble name from eating age) do I 
Opine myself most happy. Gentlemen, 
Believe me in a word, a prince's word. 
There shall be nothing to make up a 

kingdom 
Mighty and flourishing, defensed, fear'd, 
Equal to be commanded and obeyed. 
But through the travails of my life I '11 

find it. 
And tie it to this country. By all the 

gods. 
My reign shall be so easy to the subject. 
That every man shall be his prince him- 
self. 
And his own law — yet I his prince and 

law. 
And dearest lady, to your dearest self 
(Dear in the choice of him whose name 

and lustre 
Must make you more and mightier) let 

me say, 
You are the blessed'st living; for, sweet 

princess, 
You shall enjoy a man of men to be 
Your servant ; you shall make him yours, 

for whom 
Great queens must die. 
Thra. Miraculous ! 

Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, be- 
ing nothing but a large inventory of his 
own commendations. 
Dion. I wonder what 's his price ; for cer- 
tainly 



4 lovers. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



195 



He '11 sell himself, he has so prais'd his 
shape. 

Enter Philaster. 

But here comes one more worthy those 

large speeches 
Than the large speaker of them. 
Let me be swallowed quick, if I can tind. 
In all the anatomy of yon man's virtues, 
One sinew sound enough to promise for 

him 
He shall be constable. By this sun, 
He '11 ne'er make king unless it be of 

trifles. 
In my poor judgment. 
Phi. (Kneeling.) Right noble sir, as low 
as my obedience. 
And with a heart as loyal as my knee, 
I beg your favor. 
King. Rise ; you have it, sir. 

Dion. Mark but the King, how pale he 
looks ! He fears ! 
Oh, this same whoreson ^ conscience, how 
it jades us ! 
King. Speak your intents, sir. 
Phi. Shall I speak 'em freely"? 

Be still my royal sovereign. 
King. As a subject. 

We give you freedom. 
Dion. Now it heats. 

Phi. Then thus I turn 

. My language to you, prince, you, for- 
eign man ! 
Ne'er stare nor put on wonder, for you 

must 
Endure me, and you shall. This earth 

you tread uj)on 
(A dowry, as you hope, with this fair 

princess). 
By my dead father (oh, I had a father, 
Whose memory I bow to!) was not left 
To your inheritance, and I up and liv- 
ing- 
Having myself about me and my sword. 
The souls of all my name and memories, 
These arms and some few friends beside 

the gods — 
To part so calmly with it, and sit still 
And say, "I might have been." I tell 

thee, Pharamond, 
When thou art king, look I be dead and 

rotten, 
And my name ashes : for, hear me, Phara- 
mond, 
This very ground thou goest on, this fat 

earth 
My father's friends made fertile with 
their faiths, 

plaguey. 6 turtledove. 



Before that day of shame shall gape and 
swallow 

Thee and thy nation, like a hungry 
grave, 

Into her hidden bowels. Prince, it shall; 

By the just gods, it shall ! 
Pha. He 's mad ; beyond cure, mad. 

Dion. Here is a fellow has some fire in 's 
veins : 

The outlandish prince looks like a tooth- 
drawer. 
Phi. Sir Prince of popinjays, I '11 make it 
well 

Appear to you I am not mad. 
King. You displease us : 

You are too bold. 
Phi. No, sir, I am too tame. 

Too much a turtle,^ a thing born without 
passion, 

A faint shadow, that every drunken 
cloud 

Sails over, and makes nothing. 
King. I do not fancy this. 

Call our physicians ; sure, he 's somewhat 
tainted. '^ 
Thra. I do not think 't will prove so. 
Dion. H'as given him a general purge al- 
ready. 

For all the right he has; and now he 
means 

To let him blood. Be constant, gentle- 
men : 

By heaven, I '11 run his hazard. 

Although I run my name out of the 
kingdom ! 
Cle. Peace, we are all one soul. 
Ph,a. What you have seen in me to stir 
offence 

I cannot find, unless it be this lady, 

Offer'd into mine arms with the succes- 
sion ; 

Which I must keep, (though it hath 
pleas'd your fury 

To mutiny within you,) without dis- 
puting 

Your genealogies, or taking knowledge 

Whose branch you are. The King will 
leave it me. 

And I dare make it mine. You have 
your answer. 
Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him 

That made the world his,^ and couldst 
see no sun 

Shine upon any thing but thine; were 
Pharamond 

As ti'uly valiant as I feel him cold, 

And ring'd amongst the choicest of bis 
friends 



7 unbalanced. 



8 Alexander the Great, 



196 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



(Such as would blush to talk such serious 

follies, 
Or back such bellied '■' couunendatious), 
And from this presence, spile of all these 

bugs/" 
You should hear further from me. 
King. Sir, you wronii' the prince; I gave 
you not this freedom 
To brave our best friends. You deserve 

our frown. 
Go to; be better temper'd. 
Phi. It nuist be, sir, when I am nobler 

us'd. 
Gal. Ladies, 

This would have been a pattern of suc- 
cession,^'^ 
Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my 

life. 
He is the worthiest the true name of man 
This day within my knowledge. 
Bleg. I cannot tell wliat you may call 
your knowledge ; 
But the other is the man set in mine eye. 
Oh, 'tis a prince of wax! ^- 
Gal. A dog' it is. 

King. Philaster, tell me 

The injuries you aim at in your riddles. 
Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and sull'er- 
ance, 
My griefs upon you, and my broken for- 
tunes. 
My wants great, and now nought but 

hopes and fears. 
My wrongs would make ill riddles to be 

laugiit at. 
Dare you be still my king, and right me 
not? 
King. Give me your wrongs in private. 
Phi. " Take them, 

And ease me of a load would bow strong 
Atlas. 

{They whisper.) 
Cle. He dares not stand the shock. 
Dion. I cannot blame him ; there 's dan- 
ger in 't. Every man in this age has not 
a soul of crystal, for all men to read their 
actions through : men's hearts and faces 
are so far asunder, that they hold no in- 
telligence. Do but view yon stranger 
well, and you sliall see a fever through 
all his bravery, '2 and feel him shake like 
a true tenant.^'* If he give not back his 
crown again upon the report of an elder- 
gun, I have no augury. 
King. Go to; 

Be more yourself, as you respect our 
favor ; 



You '11 stir us else. Sir, I nuist have you 

know. 
That y' are and shall be, at our pleasure, 

what 
Fashion we will put upon you. Smooth 

your brow, 

Or by the gods 

Phi. I am dead, sir; y' are my fate. It 

was not I 
Said, I was wrong'd : I carry all about 

me 
My weak stars lead me to, all my weak 

fortunes. 
Who dares in all this presence speak, 

(that is 
But num of liesh, and may be mortal,) 

tell me 
I do not most entirely love Uiis prince. 
And honor his full virtues ! 
King. Sure, he 's jiossess'd. 

Phi. Yes, with my father's spirit. It 's 

here, King, 
A dangerous spirit ! Now he tells me, 

King, 
I was a king's heir, bids me be a king. 
And whispers to me, these are all my 

subjects. 
'T is strange he will not let me sleep, but 

dives 
Into my fancy, and there gives me 

shapes 
That kneel and do me service, cry me 

king. 
But I '11 suppress him ; he 's a factious 

spirit. 
And will undo me. — {To Phar.) Noble 

sir, your hand; 
I am your servant. 
King. Away ! I do not like this : 

I '11 make you tamer, or I '11 disjoossess 

you 
Both of your life and spirit. For this 

time 
I pardon your wild speech, without so 

much 
As your imprisonment. 
Exeunt King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and 
Train. 
Dion. I thank you, sir; you dare not for 

the people. 
Gal. Ladies, what think you now of this 

brave fellow? 
Meg. A pretty talking fellow, hot at 
hand. But eye yon stranger: is he not a 
fine complete gentleman'? Oh, these 
strangers, I do affect ^^ them strangely! 
They do the rarest home-things, and 



9 swollen. 

10 bugbears. 



11 to succeeding 
kings. 



12 a model prince. 

13 ostentation. 



14 Probably corrupt. 
Qi truant. 



15 love. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



197 



I 



please the fullest! As I live, I could 
love all the nation over and over for his 
sake. 
Gal. Gods comfort your poor head-piece, 
lady ! 'T is a weak one, and had need 
of a night-cap. 

Exeunt Ladies. 
Dion. See, how his fancy labors ! Has he 
not 
Spoke home and bravely*? What a dan- 
gerous train 
Did he give iire to ! IIoav lie shook the 

King, 
Made his soul melt within him, and liis 

blood 
Run into whey! It stood upon his brow 
Like a cold winter dew. 
Phi. Gentlemen, 

You have no suit to me? I am no min- 
ion. 
You stand, methinks, like men that would 

be courtiers, 
If I could well be tlatter'd at a price 
Not to undo your children.^" You 're all 

honest : 
Go, get you home again, and make your 

country 
A virtuous court, to which your great 

ones may, 
In their diseased age, retire and live re- 
cluse. 
Cle. How do you, wortliy sir*? 
Phi. Well, very well; 

And so well that, if the King please, I 

find 
I may live many years. 
Dion. The King must please, 

Whilst we know what you are and who 

you are. 
Your wrongs and virtues. Shrink not, 

worthy sir, 
But add your father to you ; in whose 

name 
We '11 waken all the gods, and conjure 

up 
The rods of vengeance, the abused peojile. 
Who, like to raging' torrents, shall sAvell 

high, 
And so begirt the dens of these male- 
dragons. 
That, through the strongest safety, they 

shall beg 
For mercy at your sword's point. 
Phi. Friends, no more; 

Our eai's may be corrupted ; 't is an age 
We dare not trust our wills to. Do you 
love me? 



Thra. Do we love heaven and honor? 
Phi. My Lord Dion, you had 
A virtuous gentlewoman call'd you fa- 
ther; 
Is she yet alive? 
Di(jn. Most honor'd sir, she is; 

And for the penance but of an idle 

dream, 
Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage. 

Enter a Lady. 

Phi. Is it to me, or any of these gentle- 
men, you come? 
Ladij. To you, brave lord; the princess 
would enti'eat 
Your present company. 
Phi. The princess send for me! You are 

mistaken. 
Lady. If you be called Philaster, 't is to 

you. 
Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will 
attend her. 

Exit Lady. 
Dion. Do you know what you do? 
Phi. Yes; go to see a woman. 
Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are 

in? 
Phi. Danger in a sweet face! 

By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman ! 
Thra. But are you sure it was the princess 
sent? 
It may be some foul train to catch your 
life. 
Pin. I do not think it, gentlemen; she's 
noble. 
Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true 

red 
And white friends in her cheeks may 

steal my soul out ; 
There 's all the danger in 't. But, be 

what may. 
Her single ^^ name hath arm'd me. 

Exit. 
Dion. Go on. 

And be as truly happy as thou 'rt fear- 
less ! — 
Come, gentlemen, let's make our friends 

acquainted. 
Lest the King prove false. 

Exeunt. 
Scene 2. Arethusa's apartment in the 
palace. 

Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 

Are. Comes he not? 
Ijadif. 



A re. 



Madam? 

Will Philaster come? 



ifi Mason conj. Qq. F. you. If you could flntter me without ruin- 
\\\Z your families by antagonizing the king. (Ncilson ) 



198 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to 
credit me 
At first. 
Are. But didst thou tell me so? 

I am forgetful, and my woman's 

strength 
Is so o'ercharg'd with dangers like to 

grow 
About my marriage, that these under- 

things 
Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. 
How lookt he when he told thee lie would 
come ? 
Lady. Why, well. 
Are. And not a little fearful? 
Lady. Fear, madam ! Sure, he knows not 

what it is. 
Are. You all are of his faction; the whole 
court 
Is bold in praise of him ; whilst I 
May live neglected, and do noble things, 
As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, 
Drown'd in the doing. But I know l\e 
fears. 
Lady. Fear, madam! Methought, his 
looks hid more 
Of love than fear. 
Are. Of love! To whom? To you? 

Did you deliver those plain words I sent. 
With such a winning gesture and quick 

look 
That you have caught him ? 
Lady. Madam, I mean to you. 

Are. Of love to me! Alas, thy ignorance 
Lets thee not see the crosses of our births ! 
Nature, that loves not to be questioned 
Why she did this or that, but has her 

ends, 
And knows she does well, never gave the 

Avorld 
Two things so opposite, so contrary 
As he and I am : if a bowl of blood 
Drawn from this arm of mine would 

poison thee, 
A draught of his would cure thee. Of 
love to me ! 
Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. 
Are. Bring him in. 

Exit Lady. 
You gods, that would not have your 

dooms withstood. 
Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is 
To make the passion of a feeble maid 
The way unto your justice, I obey, 

Be-enter Lady with Philaster. 

Lady. Here is my Lord Philaster. 
Are. Oh, 't is well. 

Withdraw yourself. Exit Lady. 



Phi. Madam, your messenger 

Made me believe you wish'd to speak with 
me. 
Are. 'T is true, Philaster; but the words 
are such 
I have to say, and do so ill beseem 
The mouth of woman, that I wish them 

said, 
And yet am loth to speak them. Have 

you known 
That I have aught detracted from your 

worth ? 
Have I in person wrong'd you, or have 

set 
My baser instruments to throw disgrace 
Upon your virtues? 
Phi. Never, madam, you. 

Are. Why, then, should you, in such a 
public place. 
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay 
Upon my fortunes, fam'd to be so great, 
Calling a great part of my dowry in 
question? 
Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall 
speak will be 
Foolish : but, for your fair and virtuous 

self, 
I could afford myself to have no right 
To any thing you wish'd. 
Are. Philaster, know, 

I must enjoy these kingdoms. 
Phi. Madam, both? 

Are. Both, or I die: by heaven, I die, 
Philaster, 
If I not calmly may enjoy them both. 
Phi. I would do much to save that noble 
life ; 
Yet would be loth to have posterity 
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave 
His right unto a scepter and a crown 
To save a lady's longing. 
Are. Nay, then, hear: 

I must and will have them, and more 

Phi. What more? 

Are. Or lose that little life the gods pre- 
pared 
To trouble this poor piece of earth 
withal. 
Phi. Madam, what more? 
Are. Turn, then, away thy face. 

Phi. No. 
A re. Do. 

Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my 
face ! 
I never yet saw enemy that lookt 
So dreadfully, but that I thought my- 
self 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



199 



As great a basilisk ^^ as he; or spake 
So horrible, but that I thought my 

tongue 
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; 
Nor beast that I could turn from. Shall 

I then 
Begin to fear sweet sounds'? A lady's 

voice, 
Whom I do love? Say you would have 

my life; 
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis of me 
A thing so loath'd, and unto you that 

ask 
Of so poor use, that I shall make no 

price : 
If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. 
Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy 

looks. 
Phi. I do. 
Are. Then know, I must have them and 

thee. 
Fhi. And me"? 

Are. Thy love; without which, all the land 
Discovered yet will serve me for no use 
But to be buried in. 
Phi. Is 't possible 1 

Are. With it, it were too little to be- 
stow 
On thee. Now, though thy breath do 

strike me dead, 
(Which, know, it may,) I have unript 

my breast. 
Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble 

thoughts, 
To lay a train for this contemned life. 
Which you may have for asking. To 

suspect 
Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love 

you ! 
By all my hopes, I do, above my life ! 
But how this passion should proceed 

fi'om you 
So violently, would amaze a man 
That would be jealous.^^ 
Are. Another soul into my body shot 
Could not have fill'd me with more 

strength and spirit 
Than this thy breath. But spend not 

hasty time 
In seeking how I came thus : 't is the 

gods, 
The gods, that make me so; and, sure, 

our love 
Will be the nobler and the better blest. 
In that the seei'et justice of the gods 
Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and 

kiss ; 
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall 

betwixt us, 

IS a fabulous serpent that killed with a glance. 



And we should part without it. 
Phi. 'T will be ill 

I should abide here long. 
Are. 'T is true; and worse 

You should come often. How shall we 

devise 
To hold intelligence, that our true loves, 
On any new occasion, may agree 
What path is best to tread? 
Phi. 1 have a boy, 

Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, 
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the 

buck, 
I found him sitting by a fountain's side, 
Of which he borrow'd some to quench 

his thirst, 
And paid the nymj^h again as much in 

tears. 
A garland lay him by, made by himself 
Of many several flowers bred in the vale, 
Stuck in that mystic order that the rare- 
ness 
Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd 
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, 
As if he meant to make 'em grow again. 
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his 

story. 
He told me that his parents gentle died, 
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 
T\niieli gave him roots ; and of the crys- 
tal springs, 
Which did not stop their courses; and 

the sun, 
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him 

his light. 
Then took he up his garland, and did 

show 
What every flower, as country-people 

hold, 
Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, 
Exprest his grief; and, to my thoughts, 

did read 
The prettiest lecture of his country-art 
That could be wisht : so that methought 

I could 
Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd 
Him, who was glad to follow; and have 

got 
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest 

boy 
That ever master kept. Him will I send 
To wait on you, and bear our hidden 

love. 
Are. 'T is well ; no more. 

Re-enter Lady. 

Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do 
his service. 

19 suspicious. 



200 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Are. What will you do, Philaster, with 

yourself? 
Phi. Why, that which all the gods have 

pointed out for me. 
Are. Dear, hide thyself. — 
Bring in the prince. 

Exit Lady. 
Phi. Hide me from Pharamond ! 

When thunder speaks, which is the voice 

of God, 
Though I do reverence, yet I hide me 

not; 
And shall a stranger-prince have leave 

to brag 
Unto a foreign nation, that he made 
Philaster hide himself? 
Are. He cannot know it. 

Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to 
the world. 
It is a simple sin to hide myself, 
Which will for ever on my conscience lie. 
Are. Then, good Philaster, give him scope 
and way 
In what he says; for he is apt to speak 
What you are loth to hear. For my 
sake, do. 
Phi. I will. 

Re-enter Lady with Pharamond. 

Pha. My princely mistress, as true lovers 
ought, 

Exit Lady. 
I come to kiss these fair hands, and to 

show. 
In outward ceremonies, the dear love 
Writ in my heart. 
Phi. If I shall have an answer no di- 
reetlier, 
I am gone. 
Pha. To what would he have answer f 
Are. To his claim unto the kingdom. 
Pha. Sirrah, I forbai'e you before the 

King — 
Phi. Good sir, do so still ; I would not 

talk with you. 
Pha. But now the lime is fitter. Do but 
offer 
To make mention of right to any king- 
dom, 

Though it be scarce habitable 

Phi. Good sir, let me go. 

Pha. And by the gods — 

Phi. Peace, Pharamond! if thou 

Are. Leave us, Philaster. 
J^hi. I have done. 

{Goinq.) 



Pha. You are gone! by Heaven, I'll fctcli 
you back. 



Phi. You shall not need. 

{lU'turning.) 
Pha. What uowl 

Phi. Know, Pharamond, 

I loathe to brawl witli such a l)last as 

thou. 
Who art nought but a valiant voice; but 

if 
Thou shalt provoke mo fiu'ther, men 

shall say. 
Thou wert, and not lament it. 
Pha. Do you slight 

My greatness so, and in the chamber of 
The princess? 
Phi. It is a place to which I nuist confess 
I owe a reverence ; but were 't the church. 
Aye, at the altar, there 's no place so safe, 
Where thou dar'st injure me, but I dai'e 

kill thee. 
And for your greatness, know, sir, I can 

grasp 
You and your greatness thus, thus into 

nothing. 
Give not a word, not a ^yord back ! 
Farewell. Exit. 

Pha. 'T is an odd fellow, madam ; we 
must stop 
His mouth with some office when we are 
married. 
Are. You were best make him your con- 
troller. 
Pha. I think he would discharge it well. 
But, madam, 
I hope our hearts are knit ; but yet so 

slow 
The ceremonies of state are, that 't will 

be long 
Before our hands be so. If then you 

please, 
Being agreed in heart, let us not wait 
For dreaming form, but take a little 

stolen 
Delights, and so prevent -° our joys to 
come. 
Are. If you dare speak such thoughts, 
I must wiflidraw in honor. 

Exit. 
Pha. The constitution of my body will 
never hold out till the wedding; I nmst 
seek- elsewhere. 

Exit. 



ACT IL 

Scene 1. An apartment in the palace. 

Enter Philaster and Dcllario. 

Phi. And thou shalt find her honorable 
boy; 

20 .anticipate. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



201 



Full of regard unto thy tender youth, 
For thine own modesty; and, for my 

sake, 
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, 
Aye, or deserve. 
Bel. Sir, you did take me up 

When I was nothing; and only yet am 

something 
By being yours. You trusted me un- 
known ; 
And that which you were apt to con- 

ster -1 
A simple innocence in me, perhaps 
Might have been craft, the cunning of a 

boy 
Hard'iied in lies and theft : yet ventur'd 

you 
To i)art my miseries and me : for which, 
I never can expect to serve a lady 
That bears more honor in her breast than 

you. 
Phi. But, boy, it will prefer-- thee. 

Thou art young, 
And bear'st a childish overflowing love 
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak 

thee fair yet; 
But when thy judgment comes to rule 

those passions, 
Thou wilt remember best those careful 

friends 
That plac'd thee in the noblest way of 

life. 
She is a princess I prefer thee to. 
Bel. In that small time that I have seen 

the world, 
I never knew a man hasty to part 
With a servant he thought tnisty. I 

remember. 
My father would prefer the boys he kej^t 
To greater men than he; but did it not 
Till they were grown too saucy for him- 
self. 
Phi. Wh}', gentle boy, I find no fault at 

all 
In thy behavior. 
Bel. Sir, if I have made 

A fault in igmorance, instruct my j^outh : 
I shall be willing, if not apt, to leani ; 
Age and experience will adorn my mind 
With larger knowledge ; and if I have 

done 
A wilful fault, think me not past all 

hope 
For once. What master holds so strict 

a hand 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
Without one warning? Let me be cor- 
rected 

"1 construe. 22 advance. 



To break my stubbornness, if it be so, 
Kather than turn me oft"; and I shall 

mend. 
Plii. Thy love doth plead so prettily to 

slay, 
That, trust me, I could weep to part 

with thee. 
Alas, I do not turn thee off! Thou 

knowest 
It is my business that doth call thee 

hence; 
And when thou art Avith her, thou 

dwell'st with me, 
Think so, and 't is so ; and when time is 

full, 
That thou hast well discharg'd this 

heavy trust, 
Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
With joy receive thee; as I live, I will! 
Nay, weep not, gentle boy. "T is more 

than time 
Thou didst attend the princess. 
Bel. I am gone. 

But since I am to part with you, my 

lord. 
And none knows whether I shall live to 

do 
"More service for you, take this lit t la 

prayer : 
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all 

your designs ! 
May sick men, if they have your wish, 

be well; 
And Heaven hate those you curse, 

though I be one! Exit. 

Plii. The love of boys unto their lords is 

strange; 

I have read wonders of it : yet this boy 

For my sake (if a man may judge by 

looks 
And speech) would out-do story. I may 

see 
A day to pay him for his loyalty. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. A gallery in the palace. 

E titer Pharamond. 

Pha. Why should these ladies stay so 
long"? They must come this way. I 
know the queen employs 'em not ; for the 
reverend mother -^ sent me word, they 
would all be for the garden. If they 
should all prove honest now, I were in a 
fair taking; I was never so long without 
sport in my life, and, in my conscience, 
't is not my fault. Oh, for our country 
ladies ! 

23 in charge of the maids of honor. 



202 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Enter Galatea. 

Here's one bolted; I'll hound at her. — 
Madam ! 

Gal. Your grace! 

Pha. Shall I not be a troubled 

Gal. Not to me, sir. 

Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick. By 
this sweet hand 

Gal. You '11 be forsworn, sir ; 't is but an 
old glove. 
If you will talk at distance, I am for 

you: 
But, good prince, be not bawdy, nor do 

not brag; 
These two I bar; 
And then, I think, I shall have sense 

enough 
To answer all the weighty apophthegms 
Your royal blood shall manage. 

Pha. Dear lady, can you love? 

Gal. Dear prince! how dearf I ne'er cost 
you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear 
repentance of a banquet. Here 's no 
scarlet, sir, to blush the sin out it was 
given for. This wire ^* mine own hair 
covers ; and this face has been so far 
from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost 
penny painting; and, for the rest of my 
poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves 
no hand -^ behind it, to make the jealous 
mercer's wife curse our good doings. 

Pha. You mistake me, lady. 

Gal. Lord, I do so; would you or I could 
help it! 

Pha. You 're veiy dangerous bitter, like a 
potion. 

Gal. No, sir, I do not mean to purge you, 
though 
I mean to purge a little time on you. 

Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give 
No more respect to men of my full being? 

Gal. Full being! I understand you not, 
unless your grace means growing to fat- 
ness; and then your only remedy (upon 
my knowledge, prince) is, in a morning, 
a cup of neat white wine brewed with 
carduus,26 ^j^gjj f^^t till supper; about 
eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep 
a sparrow-hawk-; you can shoot in a 
tiller : -'' but, of all, your grace must fly 
phlebotomy,^^ fresh pork, conger,-^ and 
clarified whey; they are all dullers of the 
vital spirits. 

Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this 
while. 

Gal. 'T is very true, sir; I talk of you. 

Pha. (Aside.) This is a crafty wench; I 



like her wit well ; 't will be rare to stir up 
a leaden appetite. She 's a Danae, and 
must be courted in a shower of gold. — 
Madam, look here; all these, and more 
than 

Gal. What have you there, my lord? 
Gold ! now, as I live, 't is fair gold ! 
You would have silver for it, to play with 
the pages. You could not have taken 
me in a worse time; but, if you have 
present use, my lord, I '11 send my man 
with silver and keep your gold for you. 

Pha. Lady, lady! 

Gal. She 's coming, sir, behind, will take 
white money. — 
(Aside.) Yet for all this I'll match ye. 
Exit behind the hangings. 

Pha. If there be but two such more in 
this kingdom, and near the court, we 
may even hang up our harps. Ten such 
camphire ^° constitutions as this would 
call the golden age again in question, and 
teach the old way for eveiy ill-fac'd hus- 
band to get his own children ; and what 
a mischief that would breed, let all con- 
sider! _, . -, 

Enter Megra. 

Here 's another : if she be of the same 

last, the devil shall pluck her on. — Many 

fair mornings, lady! 
Meg. As many mornings bring as many 
days. 

Fair, sweet and hopeful to your grace ! 
Pha. (Aside.) She gives good words yet ; 
sure this wench is free.^^ — 

If your more serious business do not call 
you. 

Let me hold quarter with you; we will 
talk 

An hour out quickly. 
Meg. TMiat would your grace talk of? 

Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your- 
self : 

I '11 go no further than your eye, or lip ; 

There 's theme enough for one man for 
an age. 
Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips 
are yet even. 

Smooth, young enough, rii~>e enough, and 
red enough, 

Or my glass wrongs me. 
Pha. Oh, they are two twinn'd cherries 
dy'd in blushes 

"V\niich those fair suns above with their 
bright beams 

Reflect upon and ripen. Sweetest beauty, 

Bow down those branches, that the long- 
ing taste 



24 i. e. of a headdress. 

25 note of indebtedness. 



20 a thistle used for 
medicinal purposes. 



27 cross-bow. 
«8 bloodletting. 



29 conger-eel. 

30 i. e. cold. 



31 responsive. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



203 



Of the faint looker-on may meet those 

blessings, 
And taste and live. 

(They kiss.) 
Meg. (Aside.) Oh, delicate sweet 

prince ! 
She that hath snow enough about her 

heart 
To take the wanton spring of ten such 

lines off. 
May be a nun without probation^ — Sir, 
You have in such neat poetry gathered a 

kiss, 
That if I had but five lines of that num- 
ber, 
Such pretty begging blanks,^- I should 

commend 
Your forehead or your cheeks, and kiss 
you too. 
Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, 

madam. 
Meg. I shall, I shall. 

Pha. By my life, but you shall not; 

I '11 prompt you first. (Kisses her^) 
Can you do it now? 
Aleg. Methinks 't is easy, now you ha' 
done 't before me ; 
But yet I should stick at it. 
(Kisses him.) 
Pha. Stick till to-morrow; 

I '11 ne'er part you, sweetest. But we 

lose time : 
Can you love me? 
Meg. Love you, my lord ! How would 

you have me love you'? 
Pha. I'll teach you in a short sentence, 
'cause I will not load your memory ; this 
is all : love me, and lie with me. 
Meg. Was it "lie with you" that you said? 

'T is impossible. 
Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will en- 
deavor. If I do not teach you to do it 
as easily in one night as you '11 go to 
bed, I '11 lose my royal blood for 't. 
Meg. Why, prince, you have a lady of 
your own 
That yet wants teaching. 
Pha. I '11 sooner teach a mare the old 
measures than teach her anything be- 
longing to the function. She 's afraid 
to lie with herself if she have but any 
masculine imaginations about her. I 
know, when we are married, I must rav- 
ish her. 
Meg. By mine honor, that 's a foul fault, 
indeed ; 
But time and your good help will wear 
it out, sir. 



Pha. And for any other I see, excepting 
your dear self, dearest lady, I had rather 
be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a 
dairy-maid, madam. 

Meg. Has your grace seen the court-star, 
Galatea? 

Pha. Out upon her ! She 's as cold of her 
favor as an apoplex; she sail'd by but 
now. 

Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir? 

Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of 
all the guard cannot hold it, if they were 
tied to it; she would blow 'em out of the 
kingdom. They talk of Jupiter ; he 's 
but a squib-cracker to her : look well 
about you, and you may find a tongue- 
bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be 
freely welcome? 

Meg. Whither? 

Pha. To your bed. If you mistrust my 
faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong. 

Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not. 

Pha. Make your own conditions, my 
purse shall seal 'em, and what you dare 
imagine you can want, I '11 furnish you 
withal. Give two hours to your thoughts 
every morning about it. Come I know 
you are bashful ; 
Speak in my ear, will you be mine? 

Keep this. 
And with it, me : soon I will visit you. 

Meg. My lord, my chamber 's most un- 
safe ; but when 't is night, 
I '11 find some means to slip into your 

lodging; 
Till when 

Pha. Till when, this and my heart go with 
thee ! Exeunt several ivays. 

Ee-enter Galatea from behind the hang- 
ings. 
Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince ! 
are these your virtues? Well, if I do 
not lay a train to blow your sport up, I 
am no woman : and. Lady Towsabel, I '11 
, fit you for 't. 

Exit. 

Scene 3. Arethusa's apartment in the 

palace. 

Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 

Are. Where 's the boy? 

Lady. Within, madam. 

Are. Gave you him gold to buy him 

clothes"? 
Lady. I did. 

Are. And has he done't? 
Lady. Yes, madam. 



32 blank verses. 



204 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD 



Are. 'T is a pretty sad-talking boy, is it 
not? 
Asked you his name? 
Lady. No, madam. 

Enter Galatea. 

Are. Oh, you are welcome. What good 

news ? 
Gal. As good as any one can tell your 
grace. 
That says she has done that you would 
have wish'd. 
Are. Hast thou discovered? 
Gal. I have strain'd a point of modesty 

for you. 
Are. I prithee, how? 

Gal. In list'ning after bawdi-y. I see, let 
a lady live never so modestly, she shall 
be sure to find a lawful time to hearken 
after bawdry. Your prince, brave 
Pharamond, was so hot on 't! 
Are. With whom? 
Gal. Why, with the lady I suspected. I 

can tell the time and place. 
Are. Oh, when, and where? 
Gal. To-night, his lodging. 
Are. Run thyself into the presence; min- 
gle there again 
With other ladies ; leave the rest to me. 

Exit Galatea. 
If destiny (to whom we dare not say, 
"Why didst thou this?") have not de- 
creed it so, 
In lasting leaves (whose smallest cliarnc- 

ters 
Were never alter'd yet), this malcli sbnll 

break. — 

WTiere's the boy? 

Lady. Here, madam. 

Enter Bellario. 

Are. Sir, you are sad to change your serv- 
ice; is 't not so? 
Bel. Madam, I have not chang'd ; I wait 
on you, 
To do him service. 
Are. Thou disclaim'st in me.^^ 

Tell me thy name. 
Bel. P>ellario. 

Are. Thou canst sing and play? 

Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, 

I can. 
Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy 
years know? 
Hadst thou a curst •''* master when thou 

went'st to school? 
Thou art not capable of other grief; 

33 my ri?:ht to your services. 



Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as 

waters be 
When no breath troubles them. Believe 

me, boy. 
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hol- 
low eyes. 
And builds himself caves, to abide in 

them. 
Come, sir, tell me truly, doth your lord 

love me? 
Bel. Love, madam ! 1 know nut what it 

is. 
A-ire. Canst thou know grief, and never 

yet knew'st love? 
Thou art deceiv'd, boy. Does he speak 

of me 
As if he wish'd me well? 
Bel. If it be love 

To forget all respect of his own friends 
With thinking of your face; if it be 

love 
To sit cross-arm'd and sigh away the 

day, 
Mingled with starts, crying your name 

as loud 
And hastily as men i' the streets do fire; 
If it be love to weep himself away 
When he but hears of any lady dead 
Or kill'd, because it might have been 

your chance; 
If, when he goes to rest (which will not 

be), 
'Twixt eveiy prayer he says, to name you 

once, 
7\s others drop a bead, be to be in love, 
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. 
.1 re. Oh, you 're a cunning boy, and 

taught to lie 
For your lord's credit ! But thou 

know'st a lie 
That bears this sound is welcomer to me 
Than any ti'uth that says he loves me not. 
Lead the way, boy. — [To Ladi/.) Do 

you attend me too. — 
'T is thy lord's business hastes me thus. 

Away ! 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. Before Pharamnnd's lodging in 
the court of the palace. 

Enter Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Megra, 
and Galatea. 

Dion. Come, ladies, shall we talk a round? 

As men 
Do walk a mile, women should talk an 

hour 
After supper: 'tis their exercise. 

3 1 cruel. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



205 



dal 'Tis late. 
3Ieg. 'Tis all 

My eyes will do to lead me to my bed. 
Gal. I fear, they are so heavy, you '11 
scarce find 
The way to your own lodging with 'etn 
to-night. 

Enter Pharamond. 

Thra. The prince! 

Pha. Not a-bed, ladies'? You're good sit- 
ters-up. 
What think you of a pleasant dream, to 

last 
Till morning'? 
Meg. I should choose, my lord, a pleasing 
wake before it. 

Enter Aretlmsa and Bellario. 

Are. 'Tis well, my lord; you're courting 
of these ladies. — 
Is 't not late, gentlemen'? 
C'le. Yes, madam. 
Are. Wait you there. 

Exit. 
Meg. (Aside.) She 's jealous, as I live. — 
Look you, my lord, 
The princess has a Ilylas, an Adonis. 
Pha. His form is angel-like. 
Meg. Why, this is he that must, when you 
are wed, 
Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, 

with 
His hand and voice binding your 

thoughts in sleep; 
The princess does provide him for you 
and for herself. 
Pha. I find no music in these boys. 
Meg. Nor I : 

They can do little, and that small they 

do, 
They have not wit to hide. 
Dion. Serves he the princess'? 

Thra. Yes. 
Dion. 'T is a sweet boy : how brave ^'^ 

she keeps him ! 
Pha. Ladies all, good rest; I mean to kill 
a buck 
To-mon-ow moi'ning ere you 've done 
your dreams. 
Meg. All happiness attend your gi'ace! 
Exit Pharamond. 
Gentlemen, good rest. — 
Come, shall we go to bed'? 
Gal. Yes. — All. good night. 

Dion. May your dreams be true to you ! — 
Exeunt Galatea and Megra. 



What shall we do, gallants? 'tis late. 

The King 
Is up still: see, he comes, a guard along 
With him. 

Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. 

King. Look your intelligence be true. 

Are. Upon my life, it is; and I do hope 
Your highness will not tie me to a man 
That in the heat of wooing throws me 

off, 
And takes anothei\ 
Dion. What should this mean'? 

King. If it be true. 

That lady had been better have era- 

brac'd 
Cureless diseases. Get you to your rest : 
You shall be righted. 

Exeunt Arethusa and Bellario. 
— Gentlemen, draw near; 
We shall employ you. Is young Phara- 
mond 
Come to his lodging"? 
Dion. I saw him enter there. 

King. Haste, some of you, and cunningly 
discover 
If Megra be in her lodging. 

Exit Dion. 
Cle. Sir, 

She parted hence but now, with other 
ladies. 
King. If she be there, we shall not need 
to make 
A vain discovery of our suspicion. 
[Aside.) You gods, I see that who un- 
righteously 
Holds wealth or state from othei's shall 

be curst 
In that which meaner men are blest 

withal : 
Ages to come shall know no male of him 
Left to inherit, and his name shall be 
Blotted from earth ; if he have any child. 
It shall be crossly match'd; the gods 

themselves 
Shall sow wild strife betwixt her lord 

and her. 
Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin 
I have committed ; let it not fall 
Upon this understanding child of mine ! 
She has not broke your laws. But how 

can I 
Look to be heard of gods that must be 

just, 
Praying upon the ground I hold by 
wrone:'? 



Re-enter Dion. 



35 richly attired. 



206 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Dion. Sir, I have asked, and her Avomen 
swear she is within ; but they, I think, are 
bawds. I told 'em, I must speak with 
her; they laught, and said, their lady lay 
speechless. I said, my business was im- 
portant; they said, their lady was about 
it. I grew hot, and cried, my business 
was a matter that concern'd life and 
death ; they answered, so was sleeping, at 
which their lady was. I urg'd again, she 
had scarce time to be so since last I saw 
her : they smil'd again, and seem'd to in- 
struct me that sleeping was nothing but 
lying down and winking.^® Answers 
more direct I could not get : in short, sir, 
I think she is not there. 
King. 'T is then no time to dally. — You o' 

th' guard. 
Wait at the back door of the prince's 

lodging. 
And see that none pass thence, upon 

your lives. 

Exeunt Guards. ■ 
Knock, gentlemen; knock loud; louder 

yet. 
{They knock at the door of Pharamond's 
lodging.) 
What, has their pleasure taken off their 

hearing? — 
I '11 break your meditations. — Knock 

again. — 
Not yet? I do not think he sleeps, hav- 
ing this 
Larum by him. — Once more. — Phara- 

mond! prince! 

(Pharamond appears above.) 
Pha. What saucy groom knocks at this 

dead of night? 
Where be our waiters ? ^'' By my vexed 

soul. 
He meets his death that meets me, for his 

boldness. 
King. Prince, prince, you wrong your 

thoughts ; we are your friends : 
Come down. 
Pha. The King! 

King. The same, sir. Come down, sir : 

We have cause of present counsel with 

you. 
Pha. If your grace please 

To use me, I '11 attend you to your cham- 
ber. 

Enter Pharamond below. 

King. No, 't is too late, prince ; I '11 make 
bold with yours. 

Pha. I have some private reasons to my- 
self 



Makes me unmannerly, and say you can- 
not. — 

{They press to come in.) 
Nay, press not forward, gentlemen; he 

must 
Come through my life that comes here. 
King. Sir, be resolv'd I must and will 

come. — Enter. 
Pha. I will not be dishonor'd. 

He that enters, enters upon his death. 
Sir, 't is a sign you make no stranger 

of me. 
To bring these renegadoes to my chamber 
At these unseasoned hours. 
King. Why do you 

Chafe yourself so? You are not wrong'd 

nor shall be; 
Only I '11 search your lodging, for some 

cause 
To ourself known. — Enter, I say. 
Pha. I say, no. 

Enter Megra above. 

Meg. Let 'em enter, prince, let 'em enter; 
I am up and ready : ^^ I know their busi- 
ness ; 
'T is the poor breaking of a lady's honor 
They hunt so hotly after; let 'em enjoy 

'it— 
You have your business, gentlemen ; I lay 

here. 
Oh, my lord the King, this is not noble 

in you 
To make public the weakness of a 
woman ! 
King. Come down. 

Meg. I dare, my lord. Your hootings and 
your clamors, 
Your private whispers and your broad 

fleei'ings,^^ 
Can no more vex my soul than this base 

carriage.'*^ 
But I have vengeance yet in store for 

some 
Shall, in the most contempt you can have 

of me, 
Be joy and nourishment. 
King. Will you come down ? 

Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst; but I 
shall wring you. 
If my skill fail me not. 

Exit above. 
King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for 
this looseness; 
You have wrong'd a worthy lady; but, 

no more. — 
Conduct him to my lodging and to bed. 
Exeunt Pharamond and Attrndants. 



3c closing the eyes. 



37 those that wait on us. 



38 dressed. 



39 gibes. 



40 conduct. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



207 



Cle. Get him another wench, and you 

bring him to bed indeed. 
Dion. 'T is sti'ange a man cannot ride a 

stage 
Or two, to breathe himself, without a 

warrant. 
If his gear hold, that lodgings be search'd 

thus, 
Pray God we may lie with our own wives 

in safety, 
That they be not by some trick of state 

mistaken ! 

Enter Attendants with Megra helow. 

King. Now, lady of honor, where 's your 

honor now"? 
No man can fit your palate but the 

prince. 
Thou most ill-shrouded rottenness, thou 

piece 
Made by a painter and a 'potheeary, 
Thou troubled sea of lust, thou wilder- 
ness 
Inhabited .by wild thoughts, thou swoln 

cloud 
Of infection, thou ripe mine of all dis- 
eases. 
Thou all-sin, all-hell, and last, all-devils, 

tell me. 
Had you none to pull on with your 

. courtesies 
But he that must be mine, and wrong my 

daughter"? 
By all the gods, all these, and all the 

pages, 
And all the court, shall hoot thee through 

the court, 
Fling rotten oranges, make ribald 

rhymes, 
And sear thy name with candles upon 

walls ! 
Do you laugh, Lady Venus'? 
Meg. Faith, sir, you must pardon me ; 
I cannot choose but laugh to see you 

merry. 
If you do this, King! nay, if you dare 

do it. 
By all those gods you swore by, and as 

many 
More of my own, I will have fellows, and 

such 
Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth ! 
The princess, your dear daughter, shall 

stand by me 
On walls, and sung in ballads, any thing. 
Urge me no more; I know her and her 

haunts, 



Her lays, leaps, and outlays, and will dis- 
cover all; 

Nay, will dishonor her. I know the boy 

She keeps; a handsome boy, about eight- 
een; 

Know what she does with him, where, 
and when. 

Come, sir, you put me to a woman's mad- 
ness, 

The glory of a fury ; and if I do not 

Do 't^to the height 

King. What boy is this she raves at *? 

Meg. Alas ! good-minded prince, you 
know not these things ! 

I am loth to reveal 'em. Keep this 
fault, 

As you would keep your health from the 
hot air 

Of the corrupted people, or, by Heaven, 

I will not fall alone. What I have 
known 

Shall be as public as a print ; all tongues 

Shall speak it as they do the language 
they 

Are bom in, as free and commonly ; I '11 
set it. 

Like a prodigious *^ star, for all to gaze 
at, 

And so high and glowing, that other 
kingdoms far and foreign 

Shall read it there, nay, travel with it, 
till they find 

No tongue to make it more, nor no more 
people ; 

And then behold the fall of your fair 



prmcess 



King. Has she a boy"? 

Cle. So please your grace, I have seen a 
boy wait 
On her, a fair boy. 

King. Go, get you to your quarter: 

For this time I will study to forget you. 

Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I '11 
study 
To forget you. 

Exeunt King, Megra, and Guard. 

Cle. Why, here 's a male spirit fit for Her- 
cules. If ever there be Nine Worthies of 
women, this wench shall ride astride and 
be their captain. 

Dion. Sure, she has a garrison of devils 
in her tongue, she uttered such balls of 
wild-fire. She has so nettled the King, 
that all the doctors in the country will 
scarce cure him. That boy was a strange- 
found-out antidote to cure her infection ; 
that boy, that princess' boy; that brave, 
chaste, virtuous lady's boy; and a fair 



41 portentous. 



208 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



boy, a well-spoken boy ! All these con- 
sidered, can make nothing else — but there 
I leave you, gentlemen. 
Thra. Nay, we '11 go wander with you. 

Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. The court of the palace. 

Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasillnc. 

Cle. Nay, doubtless, 'tis true. 
Dion. Aye ; and 't is the gods 

That rais'd this punishment, to scourge 

the King 
With his own issue. Is it not a shame 
For us that should write noble in the 

land. 
For us that should be freemen, to behold 
A man that is the braveiy of his age, 
Philaster, prest down from his royal 

right 
By this regardless king? and only look 
And see the sceptre ready to be cast 
Into the hands of that lascivious lady 
That lives in lust with a smooth boy, now 

to be married 
To yon strange prmee, who, but that peo- 
ple please 
To let him be a prince, is born a slave 
In that which should be his most noble 

part, 
His mind? 
Thra. That man that would not stir with 
you 
To aid Philaster, let the gods forget 
That such a creature walks upon the 
earth ! 
Cle. Philaster is too backward in 't him- 
self. 
The gentry do await it, and the people. 
Against their nature, are all bent for 

him. 
And like a field of standing corn, that 's 

moved 
With a stiff gale, their heads bow all one 
way. 
Dion. The only cause that draws Phil- 
aster back 
From this attempt is the fair princess' 

love, 
Which he admires, and we can now con- 
fute. 
Thra. Perhaps he '11 not believe it. 
Dion. Why, gentlemen, 't is without ques- 
tion so. 



Cle. Aye,, 't is past speech she lives dis- 
honestly. 
But how shall we, if he be curious,'- 

work 
Upon his faith? 
Thra. We all are satisfied within our- 
selves. 
Dion. Since it is true, and tends to lys 
own good, 
I '11 make this new report to be my 

knowledge ; 
I '11 say I know it; nay, I '11 swear I saw 
it." 
Cle. It will be best. 
Thra. 'T will move him. 

Enter Pliilasier. 

Dion. Here he comes. 

Good moiTow to your honor: we have 

spent 
Some time in seeking you. 
Plii. My worthy friends. 

You that can keep your memories to 

know 
Your friend in miseries, and cannot 

frown 
On men disgrae'd for virtue, a good day 
Attend you all ! What service may I do 
Worthy your acceiotation? 
Dion. My good lord, 

We come to ui'ge that virtue, which we 

know 
Lives in your breast, forth. Rise, and 

make a head ; '^^ 
The nobles and the people are all duU'd 
With this usurping king; and not a man, 
That ever heard the woi'd, or knew such 

a thing 
As virtue, but will second your attempts. 
Phi. How honorable is this love in you 
To me that have deserv'd none ! Know, 

my friends, 
(You, that wei'e born to shame your poor 

Philaster 
With too much courtesy,) I could afford 
To melt myself in thanks : but my designs 
Are not yet ripe. Suffice it, that ere 

long 
I shall employ your loves ; but yet the 

time 
Is short of what I would. 
Dion. The time is fuller, sir, than you ex- 
pect; 
That which hereafter will not, perhaps, 

be reach'd 
By violence, may now be caught. As for 

the King, 



42 scrupulous. 



43 raise an army. 



PIIILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



209 



You know the people have loug hated 

him; 
But now the princess, whom they 
lov'd 

Phi. Why, what of her? 

Dion. Is loath'd as much as he. 

Phi. By what strange means'? 

Dion. She 's known a wliore. 

Phi. Thouliest! 

Dion. My lord 

Phi. Thou liest, 

(Offers to dratv and is held.) 
And thou shalt feel it! I had thought 

thy mind 
Had been of honor. Thus to rob a la<ly 
Of her good name is an infectious sin 
Not to be pardon'd. Be it false as hell, 
'T will never be redeem'd, if it be sown 
Amongst the people, fruitful to increase 
All evil they shall hear. Let me alone 
That I may cut off falsehood whilst it 



springs 



Set hills on hills betwixt me and the man 
That utters this, and I will scale them all. 
And from the utmost top fall on his neck, 
Like thunder from a cloud. 
Dion. This is most strange : 

Sure, he does love her. 
Phi. I do love fair truth. 

She is my mistress, and who injures 

her 
Draws vengeance from me. Sirs, let g'o 
my arms. 
Thra. Nay, good my lord, be patient. 
Cle. Sir, remember this is your honor'd 
friend, 
That comes to do his service, and will 

show you 
Why he utter'd this. 
Phi. I ask your pardon, sir; 

My zeal to truth made me unmannerly : 
Should I have heard dishonor spoke of 

you, 
Behind your back, untruly, I had been 
As mucli distemper'd and enrag'd as now. 
Dion. But this, my lord, is truth. 
Phi. Oh, say not so ! 

Good sir, forbear to say so : 't is then 

truth, 
That womankind is false : urge it no 

more ; 
It is impossible. Wliy should you think 
The princess light ? 
Dion. Why, she was taken at it. 

Phi. 'T is false ! by Heaven, 't is false ! 
It cannot be ! 
Can if? Speak, gentlemen; for God's 
love, speak ! 



Is 't possible? Can women all be 
damn'd ? 
Dion. W^hy, no, my lord. 
Plii. Why, then, it cannot be. 

Dion. And she was taken with her boy. 
Phi. ' What boy? 

Dion, A page, a boy that serves her. 
Phi. Oh, good gods ! 

A little boy? 
Dion. -^ycj know you him, my lord? 

Phi. [Aside.) Hell and sin know him! — 
Sir, you are deceiv'd; 
I '11 reason it a little coldly with you. 
If she were lustful, would she take a boy, 
That knows not yet desire? She would 

have one 
Should meet her thoughts and know the 

sin he acts. 
Which is the great delight of wickedness. 
You are abus'd,'** and so is she, and I. 
Dion. How you, my lord? 
Plii. Why, all the world 's abus'd 

In an unjust report. 
Dion. Oh, noble sir, your virtues 

Cannot look into the subtle thoughts of 

woman ! 
In short, my lord, I took them ; I my- 
self. 
Plii. Now, all the devils, thou didst ! Fly 
from my rage ! 
Would thou hadst ta'en devils engen- 

d'ring plagues, 
When thou didst take them! Hide thee 

from mine eyes! 
Would thou hadst taken thunder on thy 

breast. 
When thou didst take them; or been 

strucken dumb 
For ever ; that this foul deed might have 

slept 
In silence ! 
Thra. Have you known him so ill-tem- 

per'd ? 
Cle. Never before. 

Phi. The winds that are let loose 

From the four several corners of the 

earth, 
And spread themselves all over sea and 

land, 
Kiss not a chaste one. What friend 

bears a sword 
To run me through? 
Dion. Why, my lord, are you 

So mov'd at this? 
Phi. When any fall from virtue, 

I am distract ; I have an interest in 't. 
Dion. But, good my lord, recall yourself, 
and think 



4 4 deceived. 



210 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



What 's best to be done. 
Phi. I thank you; I will do it. 

Please you to leave me; I'll consider of 

it. 
To-moiTow I will find your lodging forth, 
And give you answer. 
Dion. All the gods direct you 

The readiest way ! 
Thra. He was extreme impatient. 

Cle. It was his virtue and his noble mind. 
Exeunt Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
Phi. I had forgot to ask him where he 
. took them; 

{ I '11 follow him. Oh that I had a sea 

Within my breast, to quench the fire I 
1 feel ! 

More circumstances will but fan this fire : 
It more afflicts me now, to know by 

whom 
This deed is done, than simply that 'tis 

done ; 
And he that tells me this is honorable, 
As far from lies as she is far from 

truth. 
Oh, that, like beasts, we could not grieve 

ourselves 
With that we see not! Bulls and rams 

will fight 
To keep their females standing in their 

sight ; 
But take 'em from them, and you take at 

once 
Their spleens away ; and they will fall 

again 
Unto their pastures, gTowing fresh and 

fat, 
And taste the waters of the springs as 

sweet 
As 'twas before, finding no start in 

sleep ; 
But miserable man 

Enter Bellario. 

See, see, you gods ! 
He walks still; and the face you let him 

wear 
When he was innocent is still the same. 
Not blasted! Is this justice'? Do you 

mean 
To intrap mortality, that you allow 
Treason so smooth a brow? I cannot 

now 
Think he is guilty. 
Bel. Health to you, my lord ! 

The princess doth commend her love, her 

life, 
And this, unto you. 

{Gives a letter.) 
Phi. Oh, Bellario, 



Now I perceive she loves me : she does 

show it 
In loving thee, my boy; she has made 
thee brave. 
Bel. My lord, she has attir'd me past my 
wish. 
Past my desert ; more fit for her attend- 
ant, 
Though far unfit for me who do attend. 
Phi. Thon art grown courtly, boy. — Oh, 
let all women, 
That love black deeds, leani to dissemble 

here. 
Here, by this paper! She does write to 

me 
As if her heart were mines of adamant 
To all the world besides ; but, unto me, 
A maiden-snow that melted with my 

looks. — 
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess 

use thee"? 
For I shall guess her love to me by that. 
Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if I 
were. 
Something allied to her, or had preserv'd 
Her life three times by my fidelity; 
As mothers fond do use their only sons, 
As I 'd use one that 's left unto my trust. 
For whom my life should pay if he met 

harm. 
So she does use me. 
Phi. Why, this is wondrous well: 

But what kind language does she feed 
thee withf 
Bel. Why, she does tell me she will trust 
my youth 
With all her loving secrets, and does call 

me 
Her pretty servant ; bids me weep no 

more 
For leaving you; she'll see my services 
Regarded : and such words of that soft 

strain 
That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
Than ere she spake. 
Phi. This is much better still. 

Bel. Are you not ill, mv lord? 
Phi. "111? No, Bellario. 

Bel. Methinks your words 

Fair not from off your tongue so evenly, 
Nor is there in your looks that quiet- 
ness 
That I was wont to see. 
Phi. Thou art deceiv'd, boy : 

And she strokes thy head? 
Bel. ' Yes. 

Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks? 
Bel. She does, my lord. 

Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy ? ha ! 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



211 



Bel. How, my lord*? 

Phi. She kisses thee? 

Bel. Never, iny lord, by heaven. 

Phi. That 's strange, I know she does. 
Bel. No, by my life ! 

Phi. Why then she does not love me. 
Come, she does. 

I bade her do it ; I charg'd her, by all 
charms 

Of love between us, by the hope of peace 

We should enjoy, to yield thee all de- 
lights 

Naked as to her bed; I took her oath 

Thou shouldst enjoy her. Tell me, gen- 
tle boy, 

Is she not parallelless ? Is not her 
breath 

Sweet as Arabian winds when fruits are 
ripe*? 

Are not her breasts two liquid ivory 
balls'? 

Is she not all a lasting mine of joy? 
Bel. Aye, now I see why my disturbed 
thoughts 

Were so perplex'd. When first I went 
to her, 

My heart held auguiy. You are abus'd; 

Some villain has abus'd you ; I do see 

Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his 
head 

That put this to you ! 'T is some subtle 
train 

To bring that noble frame of yours to 
nought. 
Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with 
thee. Come, 

Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate 
her more 

Than I love happiness, and plac'd thee 
there 

To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 

Hast thou discovered? Is she fallen to 
lust, 

As I would wish her? Speak some com- 
fort to me. 
Bel. My lord, you did mistake the boy you 
sent. 

Had she the lust of sparrows or of goats, 

Had she a sin that way, hid from the 
world, 

Beyond the name of lust, I would not 
aid 

Her base desires; but what I came to 
know 

As servant to her, I would not reveal. 

To make my life last ages. 
Phi. Oh, my heart! 

This is a salve worse than the main dis- 
ease. — 



Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know 

the least 
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy 

heart 
To know it. I will see thy thoughts as 

plain 
As I do now thy face. 
Bel. Why, so you do. 

She is (for aught I know) by all the 

gods. 
As chaste as ice ! But were she foul as 

hell. 
And I did know it thus, the breath of 

kings, 
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls 

of brass. 
Should draw it from me. 
Phi. Then it is no time 

To dally with thee; I will take thy 

life. 
For I do hate thee. I could curse thee 

now. 
Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse 

me worse ; 
The gods have not a punishment in 

store 
Greater for me than is your hate. 
Phi. Fie, fie. 

So young and so dissembling! Tell me 

when 
And where thou didst enjoy her, or let 

plagues 
Fall on me, if I destroy thee not ! 
{Draws his sword.) 
Bel. By heaven, I never did; and when I 

lie 
To save my life, may I live long and 

loath'd ! 
Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think, 
I '11 love those pieces you have cut away 
Better than those that grow, and kiss 

those limbs 
Because you made 'em so. 
Phi. Fear'st thou not death? 

Can boys contemn that? 
Bel. Oh, what boy is he 

Can be content to live to be a man. 
That sees the best of men thus passion- 
ate, 
Thus without reason? 
Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know 

T\Tiat 't is to die. 
Bel. Yes, I do know, my lord : 

'T is less than to be bom; a lasting 

sleep ; 
A quiet resting from all jealousy, 
A thing we all pursue. I know, besides, 
It is but giving over of a game 
That must be lost. 



212 



TIIK ELJZABETIIAN PERIOD 



Phi. But there are pains, false boy, 

For perjur'd souls. Think but on those, 

and then 
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter 

all. 
Bel. May they fall all upon me whilst I 

live. 
If I be i:)erjur'd, or have ever thoug:ht 
Of that you charged me with ! If I be 

false, 
Send me to suffer in those punishments 
You speak of ; kill me ! 
Phi. Oh, what should I dol 

Why, who can but believe him? He 

does swear 
So earnestly, that if it were not true, 
The g'ods would not endure him. Rise, 

Bellario : 
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
Dost look so truly when thou uttcr'st 

them. 
That, though I know 'em false as wei'e 

my hopes, 
I cannot urge thee further. But thou 

wert 
To blame to injure me, for I must love 
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge 

upon 
Thy tender youth. A love from me to 

thee 
Is firm, whate'er thou dost;, it troubles 

me 
That I have call'd the blood out of thy 

cheeks. 
That did so well become thee. But, good 

boy, 
Let me not see thee more: something is 

done 
That will distract me, that will make me 

mad. 
If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me, 
Let me not see thee. 
Bel. I will fly as. far 

As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
To that most honor'd mind. But thi'ough 

these tears, 
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 
A world of treason practis'd upon you. 
And her, and me. Farewell for ever- 
more ! 
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me 

dead, 
And after find me loyal, let there be 
A tear shed from you in my memory, 
And I shall rest in peace. 

• EtH. 

Phi. Blessing be with tliee, 

Whatever thou deserv'st! Oh, where 

shall I 



Go bathe this body? Nature too unkind. 
That made no medicine for a troubled 
mind ! 

Exit. 

Scene 2. Arethusa's apartment in the 
palace. 

Enter Arethusa. 

Are. I marvel my boy comes not back 

again : 
But that I know my love will question 

him 
Over and over, — how I slept, wak'd, 

talk'd, 
How I I'ememb'red him Avhen his dear 

name 
Was last sjioke, and how when I sigh'd, 

wept, sung. 
And ten thousand such, — I should be 

angry at his stay. 

Enter King. 

King. Wlaat, at your meditations! WIio 

attends you? 
Are. None but my single self. I need no 
guard ; 

I do no wrong, nor fear none. 
King. Tell me, have you not a boy? 
Are. Yes, sir. 

King. What kind of boy ? . 
Are. A page, a waiting-boy. 

King. A handsome boy? 
xire. I tliink he be not ugly: 

Well qualified and dutiful I know him; 

I took him not for beauty. 
King. He speaks and sings and plays? 
Are. Yes, sir. 

King. About eighteen? 
Are. I never ask'd his age. 

King. Is he full of service? 
Are. By your pardon, why do you ask? 
King. Put him away. 
Are. Sir! 

King. Put him away, I say. 

He 's done you that good service shames 
me to speak of. 
Are. Good sir, let me understand you. 
King. If you fear me, 

Siiow it in duty; put away that boy. 
Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and 
then 

Your will is my command. 
King. Do not you blush to ask it? Cast 
him off. 

Or I shall do the same to you. You 're 
one 

Shame with me, and so near unto my- 
self, 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



213 



That, by my life, I dare not tell myself 

Wliat you, myself, have done. 
Are. What have I done, my lord? 
King. 'T is a new language, that all love 
to learn : 

The common i)eoi)le speak it well al- 
ready ; 

They need no grammar. Understand me 
well ; 

There be foul whisiDers stirring. Cast 
him off. 

And suddenly. Do it ! Farewell. 

Exit. 
Are. Where may a maiden live securely 
free. 

Keeping her honor fair*? Not with the 
living; 

They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams, 

And make 'em truths; they draw a nour- 
ishment 

Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces. 

And, when they see a virtue fortilied 

Strongly above the batt'ry of their 
tongues. 

Oh, how they cast *^ to sink it ! and, de- 
feated, 

(Soul-sick with poison) strike the monu- 
ments 

Where noble names lie sleeping, till they 
sweat. 

And the cold marble melt. 

Enter Ph Haste r. 



Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, dear- 
est mistress ! 
Are. Oh, my dearest servant, I have a 

war within me ! 
Phi. He must be more than man that 

makes these ciystals 
Run into rivers. Sweetest fair, the 

cause ? 
And, as I am your slave, tied to your 

goodness. 
Your creature, made again from what I 

was 
And newly-spirited, I '11 right your 

honor. 
Are. Oh, my best love, that bov ! 
Phi. 'What boy? 

Are. The pretty boy you gave me 

Phi. ^ What of him 1 

Are. Must be no more mine. 
Phi. Why? 

Are. They are jealous of him. 

Phi. Jealous! Who?" 
Are. The King. 

Phi. (Aside.) Oh, my misfortune! 

Then 't is no idle jealousy. — Let him go. 

45 plan. 



Are. Oh, cruel! 

Are you hard-hearted too? Who shall 

now tell you 
How much I lov'd you? Who shall 

swear it to you. 
And weep the tears I send? Who shall 

now bring you 
Letters, rings, bracelets? Lose his 

health in service? 
Wake tedious nights in stories of your 

praise ? 
Who shall now sing your crying elegies. 
And strike a sad soul into senseless pic- 
tures. 
And make them mourn? Who shall take 

up his lute, 
And touch it till he crown a silent slee]) 
Upon my eye-lids, making me dream, and 

"Oh, my dear, dear Philaster!" 
Phi. {Aside.) Oh, my heart ! 

Would he had broken thee, that made me 

know 
This lady was not loyal ! — Mistress, 
Forget the boy; I'll get thee a far bet- 
^ter. 
Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again 

As my Bellario. 
Phi. 'T is but your fond affection. 

Are. With thee, my boy, fai'ewell for 
ever 
All secrecy in servants ! Farewell, faith, 
And all desire to do well for itself! 
Let all that shall succeed thee for thy 

wi'ongs 
Sell and betray chaste love ! 
Phi. And all this passion for a boy? 
Are. He was your bo}', and you put him 
to me. 
And the loss of such must have a mourn- 
ing for. 
Phi. Oh, thou forgetful woman! 
Are. How, my lord? 

Plii. False Arethusa ! 

Hast thou a medicine to restore my wits. 
When I have lost 'em? If not, leave to 

talk, 
And do thus. 
Are. Do what, sir? Would you sleep? 

Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, you gods 
Give me a worthy patience! Have I 

stood, 
Naked, alone, the shock of many for- 
tunes? 
Have I seen mischiefs numberless and 

mighty 
Grow like a sea upon me? Have I 
taken 



214 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Danger as stern as death into my bosom, 
And laught upon it, made it but a 

mirth, 
And tlung it by"? Do I live now like 

him, 
Under this tyrant King, that languish- 
ing 
Hears his sad bell and sees his mourners 1 

Do I 
Bear all this bravely, and must sink at 

length 
Under a woman's falsehood? Oh, that 

boy. 
That cursed boy! None but a villain 

boy 
To ease your lust? 
Are. Nay, then, I am betrayed : 

I feel the plot cast for my overthrow. 
Oh, I am wretched ! 
P/ii. Now you may take that little right I 

have 
To this poor kingdom. Give it to your 

joy. 
For I have no joy in it. Some far 

place, 
Where never womankind durst set her 

foot 
For*® bursting with her poisons, must I 

seek. 
And live to curse you ; 
There dig a cave, and preach to birds and 

beasts 
What woman is, and help to save them 

from you; 
How heaven is in your eyes, but in your 

hearts 
More hell than hell has; how your 

tongues, like scorpions, 
Both heal and poison;'*^ how your 

thoughts are woven 
With thousand changes in one subtle 

web. 
And worn so by you; how that foolish 

man, 
That reads the story of a Avoraan's face 
And dies believing it, is lost for ever; 
How all the good you have is but a 

shadow, 
1' the morning with you, and at night 

behind you. 
Past and forgotten; how your vows are 

frosts, 
Fast for a night, and with the next sun 

gone; 
How you are, being taken all together, 
A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos, 
That love cannot distinguish. These 

sad texts, 



Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of 

you. 
So, farewell all my woe, all my de- 
light ! 

Exit. 
Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me 

dead ! 
What way have I deserv'd this? Make 

my breast 
Transparent as pure -crystal, that the 

world. 
Jealous of me, may see the foulest 

thought 
My heart holds. Where shall a woman 

turn her eyes. 
To find out constancy? 

Enter Bellario. 

Save me, how black 
And guilty, methinks, that boy looks 

now ! 
Oh, thou dissembler, that, before thou 

spak'st, 
Wert in thy cradle false, sent to make 

lies 
And betray innocents ! Thy lord and 

thou 
May glory in the ashes of a maid 
Fool'd by her passion ; but the conquest 

is 
Nothing so great as wicked. Fly away ! 
Let my command force thee to that which 

shame 
Would do without it. If thou under- 

stood'st 
The loathed office thou hast undergone, 
Whv, thou wouldst hide thee under heaps 

'of hills. 
Lest men should dig and find thee. 
Bel. Oh, what god. 

Angry with men, hath sent this strange 

disease 
Into the noblest minds! Madam, this 

grief 
You add unto me is no more than drops 
To seas, for which they are not seen to 

swell. 
My lord hath struck his anger through 

my heart, 
And let out all the hope of future joys. 
You need not bid me fly; I came to 

part, 
To take my latest leave. Farewell for 



40 for fear of. 



I durst not run away in honesty 
From such a lady, like a boy thai stole 
Or made some grievous fault. The 
power of gods 

47 It was believed that scorpions if apiiliecl to the wound they made, cured it. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



215 



Assist you in your sufferings! Hasty 
time 

Reveal the truth to your abused lord 

And mine, that he may know your worth; 
whilst I 

Go seek out some forgotten place to die ! 

Exit. 
Are. Peace guide thee ! Thou hast over- 
thrown me once; 

Yet, if I had another Troy to lose, 

Thou, or another villain with thy 
looks, 

Might talk me out of it, and send me 
naked, 

My hair dishevell'd, through the fiery 
streets. 

Enter a Lady. 

Lady. Madam, the King would hunt, and 
calls for you 
With earnestness. 
Are. I am in tune to hunt ! 

Diana, if thou canst rage with a maid 
As with a man, let me discover thee 
Bathing, and turn me to a fearful 

hind. 
That I may die pursued by cruel hounds, 
And have my stoiy written in my 
wounds ! *® 

Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Scene 1. Before the palace. 

Enter King, Pharamond, Aretliusa, Gala- 
tea, Megra, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, 
and Attendants. 

King. What, are the hounds before and 
all the woodmen? 
Our horses ready and our bows bent 1 
Dion. All, sir. 

King. (To Pharamond.) You are cloudy, 
sir. Come, we have forgotten 
Your venial trepass; let not that sit 

heavy 
Upon your spirit ; here 's none dare utter 
it. 
Dion. He looks like an old surfeited stal- 
lion, dull as a dormouse. See how he 
sinks ! The wench has shot him between 
wind and water, and, I hope, sprung a 
leak. 
Thra. He needs no teaching, he strikes 
sure enough. His greatest fault is, he 



hunts too much in the purlieus; would 
he would leave oft" poaching! 

Dion. And for his horn, h'as left it at 
the lodge where he lay late. Oh, he 's a 
precious limehound ! *'■' Turn him loose 
upon the pursuit of a lady, and if he 
lose her, hang him up i' the slip.''^ 
When my fox-bitch Beauty grows proud, 
I '11 borrow him. 

King. Is your boy turn'd away? 

Are. You did command, sir, and I obey'd 
you. 

King. 'T is well done. Hark ye further. 
{They talk apart.) 

Cle. Is 't possible this fellow should re- 
pent? Methinks, that were not noble in 
him; and yet he looks like a mortified 
member, as if he had a sick man's salve ^•'^ 
in 's mouth. If a worse man had done 
this fault now, some physical ^- justice 
or other would presently (without the 
help of an almanac ^^) have opened the 
obstructions of his liver, and let him 
blood with a dog-whip. 

Dion. See, see how modestly yon lady 
looks, as if she came from churching 
Avith her neighbors! Why, what a devil 
can a man see in her face but that she 's 
honest ! 

Thra. Faith, no great matter to speak of; 
a foolish twinkling wdth the eye, that 
spoils her coat ; ^* but he must be a cun- 
ning herald that finds it. 

Dion. See how they muster one another ! 
Oh, there 's a rank regiment where the 
devil carries the colors and his dam 
drum-major ! Now the world and the 
flesh come behind with the carriage.''^ 

Cle. Sure this lady has a good turn done 
her against her will; before she was com- 
mon talk, now none dare say canthari- 
des ^^ can stir her. Her face looks like 
a warrant, willing and commanding all 
tongues, as they will answer it, to be tied 
up and bolted when this lady means to let 
herself loose. As I live, she has got her 
a goodly protection and a gracious; and 
may use her body discreetly for her 
health's sake, once a week, excepting 
Lent and dog-days. Oh, if they were to 
be got for money, what a great sum 
would come out of the city for these 
licenses ! 

King. To horse, to horse! w^e lose the 
morning, gentlemen. Exeunt. 



48 These five lines refer to the story of Actteon. 
49 a hunting dog led Thomas Bacon's r.3 Almanacs 
The Sirke Man's 
Sah-e. 1561. 
52 physic-adminis- 
tering. 



on a line, or leash 
so leash. 
51 An allusion to a 

religious work 



gave 
the proper sea- 
sons for blood- 
letting. 



54 The allusion, sug- 
gested by twin- 
IHng, is to the 
introduction of 
stars into a coat 
of arms, denoting 



a younger and 
therefore inferior 
branch. 

55 baggage. 

56 a provocative 
drug. 



21G 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEIHOD 



Wood. 

deer? 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

Wood. 

for me 



Scene 12. .1 furcst. 
Enter two Woudmcn. 
Wlial, have you lodged 



the 



Yes, they are reaily for the bow. 

Who shoots"? 

The princess. 

No, she '11 hunt. 

She '11 take a stand, I say. 

Who else? 

Why, the young stranger-prince. 

He shall shoot in a stone-bow ^** 
I never lov'd his beyond-sea- 
ship since he forsook the say,'''-' for pay- 
ing ten shillings. He was there at the 
fall of a deer, and would needs (out of 
his niightiness) give ten groats for the 
dowcets; marry, his steward would have 
the velvet-head "" into the bargain, to 
turf ^^ his hat withal. I tliink he should 
love venery ; he is an old Sir Tristram ; '^- 
for, if you be rememb'red, he forsook 
the stag once to strike a rascal ^^ niich- 
ing "* in a meadow, and her he kill'd iu 
the eye. Who shoots else? 
2 Wood. The Lady Galatea. 

1 Wood. That's a good wench, an she 
would not chide us for tumbling of her 
women in the brakes. She 's liberal, and 
by the gods, they say she 's honest, and 
whether that be a fault, I have nothing 
to do. There's all? 

2 Wood. No, one more; Megra. 

1 Wood. That's a firker,«=^ i' faith, boy. 
There 's a wench will ride her haunches 
as hard after a kennel of hounds as a 
hunting saddle, and when she comes 
home, get 'em clapt, and all is well again. 
I have known her lose herself three times 
in one afternoon, (if the woods have been 
answerable),*'*' and it has been work 
enough for one man to find her, and he 
has sweat for it. She rides well and she 
pays well. Hark! let's go. 

Exeunt. 
Enter Philaster. 

Phi. Oh, that I had been nourish'd in these 

woods 
With milk of goats and acorns, and not 

known 
The right of crowns nor the dissemlding 

trains 
Of women's looks; but digg'd myself a 

cave 



Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed. 
Might have been sluit together in one 

shed ; 
And then had taken me some mountain- 

O'17'l 
'^ ' 

Beaten with winds, chaste as the hard'ned 

rocks 
Whereon she dwelt, that might have 

strewed my bed 
W^ith leaves and reeds, and with the skins 

of beasts, 
Our neighbors, and have borne at her big 

breasts 
]\Iy large coarse issue ! This had been a 

life 
Free from vexation. 

Enter Bellurio. 



may 



Oh, wicked men ! 
walk safe among 



me here. See, my 



Bel. 

An innocent 

beasts; 
Nothing assaults 

griev'd lord 
Sits as his soul were searching out a way 
To leave his body ! — Pardon me, that 

must 
Break thy last commandment; for I must 

speak. 
You that are griev'd can pity; hear, my 

lord ! 
Plii. Is there a creature yet so miserable, 

That I can pity? 
Bel. Oh, my noble lord. 

View my strange fortune, and bestow on 

me. 
According to your bounty (if my service 
Can merit nothing), so much as may 

serve 
To keep that little piece I hold of life 
From cold and hunger! 
Phi, Is it thou? Begone! 

Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes thou 

wcar'st, 
And feed thyself with them. 
Bel. Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for 

them ! 
The silly country-j^eople think 't is trea- 
son 
To touch such gay things. 
Phi. Now, by the gods, this is 

Unkindly done, to vex me with thy sight. 
Thou 'rt fallen again to thy dissembling 

trade ; 
How shouldst thou think to cozen me 

again ? 



57brought to cov- 


59 Gave lip his rifiht 


ert. 


to the assay or 


58 with a cross- 


slittitiK of the 


bow that shoots 


deer to tost the 


stones. 


quality of the 



flesh, in order to 
esrape paying a 
fee to tlio keeper. 
CO the hart's horns, 
covered with vel- 



vet pile 


when 


famous hunter. 


new. 




c>3 a lean doe. 


0] eover. 




•'.4 Inrkinff. 


liJ Tristram, 


in the 


or) ii fast one. 


romances. 


was a 


GO suitable. 



PIllLASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



211 



Kemains there yet a plague untried for 

me? 
Even so thou wept'st, and lookt'st, and 

spok'st when first 
I took thee up. 

Curse on the time! If thy commanding- 
tears 
Can work on any other, use thy art ; 
I'll not hctray it. Which way wilt thou 

take, 
That I may shun thee, for thine eyes are 

poison 
To mine, and I am loth to grow in rage'? 
This way, or that way? 
Bel. Any Avill serve; but I will choose to 

have 
That path in chase that leads unto my 

grave. 

Exeunt severally. 
Enter on one side Dion, and on the other 
the two Woodmen. 

Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance! 
— You, woodmen ! 

1 Wood. My lord Dion? 

Dion. Saw you a lady come this way on a 
sable horse studded with stars of 
white? 

2 Wood. Was she not young and tall? 
Dion. Yes. Rode she to the wood or to 

the plain? 
2 Wood. Faith, my lord, we saw none. 

Exeunt Woodmen. 
Dion. Pox of your questions then ! 

Enter Cleremont. 

What, is she found? 

Cle. Nor will be, I think. 

Dion. Let him seek his daughter himself. 
She cannot stray about a little necessary 
natural business, but the whole court 
must be in arms. When she has done, 
we shall have peace. 

Cle. There 's already a thousand father- 
less tales amongst ns. Some say, her 
horse ran away with her; some, a wolf 
pursued her; others, 'twas a plot to kill 
her, and that arm'd men were seen in the 
wood : but questionless she rode away 
willingly. 

Enter King and ThrasiUne. 

King. W^hei'e is she? 

Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. 

King. How's that? 

Answer me so again ! 
Cle. ' Sir, shall I lie? 

King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell 
me that. 



I say again, where is she? Mutter 

not !— 
Sir, speak you; where is she? 
Dion. Sir, I do not know. 

King. Speak that again so boldly, and, 
by Heaven, 
It is thy last! — You, fellows, answer me; 
Where is she? Mark me, all; I am your 

_ King- : 
I wish to see my daughter; show her me; 
I do command you all, as you are sub- 
jects, 
To show her me ! What ! am I not your 

King? 
If aye, then am I not to be obeyed? 
Dion. Yes, if you command things possi- 
ble and honest. 
King. Things possible and honest ! Hear 
me, thou, — 
Thou traitor, that dar'st confine thy King 

to things 
Possible and honest ! Show her me, 
Or, let me perish, if I cover not 
All Sicily with blood ! 
Dion. Faith, I cannot, 

Unless you tell me where she is. 
King. You have betray'd me ; you have 
let me lose 
The jewel of my life. Go bring her 

me, 
And set her here before me. 'T is the 

King 
Will have it so, whose breath can still the 

winds, 
Uneloud the sun, charm down the swell- 
ing sea. 
And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, 
can it not? 
Dion. No. 
King. No! cannot the breath of 

kings do this? 
Dion. No; nor smell sweet itself, if once 
the lungs 
Be but corrupted. 
King. Is it so? Take heed ! 

Dion. Sir, take you heed how you dare the 
powers 
That mnst be just. 
King. Alas! what are we kings! 

Why do you gods place us above the I'est, 
To be serv'd, flatter'd, and ador'd, till we 
Believe we hold within our hands your 

thunder? 
And when we come to ti-y the power we 

have. 
There 's not a leaf shakes at our threat'- 

nings. 
I have sinn'd, 'I is true, and here stand 
to be punish'd ; 



218 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Yet would not thus be punish'd. Let me 

choose 
My way, and lay it on! 
Dion. (Aside.) He articles with the 
gods. Would somebody would draw 
bonds for the performance of covenants 
betwixt them! 

Enter Pharamond, Galatea, and Megra. 

King.' What, is she found? 
Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse ; 

He gallop'd empty by. There is some 

treason. 
You, Galatea, rode with her into the 

wood ; 
Why left you her? 
Gal. She did command me. 

King. Command! you should not. 
Gal. 'T would ill become my fortunes and 
my birth 
To disobey the daughter of my king. 
King. You're all cunning to obey us for 
our hurt ; 
But I will have her. 
pjia. If I have her not, 

By this hand, there shall be no more 
Sicily. 
Dion. (Aside.) What, will he carry it to 

Spain in's pocket? 
Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but 
the king, 
A cook, and a tailor. 
Dion. (Aside.) Yes; you may do well to 
spare your lady-bedf ellow ; and her you 
may keep for a spawner. 
King. I see the injuries I have done must 

be reveng'd. 
Dion. Sir, this is not the way to find her 

out. 
King. Run all, disperse yourselves. The 
man that finds her, 
Or (if she be kill'd) the traitor, I'll 
make him great. 
Dion. I know some would give five thou- 
sand pounds to find her. 
Pha. Come, let us seek. 
King. Each man a several way; here I 

myself. 
Dion. Come, gentlemen, Ave here. 
Cle. Lady, you must go search too. 
Meg. I had rather be search'd myself. 

Exeunt severally. 

Scene 3. Another part of the forest. 

Enter Arethusa. 

Are. Where am I now? Feet, find me 
out a way. 
Without the counsel of my troubled head. 



I '11 follow you boldly about these woods, 
O'er mountains, thoi'ough bi'ambles, pits, 

and floods. 
Heaven, I hope, will ease me : I am sick. 

(Sits down.) 

Enter Bellario. 

Bel. Yonder 's my lady. God knows I 

want nothing, 
Because I do not wish to live ; yet I 
Will try her charity. — Oh hear, you have 

plenty ! 
From that flowing store drop some on 

diy ground. — See, 
The lively red is gone to guard her heart ! 
I fear she faints. — Madam, look up ! — 

She breathes not. — 
Open once more those rosy twins, and 

send 
Unto ray lord your latest farewell ! — Oh, 

she stirs. — 
How is it. Madam? Speak comfort. 
Are. 'T is not gently done, 

To put me in a miserable life. 
And hold me there. I prithee, let me go ; 
I shall do best without thee ; I am well. 

Enter Philaster. 

Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage. 
I 'II tell her coolly when and where 1 

heard 
This killing truth. I will be temperate 

In speaking, and as just in hearing. 

Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, you 

gods ! good gods, 
Tempt not a frail man ! What 's he, that 

has a heart, 
But he must ease it here ! 
Bel. My lord, help, help! The princess! 
Are. I am well: forbear. 
Phi. (Aside.) Let me love lightning, let 

me be embrac'd 
And kist by scorpions, or adore the eyes 
Of basilisks, rather than trust the 

tongues 
Of hell-bred women ! Some good god 

look down. 
And shrink these veins up! Stick me 

here a stone. 
Lasting to ages in the memoiy 
Of this damn'd act!— Hear me, you 

wicked ones ! 
You have put hills of fire into this 

breast. 
Not to be quench'd with tears ; for which 

may guilt 
Sit on your bosoms! At your meals and 

beds 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



219 



Despair await you ! What, before my 

face? 
Poison of asps between your lips ! Dis- 
eases 
Be your best issues ! Nature make a 

curse, 
And throw it on you ! 
Are. Dear Philaster, leave 

To be enrag'd, and hear me. 
Phi. I have done ; 

Forgive my passion. Not the calmed 

sea, 
When ^lilolvTS locks up his windy brood, 
Is less disturb'd than I. I '11 make you 

know 't. 
Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword, 

(Offers hia draicn a word.) 
And search how temperate a heart I 

have; 
Then you and this your boy may live and 

reign 
In lust without control. — Wilt thou, Bel- 

lario? 
I prithee kill me; thou art poor, and 

may'st 
Nourish ambitious thoughts; when I am 

dead, 
Thy way were freer. Am I raging 

now? 
If I were mad, I should desire to live. 
Sirs,*"^ feel my pulse, whether you have 

known 
A man in a more equal tune to die. 
Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps mad- 
man's time ! 
So does your tongue. 
PJii. You will not kill me, then? 

Are. Kill you ! 

Bel. Not for the world. 

Phi. I blame not thc-e, 

Bellario; thou bast done but that which 

gods 
Would have transform'd themselves to 

do. Be gone. 
Leave me without reply ; this is the last 
Of all our meetings. — 

Exit Bellario. 
Kill me with this sword ; 
Be wise, or worse will follow : we are 

two 
Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to 

do, 
Or suffer. 
Are. If my fortune be so good to let me 
fall 
Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in 
death. 



Yet tell me this, will there be no slan- 
ders, 
No jealousy in the other world; no ill 
there ? 
Phi. No. 

Are. Show me, then, the way. 
Phi. Then guide my feeble hand, 

You that have power to do it, for I must 
Perform a piece of justice ! — If your 

youth 
Have any way offended Heaven, let 

prayers 
Short and effectual reconcile you to it. 
Are. I am prepared. 

Enter a Country Fellow. 

C. Fell. I '11 see the King, if he be in the 
forest; I have hunted him these two 
hours. If I should come home and not 
see him, ray sisters would laugh at me. 
I can see nothing but people better 
hors'd than myself, that outride me; I 
can hear nothing but shouting. These 
kings had need of good brains; this 
whooping is able to put a mean man out 
of his wits. There 's a courtier with his 
sword drawn ; by this hand, upon a 
woman, I think! 

Phi. Are you at peace? 

Are. W^ith heaven and earth. 

Phi. May they divide thy soul and body! 
{Wounds her.) 

C. Fell. Hold, dastard ! strike a woman ! 
Thou 'rt a craven. I warrant thee, thou 
wouldst be loth to play half a dozen 
venies ^^ at wasters ^^ with a good fellow 
for a broken head. 

Phi. Leave us, good friend. 

Are. What ill-bi'ed man art thou, to in- 
trude thyself 
Upon our private sports, our recrea- 
tion? 

C. Fell. God 'uds '^^ me, I understand you 
not; but 
I know the rogue has hurt you. 

Phi. Pursue thy own affairs : it will be ill 
To multiply blood upon my head ; which 

thou 
W^ilt force me to. 

C. Fell. I know not your rhetoric; but I 
can lay it on, if you touch the woman. 

Phi. Slave, take what thou deservest! 
{The,i light.) 

Are. Heavens guard my lord ! 

C. Fell. Oh, do you breathe? 

Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am 
hurt. 



67 Formerly used to women as well as to men. 



68 bouts. 



69 cudgels. 



70 God judge. 



220 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEIHOD 



The fTods take i>art against me : could 

this boor 
Have held me thus else? I must shift 

for life, 
Though I do loathe it. I would find a 

course 
To lose it rather by my will than force. 

Exit. 

C. Fell. I cannot follow the rogue. I 

pray thee, wench, come and kiss me now. 

Enter Pharamond, Dion, Clercmont, 
Thrasiline, and Woodmen. 

Pha. What art thou? 

C. Fell. Ahnost kill'd I am for a foolish 

woman ; a knave has hurt her. 
Pha. The princess, gentlemen ! — Where 's 

the wound, madam! Is it dangerous'? 
Are. He has not hurt me. 
C. Fell. By God, she lies; h'as hurt her 
in the breast; 

Look else. 
Pha. sacred spring of innocent blood ! 
Dion. 'T is above wonder! Who should 

dare this? 
Are. I felt it not. 
Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the 

princess? 
C. Fell. Is it the princess? 
Dion. Aye. 

C. Fell. Then I have seen something yet. 
Pha. But who has hurt her? 
C. Fell. I told you, a rogue; I ne'er saw 

him before, I. 
Pha. Madam, who did it? 
Are. Some dishonest wretch ; 

Alas, I know him not, and do forgive 
him ! 
C. Fell. He 's hurt too ; he cannot go far ; 

I made my father's old fox ''^ fly about 

his ears. 
Pha. How will you have me kill him? 
Are. Not at all; 'tis some distracted fel- 
low. 
Pha. By this hand, I '11 leave ne'er a piece 

of him bigger than a nut, and bring him 

all to you in my hat. 
Are. Nay, good sir. 

If you do take him, bring him quick ^^ 
to me, 

And I will study for a punishment 

Great as his fault. 
Pha. I will. 
Are. But swear. 
Pha. By all my love, I will. 

Woodmen, conduct Iho princess to tlio 
King, 



And bear that wounded fellow to dress- 
ing. 

Come, gentlemen, we '11 follow the chase 
close. 
Exeunt Arethiisa, Pharamond, Dion, 
Clcremont, Thrasiline, and 1 Wood- 
man. 
C. Fell. I pi'ay you, friend, let me see 

the King. 
2 Wood. That you shall, and receive 

thanks. 
C. Fell. If I get clear with this, I '11 go 
see no more gay sights. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. Another part of the forest. 
Enter Bcllario. 

Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my 

brow, 
And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle 

bank. 
For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones 

all, 

{Lies down.) 
Let me unworthy press you ; I could wish 
I rather wei'e a corse strew'd o'er with 

you 
Than quick above you. Dulness ^-"^ shuts 

mine eyes. 
And I am giddy : oh, that I could take 
So sound a sleep that I might never 

wake! 

(Sleeps.) 

Enter Pliilaster. 

Phi. I have done ill ; my conscience calls 

me false 
To strike at her that would not strike 

at me. 
When I did fight, methought I heard her 

pray 
The gods to guard me. She may be 

abus'd. 
And I a loathed villain ; if she be. 
She will conceal who hurt her. He has 

wounds 
And cannot follow; neither knows he me. 
Wlio 's this? Bellarijo sleeping! If 

thou bc'st 
Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep 
Should be so sound, and mine, whom thon 

hast wrong'd. 
So broken. (Cri/ within.) Hark! T 

am pursued. You gods, 
I 'II take tliis offer'd means of my escape. 



71 brond sword. 



72 alive. 



73 drowsiness. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



221 



They have no mark to know uie but my 

blood, 
If she be true; if false, let mischief liyht 
On all the world at once! Sword, print 

my wounds 
Upon this sleeping boy ! I ha' none, I 

think, 
Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on 
thee. 

(Wounds Bellario.) 
Bel. Oh, death, I hope, is come ! Blest be 
that hand ! 
It meant me well. Again, for pity's 
sake ! 
Phi. I have caught myself; 
\Falis.) 
The loss of blood hath stay'd my flight. 

Here, here. 
Is he that struck thee : take thy full re- 
venge ; 
Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than 

death ; 
I '11 teach thee to revenge. This luckless 

hand 
Wounded the princess; tell my follow- 
ers ^* 
Thou didst receive these hurts in staying 

me. 
And I will second thee ; get a reward. 
■Bel. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself! 
. Phi. How's this? 

Wouldst thou I should be safe"? 
Bel. Else were it vain 

For me to live. These little wounds I 

have 
Ha' not bled nmch. Reach me that 

noble hand ; 
I '11 help to cover you. 
Phi. Art thou then true to me? 

Bel. Or let me perish loath'd ! Come, my 
good lord. 
Creep in aniongst those bushes; who 

does know 
But that the szods may save your mucli- 
lov'd breath'? 
Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for 
this. 
That I have wounded thee. What wilt 
thou do? 
Bel Shift for myself well. Peace! I 
hear 'em come. 
(Philaster creeps into a bush.) 
Voices within. Follow, follow, follow ! 

that way they went. 
Bel. With my own wounds I '11 bloody my 
own sword. 
I need not counterfeit to fall ; Heaven 
knows 



That I can stand no longer. 
{Fulls.) ^ 

Enter Pharamond, Dion, Cleremont, and 
ThrasUine. 

Pha. To this place we have trackt him by 

his blood. 
Clc. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. 
Dion, Stay, sir! what are you? 
Bel. A wretched creature, wounded in 
these woods 
By beasts. Relieve me, if your names 

be men. 
Or I shall perish. 
Dion. This is he, my lord. 

Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'T is the 

boy, 
That wicked bey, that serv'd her. 
Pha. Oh, thou damn'd 

In thy creation ! What cause eouldst 

thou sha]ie 
To hurt the princess? 
Bel. Then I am betrayed. 

Dion. Beti^ayed! No, apprehended. 
Bel. I confess, 

(Urge it no more) that, big with evil 

thoughts, 
I set upon her, and did make my aim, 
Her death. For charity let fall at once 
The punishment you mean, and do not 

load 
This weary flesh with tortures. 
Pha. I will know 

Who hir'd thee to this deed. 
Bel. Mine own revenge. 

Pha. Revenge ! for what ? 
Bel. It pleas'd her to receive 

Me as her page and, when my fortunes 

ebb'd. 
That men strid o'er them careless, she 

did shower 
Her welcome graces on me, and did swell 
My fortunes till they overllow'd their 

banks, 
Threat'ning the men that crost 'em; 

when, as swift 
As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her 

eyes 
To burning suns upon me, and did dry 
The streams she had bestow'd, leaving me 

worse 
And more eontemn'd than other little 

brooks, 
Because I had been great. In short, I 

knew 
I could not live, and therefore did desire 
To die reveng'd. 
Pha. If tortures can be found 



74 pursuers. 



222 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel 
The utmost rigor. 
{Fhiluster creeps out of the bush.) 
Cle. Help to lead him hence. 

Fhi. Turn back, you ravishers of inno- 
cence ! 
Know ye the price of that you bear 

away 
So rudely? 
Pha. Who's that 1 

Dion. 'T is the Lord Philaster. 

Phi. 'T is not the treasure of all kings in 
one, 
The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of 

pearl 
That pave the court of Neptune, can 

weigh down 
That virtue. It was I that hurt the prin- 
cess. 
Place me, some god, upon a pyramis '^^ 
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a 

voice 
Loud as your thunder to me, that from 

hence 
I may discourse to all the under-world 
The worth that dwells in him ! 
Pha. How's this? 

Bel. My lord, some man 

Weary of life, that would be glad to 
die. 
Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bel- 

lario. 
Beh Alas, he 's mad ! Come, will you 

lead me on? 
Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most 
to keep. 
And gods to jDunish most when men do 

break. 
He touch'd her not. — Take heed, Bellario, 
How thou dost drown the virtues thou 

hast shown 
With perjury. — By all that 's good, 't was 

I! 
You know she stood betwixt me and my 
right. 
Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge ! 
Cle. It was Philaster. 

Dion. Is 't not a brave boy ? 

Well, sirs, I fear me we were all de- 
ceived. 
Phi. Have I no friend here? 
Dion. Yes. 

Phi. Then show it : some 

Good body lend a hand to draw us nearer. 
Would you have tears shed for you when 

you die? 
Then lay me gently on his neck, that 
there 



I may weep floods and breathe forth my 

spirit. 
'T is not the wealth of Plutus, nor the 

gold 

{Embraces Bellario.) 
Lockt in the heart of earth, can buy 

away 
This arm-full from me; this had been a 

ransom 
To have redeem'd the great Augustus 

Cffisar, 
Had he been taken. You hard-hearted 

men, 
More stony than these mountains, can 

you see 
Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut 

your flesh 
To stop his life, to bind whose bitter 

wounds. 
Queens ought to tear their hair, and with 

their tears 
Bathe 'em? — Forgive me, thou that art 

the wealth 
Of poor Philaster! 

Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. 

King. Is the villain ta'en? 

Pha. Sir, here be two confess the deed; 
but sure 
It was Philaster. 
Phi. Question it no more; 

It was. 
King. The fellow that did fight with him. 

Will tell us that. 
Are. Ay me ! I know he will. 

King. Did not you know him? 
Are. Sir, if it was he. 

He was disguis'd. 
Phi. I was so.''*' — Oh, my stars. 

That I should live still ! 
King. Thou ambitious fool. 

Thou that hast laid a train for thy own 

life !— 
Now I do mean to do ; I '11 leave to talk.'''" 
Bear them to prison. 
Are. Sir, they did plot together to take 
hence 
This harmless life; should it pass unre- 

veng'd, 
I should to earth go weeping. Grant me, 

then, 
By all the love a father bears his child. 
Their custodies, and that I may appoint 
Their tortures and their deaths. 
Dion. Death ! Soft ; our law will not 

reach that for this fault. 
King. 'T is granted; take 'em to yon with 
a guard. — 



75 pyramid. 



76 i.e. out of my senses. 



77 I '11 cease talking. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



223 



Come, princely Pharamond, this business 

past, 
We may with security go on 
To your intended match. 
Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and 
Thrasiline. 
Cle. I pray that his action lose not Phil- 
aster the hearts of the people. 
Dion. Fear it not; their over-wise heads 
will think it but a trick. 

Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene 1. Before the palace. 
Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 

Thra. Has the King sent for him to 

death ? 
Dion. Yes; but the King must know 'tis 

not in his power to war with Heaven. 
Cle. We linger time; the King sent for 

Philaster and the headsman an hour ago. 
Thra. Are all his wounds well? 
Dion. All; they were but scratches; but 

the loss of blood made him faint. 
Cle. We dally, gentlemen. 
Thra. Away ! 

Dion. We '11 scuffle hard before he perish. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. A ^orison. 

Enter Philaster, Arethusa, and Bellario. 

Are. Nay, faith, Philaster, grieve not; we 

are well. 
Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear ; we 're 

wondrous well. 
Phi. Arethusa, O Bellario, 
Leave to be kind ! 
I shall be shut from Heaven, as now 

from earth. 
If you continue so. I am a man 
False to a pair of the most trusty ones 
That ever earth bore; can it bear us all? 
Forgive, and leave me. But the King 

hath sent 
To call me to my death : oh, show it me. 
And then forget me ! And for thee, my 

boy, 
I shall deliver words will mollify 
The hearts of beasts to spare thy inno- 
cence. 
Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing 
Worthy your noble thoughts ! 'T is not 

a life, 
'T is but a piece of childhood thrown 

away. 



Should I outlive you, I should then out- 
live 

Virtue and honor; and when that day 
comes. 

If ever I shall close these eyes but once. 

May I live spotted for my perjury. 

And waste my limbs to nothing! 
Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever 
was, 

Forc'd with my hands to bring my lord 
to death) 

Do by the honor of a virgin swear 

To tell no hours beyond it ! 
Phi. Make me not hated so. 

Are. Come from this prison all joyful to 

our deaths ! 
Phi. People will tear me, when they find 
you true 

To such a wretch as I ; I shall die loath'd. 

Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably whilst I 

For ever sleep forgotten with my faults. 

Every just servant, every maid in love. 

Will have a piece of me, if you be true. 
Are. My dear lord, say not so. 
Bel. A piece of you! 

He was not born of woman that can cut 

It and look on. 
Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, for 
my heart 

Will break with shame and sorrow. 
Are. Why, 't is well. 

Bel. Lament no more. 
Phi. Why, what would you have done 

If you had wrong'd me basely, and had 
found 

Your life no price eompar'd to mine"? 
For love, sirs, 

Deal with me truly. 
Bel. 'T was mistaken, sir. 

Phi. Why, if it were? 
Bel. Then, sir, we would have ask'd 

You pardon. 
Phi. And have hope to enjoy it? 

Are. Enjoy it ! aye. 

Phi. Would you indeed? Be plain. 

Bel. We would, my lord. 
Phi. Forgive me, then. 

Are. So, so. 

Bel. 'T is as it should be now. 
Phi. Lead to my death. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. A state-room in the palace. 

Enter King, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline , 
and Attendants. 

King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince? 
Cle. So please you, sir, he 's gone to see 
the city 



224 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



And the new platform, with some gentle- 
men 

Attending- on him. 
King. Is the princess ready 

To bring her prisoner out":? 
Thra. Siie waits your grace. 

King. Tell her we stay. 

Exit Thr aniline. 
Dion. (Aside.) King, you may be de- 
ceiv'd yet. 

The head you aim at cost more setting on 

Than to be lost so lightly. If it nmst 
off,— 

Like a wild overilow, that swoops before 
him 

A golden stack, and with it shakes down 
biidges, 

Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose 
cable-roots 

Held out a thousand storms, a thousand 
thunders, 

And, so made mightier, takes whole vil- 
lages 

Upon his back, and in that heat of pride 

Charges strong towns, towers, castles, 
palaces, 

And lays them desolate; so shall tliy 
head, 

Thy noble head, bury the lives of thou- 
sands. 

That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice. 

In thy red ruins. 

Enter Arethusa, Pliilaster, Bellario in a 
rohe and garland, and Thrasiline. 

King. How now? What masque is this"? 
Bel. Right royal sir, I should 

Sing you an epithalaniion of these lovers, 
But having lost my best airs with my 

fortunes. 
And wanting a celestial harp to strike 
This blessed union on, thus in glad story 
I give you all. These two fair cedar- 

bi'anches, 
The noblest of the mountain where they 

grew, 
Straightest and tallest, under whose still 

shades 
The worthier beasts have made their lairs, 

and slept 
Free from the fervor of the Sirian star ''^ 
And the fell thunder-stroke, free from 

the clouds 
When they were big witli humor, and 

deliverVl 
In thousand spouts their issues to the 

earth ; 



Oh, there was none but silent quiet there! 
Till ne\er-pleased Fortune shot up 

shrubs. 
Base under-brambles, to divorce these 

branches ; 
And for a while they did so, and did 

reign 
Over tlie mountain, aiul choke up his 

beauty 
With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, 

till the sun 
Scorcht them even to the roots and dried 

them there. 
And now a gentle gale hath blown again. 
That made these branches meet and twine 

together. 
Never to be divided. The god that sings 
His holy numbers over marriage-beds 
Hath knit their noble hearts; and here 

they stand 
Your children, mighty King; and I luive 

done. 
King. How, how? 

Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth, 

(For now theie is no niastiuing in't,) 

this gentleman. 
The ])risoner that you gave me, is become 
My keeper, and through all tlie bitter 

throes 
Your jealousies and his ill fate have 

wrought him, 
Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at 

length 
Arrived here my dear husband. 
King. Your dear husband ! — 

Call in the Captain of the Citadel — 
There you shall keep your wedding. 

I '11 provide 
A masque slmll make your Hymen turn 

his saffron ''^ 
Into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems 
To your departing souls. 
Blood shall put out your torches; and, 

instead 
Of gaudy flowers about your Avanton 

necks. 
An axe shall hang, like a prodigious 

meteor. 
Ready to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, 

you gods ! 
From tliis time do I shake all title off 
Of fatlier to this woman, this base 

woman ; 
And wluit there is of vengeance hi a 

lion 
Chaf'd among dogs or robl)\l of his dear 

voung. 



78 Sirius, the dos stnr, was su])posed to bring hot weather, the dog-days. 
7U Hymen wore a s;ilTron robe in tlie niasQues. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



225 



The same, enforc'd more terrible, more 
mighty, 

Expect from me ! 
Are. Sir, by that little life I have left to 
swear by. 

There 's nothing that can stir me from 
myself. 

What I have done, I have done without 
repentance. 

For death can be no bugbear unto me, 

So long as Pharamond is not my heads- 
man. 
Dion. {Aside.) Sweet peace upon thy 
soul, thou worthy maid, 

Whene'er thou diest ! For this time I '11 
excuse thee, 

Or be thy prologue. 
Phi. Sir, let me speak next; 

And let my dying words be better with 
you 

Than my dull living actions. If you aim 

At the dear life of this sweet innocent. 

You are a tyrant and a savage monster. 

That feeds upon the blood you gave a 
life to; 

Your memory shall be as foul behind 
you, 

As you are living; all your better deeds 

Shall be in water writ, but this in mar- 
ble; 

No chronicle shall speak you, though 
your own. 

But for the shame of men. No monu- 
ment, 

Though high and big as Pelion, shall be 
able 

To cover this base murder: make it rich 

With brass, with purest gold, and shining- 
jasper, 

Like the Pyramides; lay on epitaphs 

Such as make great men gods; my little 
marble, 

That only clothes my ashes, not my 
faults. 

Shall far outshine it. And for after- 
issues. 

Think not so madly of the heavenly wis- 
doms, 

That they will give you more for your 
mad rage 

To cut off, unless it be some snake, or 
something 

Like yourself, that in his birth shall 
strangle you. 

Remember my father, King! There was 
a fault; 

But I forgive it. Let that sin persuade 
you 

80 fearing for. 



To love this lady; if you have a soul. 
Think, save her, and be saved. For my- 
self, 
I have so long expected this glad hour, 
So languisht under you, and daily with- 
ered. 
That, Heaven knows, it is a joy to die; 
I find a recreation in 't. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Where is the King'? 
King. Here. 

Mess. Get you to your strength, 

And rescue the Prince Pharamond from 

danger ; 
He 's taken prisoner by the citizens. 
Fearing ®° the Lord Philaster. 
Dion. (Aside.) Oh, brave followers ! 

Mutiny, my fine dear countrymen, 

mutiny ! 
Now, my brave valiant foremen, show 

your weapons 
In honor of your mistresses ! 

Enter a Second Messenger. 

2 Mess. Arm, arm, arm, arm! 
King. A thousand devils take 'em ! 
Dion. {Aside.) A thousand blessings on 

'em! 
2 Mess. Arm, Kmg! The city is in 
mutiny, 
Led by an old gray ruffian, who comes on 
In rescue of the Lord Philaster. 
King. Away to the citadel ! I '11 see them 
safe. 
And then cope with these burghers. Let 

the guard 
And all the gentlemen give strong at- 
tendance. 
Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and 
Thrasiline. 
Cle. The city up ! This was above our 

wishes. 
Dioyi. Aye, and the marriage too. By my 
life. 
This noble lady has deceiv'd us all. 
A plague upon myself, a thousand 

plagues, 
For having such unworthy thoughts of 

her dear honor! 
Oh, I could beat myself! Or do you 

beat me. 
And I '11 beat you ; for we had all one 
thought. 
CJe. No, no, 't will but lose time. 
Dion. You say true. Are your swords 
sharp?- — Well, my dear countrymen 
What-ye-lacks,^^ if you continue, and 

81 i.e. shopkeepers, who thus addressed passers-by. 



226 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



fall not back upon the first broken skin, 
1 '11 have you chronicled and chronicled, 
and cut and chronicled, and all-to-be- 
prais'd and sung in sonnets, and bawled 
in new brave ballads, that all tongues 
shall troll you in saccula sueculurum, my 
kind can-carriers. 

Thra. What, if a toy ^- take 'em i' th' 
heels now, mid they run all away, and 
cry, "the devil take the hindmost""? 

Dion. Then the same devil take the fore- 
most too, and souse him for his break- 
fast ! If they all prove cowards, my 
curses fly among them, and be speeding! 
May they have murrains reign to keep 
the gentlemen at home unbound in easy 
frieze! May the moths branch ^^ their 
velvets, and their silks only be worn be- 
foi'e sore eyes ! ''^ IMiiy their false lights 
undo 'em, and discover presses,^'' holes, 
stains, and oldness in their stuffs, and 
make them shop-rid ! ]\lay they keep 
whores and horses, and break ; and live 
mewed up with necks of beef and tur- 
nips ! May they have many children, 
and none like the father! May they 
know no language but that gibl)erish they 
prattle to their parcels, unless it be the 
goatish Latin they write in their bonds — 
and may they write that false, and lose 
their debts ! 

Ee-cnter King. 

King. Now the vengeance of all the gods 
confound them! How they swarm to- 
gether! What a hum they raise! — 
Devils choke your wild throats! — If a 
man had need to use their valors, he must 
pay a brokage for it. and then bring 'em 
on, and they will fight like sheep. 'T is 
Philaster, none but Philaster, must allay 
this heat. They will not hear me si)eak, 
but lling dirt at me and call me tyrant. 
Oh, run, dear friend, and bring the Lord 
Philaster! Speak him fair; call him 
jirince; do him all the courtesy you can; 
commend me to him. Oh, my wits, my 
Avits ! 

Erit Cleremont. 

Dion. (Aside.) Oh, my brave country- 
men! as I live, I will not buy a pin out 
of your walls ^^ for this. Nay, you shall 
cozen me, and T '11 thank you, and send 
you brawn and bacon, and soil ^'' you 
every long vacation a brace of foremen,^^ 
that' at Michaelmas shall come up fat and 
kicking. 



King. What they will do with this poor 
prince, the gods know, and I fear. 

Dion. [Aside.) Why, sir, they'll Hay 
him, and make church-buckets on 's skin, 
to quench rebellion; then clap a rivet 
in 's sconce, and hang him up for a sign. 

Enter Cleremont with Philaster. 

King. Oh, Avorthy sir, forgi\e me ! Do 

not make 
Your miseries and my faults meet to- 
gether. 
To bring a greater danger. Be youiself, 
Still sound amongst diseases. I have 

wrong'd you ; 
And though I lind it last, and beaten 

to it. 
Let first your goodness know it. Calm 

the people. 
And be Avhat you Avere born to. Take 

your love, 
And Avitli her my repentance, all my 

wishes. 
And all my prayers. By the gods, my 

heart S]>eaks this ; 
And if the least fall from me not per- 

form'd. 
May I be struck Avith thunder! 
Phi. Mighty sii-, 

1 Avill not do your greatness so much 

Avrong, 
As not to make your Avord truth. Free 

the princess 
And the poor boy, and let me stand the 

shock 
Of this mad sea-breach, which I '11 either 

turn. 
Or perish Avith it. 
King. Let your oAvn Avord free them. 

Phi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing 

your hand. 
And hanging on your royal Avord. Be 

kingly. 
And be not mov'd, sir. I shall bring you 

peace. 
Or never bring myself back. 
King. All the gods go Avith thee. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. A street. 

Enter an old Captain and Citizens with 
Pharamond. 

Cap. Come, my brave myrmidons, let us 
fall on. 



S2 whim. 

83 eat patterns on. 



84 1. e. for patches. 
85 creases. 



80 outsiile your 
shops. 



tsT fatten. 



88 geese. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLI-^EDING 



227 



Lt't your caps swanii, uiy boys, and your 

nimble toni^ucs 
i'orget your nioUier-yibberish of "what 

do you lack'?" 
And set your mouths ope, children, till 

your palates 
Fall frighted half a fathom jiast the 

cure 
Of bay-salt ^^ and gross pepper, and then 

cry 
"Philaster, brave Philaster!" Let Phil- 
aster 
Be deeper in request, my ding-dongs,'^*' 
My pairs of dear indentures,'-*^ kings of 

elubs,^^ 
Than your cold water-camlets,"- or your 

paintings 
Spitted with copper."^ Let not your 

hasty '•'* silks, 
Or your branch'd cloth of bodkia,**^ or 

your tissues. 
Dearly belov'd of spiced cake and cus- 
tards, 
You Robin Hoods, Scarlets, and Johns,''*^ 

tie your affections 
In darkness to your shops. No, dainty 

duckers,'*'' 
LTp with your three-pil'd spirits, your 

wrought valors ; ^^ 
And let your uncut cholers "'^ make the 

King feel 
The measure of your mightiness. Phil- 
aster ! 
Cry, my rose-nobles,^ crj' ! 
All. Philaster! Philaster! 

Cap. How do you like this, my lord 

prince ? 
These are mad boys, I tell you ; these are 

things 
That will not strike their top-sails to a 

foist," 
And let a man of war, an argosy, 
Hull ^ and cry cockles.'* 
PJia. Why, you rude slave, do you know 

what you do? 
Cap. My pretty prince of puppets, we do 

know; 
And give your greatness warning that 

you talk 
No more such bug's-words,^ or that 

solder'd crown 



so coarsegrained 
salt, obtained by 
evaporation from 
sea-water. 

00 brave fellows. 

!H apiirentices, who 
wore bound by 
indentures and 
whose usual weap- 
ons were clubs. 

92 rich fabrics with 
a watered surface. 



Shall be scratch'd with a nuisket." Dear 

l)rince Pii>pni,^ 
Down with your noble blood, or, as I 

live, 
I '11 have you coddled.® — Let him loose, 

my spirits : 
Make us a round ring with your bills,^ 

my Hectors, 
And let us see what this trim man dares 

do. 
Now, sir, have at you ! here I lie ; 
And with this swashing blow (do you 

see, sweet prince?) 
I could hulk ^" your grace, and hang you 

up cross-legg'd. 
Like a hare at a poulter's, and do this 

with this wiper.^^ 
Pha. You will not see me murder'd. 

wicked villains'? 
1 Cit. Yes, indeed, will we, sir; we have 

not seen one 
For a great while. 
Cap. He would have weapons, would 

he? 
Give him a broadside, my brave boys, 

with your pikes; 
Branch me his skin in flowers like a 

satin. 
And between eveiy llower a mortal cut. — 
Your royalty shall ravel! — Jag ^^ him, 

gentlemen ; 
I '11 iiave hhn cut to the kell,^^ then down 

the seams. 

for a whip to make him galloon- 
laces ! !■* 

1 '11 have a coach-whip. 
Pita. Oh, spare me, gentlemen! 
Cap. Hold, hold; 

The man begins to fear and know him- 
self. 

He shall for this time only be seel'd up,^^ 

With a feather through his nose, that 
he may only 

See heaven, and think whither he is go- 
ing. 

Nay, my beyond-sea sir, Ave will pro- 
claim yott : 

You would be king! 

Thou tender heir apparent to a church- 
ale,^o 

Thou slight i)rince of single sarcenet,^^ 

93 colored cloth in- duck-hunters( ?). on the weapon. is membrane of the 
terwoven with 98 a pun on velour. 7 Pepin, King of the paunch. 

copper. 90 a pun on collars. Franks, with a 1^ ribbons, tape. 

94 ). c. that soon i another pun ; rose- pun on the fruit. 15 have his eyelids 
wear out. nobles were gold 8 stewed. sewed together 

or, embroidered cloth coins. 9 pikes with a like a hawk s. 

of Kold and silk. 2 a small vessel. broad. spiked ui i. e. a bastard, 

9G Scarlet and I.ittle 3 float idly. blade. one born after the 

.lohu were two -t be basely occupied, lo disembowel. convivialities of a 

of Robin Hood's r, swassrering words, ll instrument for church feast. 

men. 6 a male sparrow- cleaning a gun. 17 thin silk. 

97 cringers( ?), hawk, with a pun 12 slash. 



228 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Thou royal ring-tail/^ fit to fly at noth- 
ing 
But poor men's poultiy, and have every 

boy 
Beat thee from that too with his bread 
and butter! 
Pha. Gods keep me from these hell- 
hounds ! 
1 at. Shall 's geld him, captain? 
Cap. No, you shall spare his dowcets, my 
dear donsels; ^^ 
As you respect the ladies, let them flour- 
ish. 
The curses of a longing woman kill 
As speedy as a plague, boys. 

1 Git. I '11 have a leg, that 's certain. 

2 at. I '11 have an arm. 

3 at. I '11 have his nose, and at mine 

own charge build 
A college and clap 't upon the gate.^° 

4 at. I '11 have his little gut to string a 

kit 21 with ; 
For certainly a royal gut will sound like 
silver. 
Pha. Would they were in thy belly, and I 
past 
My i3ain once ! 

5 at. Good captain, let me have his liver 

to feed ferrets. 
Cap. Who will have parcels-- else? 

Speak. 
Pha. Good gods, consider me ! I shall be 

tortur'd. 

1 at. Captain, I '11 give you the trim- 

ming of your two-hand sword. 
And let me have his skin to make false 
scabbards. 

2 at. He had no horns, sir, had he? 
Cap. No, sir, he 's a pollard.-^ 

What wouldst thou do with horns? 
2 at. Oh, if he had had, 

I would have made rare hafts and 

whistles of 'em ; 
But his shin-bones, if they be sound, shall 

serve me. 



Enter Philaster. 



All 



Phi 



Long live Philaster, the brave Prince 

Philaster ! 

I thank you, gentlemen. But why 

are these 
Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach 

your hands 
Uncivil trades? 



Cap. My royal Rosicleer,-* 

We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy 
roarers ; ^^ 

And when thy noble body is in durance, 

Thus do we clap our musty murrions -^ 
on. 

And trace the streets in terror. Is it 
peace. 

Thou Mars of men? Is the King soci- 
able. 

And bids thee live? Art thou above thy 
foemen, 

And free as Phoebus? Speak. If not, 
this stand ^^ 

Of royal blood shall be abroach, a-tilt, 

And run even to the lees of honor. 
Phi. Hold, and be satisfied. I am myself. 

Free as my thoughts are ; by the gods, I 
am! 
Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the 
King? 

Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules? 

Do the lords bow, and the regarded scar- 
lets 28 

Kiss their gumm'd golls,^^ and ciy, "We 
are your servants"? 

Is the court navigable and the presence ^° 
stuck 

With fiags of friendship? If not, we 
are thy castle, 

And this man sleeps. 
Phi. I am what I desire to be, your 
friend ; 

I am what I was born to be, your prince. 
Pha. Sir, there is some humanity in you ; 

You have a noble soul. Forget my name. 

And know my miseiy ; set me safe aboard 

From these wild cannibals, and as I live, 

I '11 quit this land for ever. There is 
nothing, — 

Perpetual prisonment, cold, hunger, sick- 
ness 

Of all sorts, of all dangers, and all to- 
gether, 

The worst company of the worst men, 
madness, age. 

To be as many creatures as a woman. 

And do as all they do, nay, to despair, — 

But I would rather make it a new nature. 

And live with all these, than endure one 
hour 

Amongst these wild dogs. 
Phi. I do pity you. — Friends, discharge 
your fears; 



18 kite, an inferior 
bird of prey. 

19 youths aspiring 
to knightliood. 

20 in allusion to 



Brasenose Col- 
lege, Oxford. 

21 a small fiddle. 

22 i. e. bits of him. 

23 hornless stag. 



24 A hero in The 
Alirrnur of 

Knighthood, a 
romance trans- 
lated from the 



Spanish. 
2r. bullies. 

26 steel caps. 

27 cask, i. e. 
mond. 



Phara- 



28 courtiers clad in 
scarlet. 

20 perfumed hands. 

30 presence cham- 
ber. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



229 



Deliver me the prince. I '11 warrant you 
I shall be old enough to find my safety. 
3 Cit. Good sir, take heed he does not 
hurt you; 
He is a fierce man, I can tell you, sir. 
Cap, Prince, by your leave, I '11 have a 
surcingle,^ ^ 
And make ^- you like a hawk. 
{Pharamond strives.) 
Phi. Away, away, there is no danger in 
him: 
Alas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit 

ofe! 

Look you, friends, how gently he leads ! 

Upon my word, 
He 's tame enough, he needs no further 

watching. 
Good, my friends, go to your houses, 
And by me have your pardons and my 

love ; 
And know there shall be nothing in my 

power 
You may deserve, but you shall have your 

wishes. 
To give you more thanks, were to flatter 

you. 
Continue still your love; and for an 

earnest. 
Drink this. 

(Gives money.) 
All. Long mayst thou live, brave prince, 

brave prince, brave prince ! 
Exeunt Philaster and Pharamond. 
Cap. Go thy ways, thou art the king of 

courtesy ! 
Fall off again, my sweet youths. Come, 
And every man trace to his house again, 
And hang his pewter ^^ up; then to the 

tavern. 
And bring your wives in muffs. We will 

have music; 
And the red grape shall make us dance 

and rise, boys. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. An apartment in the palace. 

Enter King, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, 
Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Bellario, 
and Attendants. 



King. Is it appeas'd"? 
Dion. Sir, all is quiet 

night, 
As peaceable as sleep. 

aster 



as this dead of 
My lord Phil- 



Brings on the prince himself. 
King. Kind gentleman! 

I will not break the least word I have 

given 
In promise to him. I have heap'd a 

world 
Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope 
To wash away. 

Enter Philaster and Pharamond. 

Cle. My lord is come. 

King. My son! 

Biest be the time that I have leave to call 
Such virtue mine ! Now thou art in mine 

arms, 
Methinks I have a salve unto my breast 
For all the stings that dwell there. 

Streams of grief 
That I have wrong'd thee, and as much 

of joy 
That I repent it, issue from mine eyes ; 
Let them appease thee. Take thy right; 

take her; 
She is thy right too ; and forget to urge 
My vexed soul with that I did before. 
Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory. 
Past and forgotten. — For you, prince of 

Spain, 
Whom I have thus redeem'd, you have 

full leave 
To make an honorable voyage home. 
And if you would go furnish'd to your 

realm 
With fair provision, I do see a lady, 
Methinks, would gladly bear you com- 
pany. 
How like you this piece *? 
Meg. Sir, he likes it well. 

For he hath tried it, and hath found it 

worth 
His princely liking. We were ta'en 

abed; 
I know your meaning. I am not the first 
That nature taught to seek a fellow forth; 
Can shame remain perpetually in me. 
And not in others'? Or have princes 

salves 
To cure ill names, that meaner people 

want? 
Phi. What mean you? 
Meg. You must get another ship. 

To bear the princess and her boy to- 
gether. 
Dion. How now ! 
Meg. Others took me, and I took her and 

him 



31 band. 



33 i. e. sword. 



230 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



At that all wonu'u ma}' be ta'eii soiiio- 

time. 
Ship us all four, my lord; wc can endure 
Weather and wind alike. 
King. Clear thou tliysell', or know not me 

for father. 
Are. This earth, how false it is! What 
means is left for mo 
To clear myself? It lies in your belief. 
My lords, believe me; and lol all things 

else 
Strug'gle tog'ether to dishonor me. 
Del. Oh, stop your ears, groat King, that 
I may speak 
As freedom would ! Then I will eall this 

lady 34 
As base as are her actions. Hear me, 

sir; 
Believe your heated blood when it rebels 
Against your reason, sooner than this 
lady. 
Meg. By this good light, he bears it hand- 
somely. 
Phi. This lady ! I will sooner trust the 
wind 
With feathers, or tlie trouliled sea with 

l^earl, 
Tlian her with any thing. Believe her 

not. 
Why, think you, if I did Ixdieve her 

words, 
I would outlive 'em? Honor cannot take 
Revenge on you; then what were to be 

known 
But death? 
King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit 

Between us. But I must request of you 
One favor, and will sadly ^^ be denied. 
Phi. Conuiiand, whate'er it be. 
King. Swear to be true 

To what you promise. 
J'lii. By the powers above, 

Let it not be the death of her or him. 
And it is granted ! 
King. Bear away that boy 

To torture; I will liave her clear'd or 
buried. 
riii. Oh, let me call my word 1)ack, worthy 
sir! 
Ask something else: bury my life and 
right 
. In one poor grave; but do not take away 

My life and fame at once. 
King. Away with him ! It stands ir- 
revocable. 
/'/(/. Tuni all your eyes on me. Here 
stands a man, 

34 i. e. Megr.a. 



The falsest and the basest of this world. 
Set swords against this breast, some hon- 
est man. 
For I have liv'd till I am pitied ! 
My former deeds were hateful; but this 

last 
Is pitiful, for I unAvillingly 
Have given the dear presei'ver of mj' life 
Unto his torture. Is it in the power 
Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live? 
{Offers to stab himself.) 
Are. Dear sir, be patient yet! Oh, stay 

that hand ! 
King. Sirs, strip that boy. 
Dion. Come, sir; your tender flesh 

Will try your constancy. 
Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen ! 

Dion. No. — Help, sirs. 
Bel. Will you torture me? 

King. Haste there; 

Why stay you? 
Bel. Then I shall not break my vow, 

You know, just gods, though I discover 
all. 
King. HoAv'slhat? Will he confess? 
Dion. Sir, so he says. 

King. Speak then. 

Bel. Great King, if you conuuand 

This lord to talk with me alone, my 

tongue 
Urg'd by my heart, shall utter all the 

thoughts 
My youth hath known; and stranger 

things than these 
You hear not often. 
King. Walk aside with him. 

{Dion and Bellario walk apart.) 
Dion. Why speak'st thou not ? 
Bel. Know you this face, my lord ? 

Dion. No. 

Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like? 
Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily 

I know not where. 
Bel. I have been often told 

In court of one Euphrasia, a lady. 
And daughter to you; betwixt whom and 

me 
They that would flatter my bad face 

would swear 
There was such strange resemblance, thai 

we two 
Could not be known asunder, drest alike. 
Dion. By Heaven, and so there is ! 
Bel. For her fail- sake. 

Who now dolb spend the spring-lime of 

her life 
In holy jnlgi'image, move to the King, 

."jr. slwill 1>(' sorry to W dcniod. 



PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 



231 



That I may scape this torture. 
Dion. But thou speak'st 

As like Euphrasia as thou dost look. 
How came it to thy knowledge that she 

lives 
Tn pilgrimage'? 
Bel. I know it not, my lord ; 

But I liave heard it, and do scarce be- 
lieve it. 
Dion. Oh, my shame! is it possible*? 
Draw near, 
That I may gaze upon. thee. Art thou she, 
Or else her murderer? ^° Where wert 
thou born? 
Bel. In Syracusa. 

Dion. What 's thy name? 

Bel. Euphrasia. 

Dion. Oh, 'tis just,^^ 'tis she! 

Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou 

hadst died. 
And I had never seen thee nor my shame ! 
How shall I own thee? Shall this tongue 

of mine 
E'er call tlice daughter more? 
Eel. Would I had died indeed ! I wish it 
too; 
And so I must have done by vow, ere 

publish'd 
What I have told, but that there was no 

means 
To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this, 
The princess is all clear. 
King. What, have you done? 

Dion. All is discovered. 
Phi. Why then hold you me? 

All is discovered ! Pray you, let me go. 
(OlJcrs to stab himself.) 
King. Stay him. 

Are. What is discovered? 

Dion. Why, my shame. 

It is a woman ; let her s]ieak the rest. 
Phi. How? That again! 
Dion. It is a woman. 

Phi. Blest be you powers that favor inno- 
cence ! 
King. Lay hold ujion that lady. 

(Mcgra is seized.) 
Phi. It is a woman, sir ! — Hark, gentle- 
men, 
It is a woman ! — Arethusa, take 
My soul into thy breast, that would be 
s gone 
With joy. It is a Avnman ! Thou art 

fair. 
And virtuous still to ages, in despite 
Of malice. 



King. Speak you, where lies his shame? 
Bel. I am his daughter. 

Phi. , The gods are just. 
Dion. I dare accuse none ; but, before you 
two, 
The virtue of our age, I bend my knee 
For mercy. 

(Kneels.) 
Phi. (Raising him.) Take it freely; for 
I know. 
Though what thou didst were undiscreetly 

done, 
'T was meant well. 
Are. And for me, 

I have a power to pardon sins, as oft 
As any man has power to wrong me. 
Cle. Noble and worthy! 
Phi. But, Bellario, 

(For I must call thee still so,) tell me 

why 
Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a 

fault, 
A fault, Bellario, though thy other 

deeds 
Of truth outweigh'd it: all these jeal- 
ousies 
Had Hown to nothing if thou hadst dis- 
covered 
What now we know. 
Bel. My father oft would speak 

Your worth and virtue; and, as I did 

grow 
More and more apprehensive,^^ I did 

thirst 
To see the man so prais'd. But yet all 

this 
Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost 
As soon as found ; till, sitting in my win- 
dow. 
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a 

god, 
I thought, (but it was you,) enter our 

gates. 
My blood flew out and back again, as 

fast 
As I had puft it forth and suckt it in 
Like breath. Then was I eall'd away in 

haste 
To entertain you. Never was a man, 
Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a scepter, 

rais'd 
So high in tlioughts as I. You left a 

kiss 
Upon these lips then, which I mean to 

keep 
From you for ever. I did hear you talk. 



36 In some harbarous roiintries, it was believed that the 
murderer inherited the form and qualities of his vic- 
tim. (Mason.) 



37 true. 

38 able to understand. 



232 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Far above singing. After you were gone, 
I grew acquainted with my heart, and 

seareh'd 
What stirr'd it so : alas, I found it love ! 
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have 

liv'd 
In presence of you, I had had my end. 
For this I did delude my noble father 
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest my- 
self 
In habit of a boy ; and, for I knew 
My birth no match for you, I was past 

hope 
Of having you; and, understanding well 
That when I made discovery of my sex 
I could not stay with you, I made a vow, 
By all the most religious things a maid 
Could call together, never to be known, 
•Whilst there was hope to hide me from 

men's eyes, 
For other than I seem'd, that I might 

ever 
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount. 
Where first you took me up. 
King. Search out a match 

Within our kingdom, where and when 

thou wilt. 
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself 
Wilt well deserve him. 
Bel. Never, sir, will I 

Marry; it is a thing within my vow: 
But, if I may have leave to serve the 

princess. 
To see the virtues of her lord and her, 
I shall have hope to live. 
Are. I, Philaster, 

Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady 
Drest like a page to serve you ; nor will I 
Suspect her living here. — Come, live with 

me; 
Live free as I do. She that loves my 

lord. 
Curst be the wife that hates her! 



Phi. I grieve such virtue should be laid in 

earth 
Without an heir. — Hear me, my royal 

father ; 
Wrong not the freedom of our souls so 

much. 
To think to take revenge of that base 

woman; 
Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free 
As she was born, saving from shame and 

sin. 
King. Set her at liberty. — But leave the 

court ; 
Tliis is no place for such. — You, Phara- 

mond. 
Shall have free passage, and a conduct 

home 
Worthy so great a prince. When you 

come there, 
Remember 't was your faults that lost 

you her. 
And not my purpos'd will. 
Pha. I do confess, 

Renowned sir. 
King. Last, join your hands in one. En- 
joy, Philaster, 
This kingdom, Avhich is yours, and, after 

me, 
Whatever I call mine. My blessing on 

you ! 
All happy hours be at your marriage- 
joys. 
That you may grow yourselves over all 

lands. 
And live to see your plenteous branches 

spring 
Wherever there is sun! Let princes 

learn 
By this to rule the passions of their 

blood ; 
For what Heaven wills can never be 

withstood. 

Exeunt. 



BEN JONSON 



THE ALCHEMIST 



Benjamin or Ben Jonson, as he lias always 
been called (1573-1637), the stepson ox a 
bricklayer, rained the beginnings of his 
solid classical learning in Westminster School 
under the celebrated Camden, but went to no 
university. After working as a bricklayer, 
ligliting in Flanders, and being imprisoned for 
killing a man in a duel, he produced his hrst 
extant play, Every Man in His Humor, in 
1598. In 1598-1002 he was concerned in a 
vigorous literary quarrel, especially with Dek- 
ker and ^larston, during wliich they were 
fertile in dramas satirical of each other. His 
tragedies, Sejaniis and Catiline, were pro- 
duced in 1603 and 1611, and his greatest 
comedies, those of his middle period, Volpone, 
Epicene, The Alchemist and Bartholomew 
Fair, from 1005 to 1614. Though his later 
plays were less meritorious, and though his 
lack of popular success often left him poor, to- 
ward the end of his life he held a station of 
commanding literary influence. 

Jonson is the most vivid literary person- 
ality of the whole Elizabethan epoch; indeed, 
he is the first English writer whom we know 
intimately as a man. We know him through 
the self-expression in his candid, pugnacious 
prologues and epilogues, and in certain jjrose 
works; and we know him through one of the 
most delightful of seventeenth-century books, 
the Conversations with him recorded by Wil- 
liam Drumniond, whom he fascinated but re- 
pelled. With Jonson's classical sympathies 
and literary good-taste, his gifts as a talker, 
his trenchant humor and biting tonguej his 
influence over younger men, his solidity, his 
downright good-sense, he reminds us to an 
extraordinary degree of his namesake Samuel, 
a century and a half later, to whose biography 
by Boswell the Conversations by Drummond 
are like a sort of imfiattering first sketch. 
Jonson, however, was no less inferior to John- 
son as a Christian soul than he was superior 
in both the importance and variety of his 
literary work, which shows most remarkable 
versatility. The most vigorous and pene- 
trating of early literary critics, author of an 
English grammar, yet also of some of the 
most limpid of songs, of strict and learned 
classical tragedy, of mordant realistic 
comedy, of highly poetic masques, he was the 
most weighty and versatile man of letters, 
though of course not the greatest poet or 
dramatist, in the entire Elizabethan period. 
While the other dramatists differ among 



themselves in degree, he stands apart in kind. 
The foundation of Jonson's literary ideals 
was an admiration for the classics, their con- 
scientious finish, their temperance and firm- 
ness, their reality. In the prologue to his 
first known comedy he cut loose from the 
extravagances of romantic drama in favor of 

deeds, and language, such as men do use, 
And persons such as comedy would choose, 
When she would show an image of the times, 
And sport with human follies, not with crimes. 

Jonson was the real founder and first worthy 
exjjonent of classicism in English literature. 
But he was fortunate in living in a romantic 
age, so that the bonds of the classic were 
never tight upon him. The conventionality 
which lay heavy as frost and deep almost 
as life on so much of the literature of the 
eighteenth century and earlier is not to be 
seen in his work. In a word, he was free, 
and wrote as he did because it pleased 
him. 

The Alchemist (first performed in 1610, and 
printed in 1612) has usually been recognized 
as his masterpiece. It was played till the 
theaters closed in 1642, and was one of the 
first comedies revived after the Restoration; 
Pepys the diarist thought it incomparable; 
indeed at this time Jonson was if anything 
preferred to Shakespeare, and Restoration 
comedy shows much of his influence. The 
play remained popular in the eighteenth cen- 
tury, when Garrick played both Face and 
Abel Drugger. Coleridge deemed the plots of 
Sophocles' (Edipus, The Alchemist, and Field- 
ing's Tom Jones the three most perfect ever 
devised, and Swinburne called the play a 
faultless work of art. It is too hard and cold 
in its realism to be beloved or widely popu- 
lar; Jonson wrote from and appeals to the 
head and not the heart; the play has been 
appreciated best in satirical times and by 
those who respond most to supreme technical 
skill. 

The Alchemist is thoroughly typical of Jon- 
son's plays. In his jjreface he censures the 
unrestrained extravagance of most of the 
dramatists, who he admits however will win 
more general favor than they who " use elec- 
tion and a mean " ( selection and modera- 
tion). The play is a satirical picture of con- 
temporary life, written with something of real 
moral purpose; his pen "did never aim to 
grieve, but better men " ; a salutary eflfect 
is even said to have been produced by his 



233 



234 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



exposure of the folly of those who trust 
charlatans. It contains little or nothing fan- 
tastic or improbable (save for the heightening 
essential to poetry). It follows classical 
precedent in its observance of the three uni- 
ties; in The Ahhoiiist the plot is single 
(though far from simple), and the action 
occurs in a single phu-e and within one day. 
Though the plot, as usual with Jonson, is in 
general original, it shows much inlluence of 
Plautus, especially of the Mostdlaria, or 
Haunted House. Both poets, like R. L. 
Stevenson, felt the fascinating possibilities, 
even the romance, of an empty house. In the 
Mostdlaria, Philolaches in his father's ab- 
sence introduces a disorderly crew into his 
house and holds high revel. A scene of lively 
quarreling at tlie opening of each play tells 
us the situation, but with such skill in The 
Alchemist that we hardly realize we are be- 
ing informed; the peace-making Doll is soon 
as irate as the other two. Lovewifs re- 
turn at the end of act four, and the complica- 
tions which follow, reflect a similar situation 
toward the middle of the Mostdlaria. These 
form the chief of Jonson's literary debts. 
The characters and most of the intrigue and 
situations, all that gives the play its vitality, 
are his own. Of a surety there is no anemic 
classicism in Sir Epicure Mammon, Face, and 
Tribulation Wholesome, in the scenes of 
bustling quackery, or in the deliciously human 
ending, where Lovewit, who cannot belie his 
name, smiles to himself so miu'h over Face's 
cleverness that he must needs forgive him. 
Jonson did not understand his literary theory 
so narrowly as his successors in regard to 
moral teaching, poetic justice, and the like; 
he has even been censured by critics of our 
own day for letting off his rogues scot-tree. 
But such critics miss the point of the play, 
and of Jonson's whole moral attitude. He 
would " sport with human follies, not with 
crimes." Tlie real villains of the piece are 
the hypocritical and superstitious, who allow 
themselves to be du])ed tlirough their avarice 
and self-seeking, and get tlie kind of punish- 
ment which they always get in life. But 
there was no more need of condemning the 
criminals. Subtle and Doll, than of organizing 
a crusade against the danmed in the Ijottom- 
less pit. Jonson could not have made their 
rascality alluring if he had wished, though 
he does leave us in a good humor with the 
rascals. They are the instruments with which 
he scourges his real villains. 

It is in his refusal to dole out trivial poetic 
justice that Jonson shows himself most 
laudably free from the narrower classic- 
ism. The play shows a classical spirit 
vitally animating a native English body. The 
personages are types, as is annoimced by 
their names, of the significant sort to be used 
so largely in later comedies and novels ot 
manners; but they are not the traditional 
types, as in other plays under classical in- 



lluence, such as Lyly's Mother Bomhie. The 
play is a comedy of manners, exhibiting the 
society of the day, or a part of it, in lirmly 
but broadly sketched persons. In Jonson's 
satirical and moral realism, and his vividly 
tj'pical jiersonages, we feel almost equally the 
traits of the ancient comedy and tlie medieval 
morality. So vigorous yet so general is the 
characterization that we recognize much ot 
it as permanently true of human nature, 
though the forms of embodiment may vary. 
The satire is mainly on gullibility and Puri- 
tan hypocrisy. The most imposing creation 
is Sir Epicure Mamm-on. in whom avarice and 
lust, without being made attractive, have 
become impressive through the force of his 
imagination. Tlie two Puritans are dis- 
tinguished from each other, Ananias narrow 
and more or less sincere, Tribulation intelli- 
gent but more of a hypocrite, of the Jesuit- 
type which is to be found in all religions. Jt 
is of much interest to see this unflattering 
old English picture of the Puritans exiled in 
Amsterdam, who were to sail from Holland 
for New England a few years later, and be 
canonized among their descendants as the 
Pilgrim Fathers. There is also similar 
satire in Bartholomew Fair. It must be re- 
membered, of course, that Jonson and other 
literary men, apostles of pagan culture and 
the drama, naturally were prejudiced against 
foes of the drama and apostles of a some- 
times bigoted piety and asceticism. A figure 
of more temporary significance is that of 
" the angry boy," who would learn the eti- 
quette of quarreling, much as Touchstone 
would have taught it (.is You Like It, V. 
iv). The personage most suggestive of 
modern counterparts is Subtle, -whose arts 
and methods are those of the quacks and 
confidence-men of all times, whether they capi- 
talize a false science or a feigning religion ; 
he has their dust-in-the-eyes methods, their 
skill in using decoys like Face, their pre- 
tense of personal sanctity and austerity. 

A word sliould be said as to the ])seudo- 
science which he exploits. Alchemy had long 
been studied in the Middle Ages, but the 
teaching of Paracelsus (1403-1541) had de- 
prived it of much of its supposed basis, and 
it had always been in disrepute among the 
sensible. Chaucer had attacked it in the 
Canon's Yeonia.n's Tale, Lyly in (lallalhra, 
Reginald Scot in his Discovery of Witchcraft 
(15S4), and Jonson himself in Eastirard Ho: 
he told Drummond that he had once fooled 
a woinan by disguising himself as an astrolo- 
ger. There is reason to believe that alchemy 
and other occult stiidies with which it was 
closely allied, astrology, magic, and forms of 
spiritualism, w(>re particularly a pest about 
the time of this play. As is well known, the 
chief desire of the alchemists was to discover 
a recipe or stone or elixir by which other 
substances could be transformed into gold. 
Such a possibility was not discountenanced 



THE ALCHEMIST 



235 



by medieval seieiititic conceptions, according 
to which gold was not an element wholly un- 
related to others, but all metals were com- 
bined out of simpler elements; a view in fact 
not so inconsistent with the chemical theory 
of to-day as with tliat of a few years ago. 
tJold might come into existence out of some- 
thing else, just as animal life, to one un- 
aware of the ubiquity of minute germs and 
eggs, seems to do out of putrefaction or stag- 
nant water (cf. II. i.). A large amount 
of gold might grow from a small; therefore 
a goldmine was sometimes sealed up with 
the expectation that in time the gold would 
increase. Tlie methods of the alchemists were 
largely based on the ijrevalent mystical con- 
ception of the universe, and on false analo- 



gies. Sex, likes and dislikes, goodness and 
badness, and other human traits, were at- 
tributed to i)hysical matter. Besides this 
there was Jiuich traditional hocus-pocus. By 
no means all the votaries of alchemy were 
mere cranks or rogues; even those who ex- 
torted money by duping the foolish and deal- 
ing in other dubious and occult arts often 
did so in order to carry on experiments which 
the next day, they believed, might lay the 
world at their feet. Finally, though the sub- 
ject and its terminology are too intricate and 
baffling to be fully explained here or in the 
notes, the reader may l3e assiu'ed that Jonson 
was not airily liuttering things he did not 
understand, but had read the masters of the 
subject and understood it thoroughly. 



THE ALCHEMIST 

By BEN JONSON 

NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 



Subtle, the Alchemist. 
1''ace, tlie House-keeper'. 
DoL Common, their., colleague. 
Dappeu, a Lawyer's clerk. 
Dkuggek, a Tohacco-man. 
LovEwiT, Master of the House. 
Sir Epicure Mammon, a Knight. 
Pertinax Surly, a Gamester. 

TO THE READER 

If thou beest more, thou art an under- 
stander, and then I trust thee. If thou 
art one that tak'st up, and but a pretender, 
beware at what hands thou reeeiv'st thy 
commodity ; for thou wert never more fair 
in the way to be coz'ned than in this age in 
poetry, especially in plays: wherein now 
the concupiscence of jigs and dances so 
reigneth, as to run away from nature and 
be afraid of her is the only point of art that 
tickles the spectators. But how out of pur- 
pose and place do I' name art, wdien the 
professors are grown so obstinate con- 
temners of it, and presuniers on their own 
naturals,! as they are deriders of all dili- 
gence that way, and, by simple mocking at 
the terms when they understand not the 
things, think to get off wittily with their 
ignorance! Nay, they are esteem'd the 
more learned and sufficient for this by the 
multitude, through their excellent vice - of 
judgment. For they commend writers as 
they do fencers or wrastlers ; who, if they 
come in robustiously and put for it with a 



Tribulation Wholesome, a Pastor of A Uls- 
ter dam. 
Ananias, a Deacon there. 
Kastrill, the ariyry hoy. 
Dame Pliant, his sister, a ^Yidow. 
Neighbors. 
Oflicers, Mutes. 

Scene. — London 

great deal of violence, are receiv'd for the 
braver fellows ; when many times their own 
rudeness is the cause of their disgrace, and 
a little touch of their adveisary gives all 
that boisterous force the foil.^ I deny not 
but that these men who always seek to do 
more than enough may some time happen 
on some thing that is good and great; but 
very seldom : and when it comes, it doth not 
recompense the rest of their ill. It sticks 
out, perhaps, and is more eminent, because 
all is sordid and vile about it ; as lights are 
more discern'd in a thick darkness than a 
faint shadow. I speak not this out of a 
hope to do good on any man againsf his 
will ; for I know, if it were put to the ques- 
tion of theirs and mine, the worse would 
find more suffrages, because the most favor 
common errors. But I give thee this warn- 
ing, that there is a gi-eat difference betAveen 
those that (to gain the opinion of copie *) 
utter all they can, however unfitly, and 
those that use election and a niean.^ For it 
is only the disease of the unskillful to think 
rude things greater than polish'd, or scat- 
ter'd more numerous than compos'd. 



1 nat\iral endow- 
ments. 



2 surpassing 

3 check. 



4 copiousness ; Lat. copia. 



moderation. 



236 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



ARGUMENT 

T he sickness ^ hot, a master quit, for fear, 
H is house in town, and left one servant 

there. 
E ase him corrupted, and gave means to 

know 
A Cheater and his punk ; '^ who now 

brought low, 
L eaving .their narrow practice, were be- 
come 
C oz'ners ^ at large; and only wanting 

some 
H ouse to set up, with him they here 

contract, 
E ach for a share, and all begin to act. 
M ueh company they draw, and much 

abuse, 
I n casting figures,^ telling fortunes, news, 
S elling of flies,^° flat bawdry, with the 

stone,^^ 
T ill it, and they, and all, in fume ^^ axe 

gone. 

PROLOGUE 

Fortune, that favors fools, these two short 
hours 
We wish away, both for your sakes and 
ours. 
Judging spectators; and desire in place. 
To th' author justice, to ourselves but 
grace. 
Our scene is London, 'cause we would make 
known, 
No country's mirth is better than our 
own. 
No clime breeds better matter for your 
whore, 
Bawd, squire,^^ impostor, many persons 
more. 
Whose manners, now call'd humors, feed 
the stage ; 
And which have still been subject for the 
rage 
Or spleen of comic writers. Though this 
pen 
Did never aim to grieve, but better men ; 
Howe'er the age he lives in doth endure 
The vices that she breeds, above their 
cure. 
But when the wholesome remedies are 
sweet, 
And, in their working gain and profit 
meet. 



He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd. 
But will with such fair correctives be 
pleas'd. 
For here he doth not fear who can apply. 

If there be any that will sit so nigh 
Unto the stream, to look what it doth run, 
They shall find things, they 'd think, or 
wish, were done ; 
They are so natural follies, but so shown, 
As even the doers may see, and yet not 
own. 



Scene 1. 



ACT L 

A room in Lovewit's house}* 



Enter Face, in a captain's uniform, and 
Subtle with a vial, quarreling, and fol- 
lowed by Dol Common. 

Face. Believe 't, I will. 
Sub. Thy worst. I fart at thee. 
Dol. Ha' you your wits? Why, gentle- 
men! for love 

Sirrah, I '11 strip you- 



What to do? Lick figs 15 
out of all your 



Face. 

Sub. 

Out at my 

Face. Rogue, rogue ! 

sleights.'® 
Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are 

you madmen? 
Sub. 0, let the wild sheep loose. I '11 
gum your silks 

water, an ^'^ you come. 



Will you have 
Will you be- 



Sirrah- 



With good stron 
Dol. 

The neighboi's hear you 

tray all? 
Hark ! I hear somebody 
Face. 

Sub. I shall mar 

All that the tailor has made, if you ap- 
proach. 
Face. You most notorious whelp, you in- 
solent slave. 
Dare you do this? 
Sub. Yes,. faith; yes, faith. 

Face. Why, who 

Am I, my mongrel, who am I? 
Sub. I '11 tell you, 

Since you know not yourself. 
Face. Speak lower, rogue. 

Stib. Yes. You were once (time's not 
long past) the good, 
Honest, plain, liveiy-three-pound- 
thrum,'^ that kept 



6 the plague. 

7 mistress. 

8 swindlers. 

9 horoscopes. 

10 dealing: in famil- 
iar spirits. 



11 philosophers' 
stone. 

12 smoke. 
1."? pimp. 

14 Jonson manages 
his action so clev- 



erly that practi- 
cally all the 
scenes can be con- 
ceived of as tak- 
ing place in a 
single room ; con- 



sequently changes 
of scene are rare- 
ly indicated in 
the stage direc- 
tions. 
5 The phrase has 



an insulting con- 
notation. 

16 drop your tricks. 

17 if. 

IS underpaid serv 
ant in liverv. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



237 



Your master's worship's house here in 
the Friars,i9 

For the vacations -^ 

Face. Will you be so loud? 

Suh. Since, by my means, translated -^ 

suburb-captain. 
Face. By your means, doctor dog! 
Suh. Within man's memory, 

All this I speak of. 
Face. Why, I pray you, have I 

Been countenanc'd by you, or you by mef 
Do but collect, sir, where I met you first. 
Sub. I do not hear well. 
Face. Not of this, I think it. 

But I shall put you in mind, sir ; — at Pie- 
corner, 
Taking your meal of steam in, from 

cooks' stalls. 
Where, like the father of hunger, you 

did walk 
Piteously costive, with your pinch'd- 

horn-nose. 
And your complexion of the Roman 

wash,^- 
Stuck full of black and melancholic 

worms. 
Like powder-corns -^ shot at the artillery- 
yard. 
Suh. I wish you could advance your voice 

a little. 
Face. W^hen you went pinn'd ujd in the 
several rags 
You had rak'd and pick'd from dung- 

, hills, before day ; 
Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your 

kibes ; ^* 
A felt of rug,-'^ and a thin tlireaden 

cloak. 
That scarce would cover your no-but- 
tocks 

Suh. So, sir! 

Face. When all your alchemy, and your 
algebra. 
Your minerals, vegetals, and animals. 
Your conjuring, eoz'ning, and your dozen 

of trades, 
Could not relieve your corpse with so 

much linen 
Would make you tinder, but to see a 

fire ; -^ 
I ga' you count'nance, credit for your 

coals, 
Your stills, your glasses, your materials; 

19 Blackfriars ; a 23 grains of powder. 27 don't feign ig- 
quarter of Lon- 24 chilblains. norance. 

don. 2.''> a rough hat. 28 It was usual to 

20 between the ses- 2G tinder enough to distribute at the 
.sions of court. make a fire that pantry door (but- 

21 changed to. could be even terij hatch) of 

22 a cosmetic of seen. great houses, a 
some sort. 



Built you a furnace, drew you customers, 
Advanc'd all your black arts; lent you, 
beside, 

A house to practise in 

Suh. Your master's house ! 

Face. Where you have studied the more 
thriving skill 
Of bawdry, since. 
Suh. Yes, in your master's house. 

You and the rats here kept possession. 
Make it not strange.-^ I know you were 

one could keep 
The buttery-hatch still lock'd, and save 

the chippings. 
Sell the dole beer to aqua-vitae men,^^ 
The which, together with your Christmas 

vails -^ 
At post-and-]iair,^'' your letting out of 

counters,^ ^ 
Made you a pretty stock, some twenty 

marks, 
And gave you credit to converse with 

cobwebs. 
Here, since your mistress' death hath 
broke up house. 
Face. You might talk softlier, rascal. 
Suh. No, you scarab,^2 

I '11 thunder you in pieces. I will teach 

you 
How to beware to tempt a Fury again 
That carries tempest in his hand and 
voice. 
Face. The place has made you valiant. 
Sub. No, your clothes. 

Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of 

dung, 
So poor, so wretched, when no living 

thing 
Would keep thee company, but a spider 

or worse? 
Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and 

wat'ring-pots, 
Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd 

thee 
In the third region, eall'd our state of 

grace ? 
Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, 

with pains 
Would twice have won me the philoso- 
pher's work? 
Put thee in words and fashion? made 

thee fit 
For more than ordinary fellowships? 



daily or weekly 
dole of broken 
bread (chippings) 
and beer to the 
poor (Gifford) ; 
the latter, says 
Subtle, Face has 



sold to liquor 
dealers. 

29 tips. 

30 a game of cards. 

31 renting of mark- 
ers or chips. 

32 beetle. 



23S 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Giv'n thee tby oatlis, thy quarreling di- 
mensions "I ^^ 
Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, 

cards, 
Dice, or whatever gallant tincture "* else'? 
Made thee a second in mine own great 

art? 
And have I this for tlianks! Do yon 

rebel? 
Do you fly out i' the projection? ^^ 
Would you be gone now? 
Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you? 

Will you mar all? 

Sub. Slave, thou hadst had no name 

Dol. Will you undo yourselves with civil 

war? 
Sub. Never been known, past equi cliba- 
niim, 
The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in 

cellars, 
Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; 

been lost 
To all mankind, but laundresses and tap- 
sters, 
Had not I been. 
Dol. Do you know Avho hears you, sover- 
eign ? 

Face. Sirrah 

Dol. Nay, general, I thought you 

were civil. 
Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow 

thus loud. 
Sub. And hang thyself, I care not. 
Face. Hang thee, collier. 

And all thy pots and pans, in picture I 
will, 

Since thou hast mov'd me 

Dol. (Aside.) 0, this '11 o'erthrow all. 

Face. Write thee up bawd in Paul's ; ^''' 
have all thy tricks 
Of eoz'ning with a hollow eoal,^'' dust, 

scrapings. 
Searching for things lost, with a sieve 

and shears, 
Erecting figures in your rows of houses. 
And taking in of shadows with a glass. 
Told in red letters; and a face cut for 

thee. 
Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.^^ 
Dol. Are you sound? 

Ha' you your senses, masters? 
Face. I will have 

A book, but barely reckoning thy impos- 
tures, 

33 rules were posted in rious tricks of who wore a hide- 40 bitrh. 

34 inclination. St. Paul's. astroloKcrs are oiis mask. 4i "swoatinf 
S.-i when the process 3T Chaucer exposes named in the fol- 3n eatinc; more than clippins: coins. 

is apiiroaching this practice in lowinR lines. his share of brok- 42 fool s cap. 

comp'ption the Canon's Yeo- 38 A his^hwayman, en meats sent in 4 3 n solvent. 

3C, Advertisements man's Tale. Va- han-ed in 1G05, to prisoners. 44 blockhead. 



Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to 
printers. 
Sub. Away, you trencher- rascal! 
Face. Out, you dog-leech ! 

The vomit of all prisons 

Dol. Will you be 

Your own destructions, gentlemen? 
Face. Still spow'd out 

For lying too heavy o' the basket."^ 
Sub. Cheater! 

Face. Bawd ! 
Sub. Cow-herd ! 

Face. Conjurer! 

Sub. Cutpurse ! 

Face. Witch! 

Dol. me! 

We are ruin'd, lost! Ha' you no more 

regard 
To your reputations? Where's your 

judgment? 'Slight, 
Have yet some care of me, o' your re- 
public 

Face. Away, this brach ! *" I '11 bring 
thee, rogue, within 
The statute of sorcery, tricesimo tertio 
OE Harry the Eighth: aye, and perhaps 

thy neck 
Within a noose, for laund'ring gold and 
barbing it.*^ 
Dol. You '11 bring your head within a 
cocks-comb,'*" will you? 
{She catchctlv out Face his sword, and 

breaks Suhtle's glass.) 
And you, sir, with your menstrue !/•'' — 

Gather it up. 
'Sdeath, you abominable pair of stink- 
ards, 
Leave off your barking, and grow one 

again, 
Or, by the light that shines, I '11 cut your 

throats. 
I '11 not be made a prey unto the mar- 
shal 
For ne'er a snarling dog-bolt ** o' you 

both. 
Ha' you together cozcn'd all this while. 
And all the world, and shall it now be 

said, 
You've made most courteous shift to 

• cozen yourselves? 
(To Face.) You will accuse him! You 

will bring him in 
Within the statute! Who shall take 
your word? 



and 



THE ALCHEMIST 



239 



A whoreson, ui^start, aijocryplial cap- 
tain, 
Whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will 

trust 
So much as for a feather: *■'* and you, too, 
{To Subtle.) Will liive the cause, for- 
sooth! You will insult, 
And claim a primacy in Ihe divisions! 
You must be chief! As if you, only, had 
The powder to project *" with, and the 

work 
Were not begun out of equality! 
The venture tripartite! All things in 

common ! 
Without priority ! 'Sdeath ! you per- 
petual curs, 
Fall to your couples again, and cozen 

kindly, 
And heartily, and lovingly, as you should. 
And lose not the begiiniiug of a term,*'' 
Or, by this hand, I shall grow factious 

too. 
And take my part, and quit you. 
Fare. ' 'T is his fault ; 

He ever murmurs, and objects his pains, 
And says, the weight of all lies upon 
him. 
Sub. Why, so it does, 
Dol. How does it? Do not we 

Sustain our parts? 
Sub. Yes,- but they are not equal. 

Dol. Why, if your part exceed to-day, I 
hope 
Ours may to-morrow match it. 
Suh. Aye, they mm/. 

Dol. May, murmuring mastiff ! Aye, and 
do. Death on me ! 
Help me to throttle him. 

{Seizes Subtle bj/ the throat.) 
Sub. Dorothy! Mistress Dorothy! 

'Ods precious, I '11 do anything. What 
do you mean'? 
Dol. Because o' your fermentation *^ and 
cibation ? ^a" 

Sub. Not I, by heaven 

Dol. Your Sol and Luna 

{To Face.) Help me. 
Sub. Would I w-ere hang'd then! I'll 

conform myself. 
Dol. Will you, sir? Do so then, and 

quicklv: swear. 
Sub. What "should I swear? 
Dol. To leave your faction,^" sir, 

And labor kindly in the common work. 



Stib. Let me not breathe if I meant aught 
beside, 
I only us'd those speeches as a spur 
To him. 
Dol. I hope we need no spurs, sir. Do 

we? 
Face. 'Slid, prove to-day who shall shark 

best. 
Suh. Agreed. 

Dol. Yes, and work close and friendly. 
Sub. 'Slight, the" knot 

Shall grow the stronger for this breach, 
with me. 

{Theij shake hands.) 
Dol. Wliy, so, my good baboons! Shall 
we go make 
A sort -'^ of sober, scurvy, precise neigh- 
bors, 
That scarce have smil'd twice sin' the 

king came in,^- 
A feast of laughter at our follies? Ras- 
cals, 
Would run themselves from breath, to 

see me ride,''^ 
Or you t' have but a hole to thrust your 

heads in,'"''* 
For which you should pay ear-rent ? ^° 

No, agree. 
And may Don Provost ride a feasting 

long, 
In his old velvet jerkin and stain'd scarfs. 
My noble sovereign, and worthy gen- 
eral. 
Ere we contribute a new crewel ■'•'' garter 
To his most worsted woislii}i. 
Sub. Royal Dol! 

Spoken like Claridiana,^'^ and thyself. 
Face. For which at su])]ier, thou shalt sit 
in triumph. 
And not be styl'd Dol Common, but Dol 

Proper, 
Dol Singular: the longest cut at night. 
Shall draw thee for his Dol Particular. 
{Bell rings iiifhout.) 
Suh. Who's that? One rings. To llie 
window, Dol: {Exit Dol.) — Pray 
heav'n. 
The master do not trouble us this quarter. 
Face. 0, fear not him. While there dies 
one a week 
0' tlie plague, he 's safe from thinking 

toward London. 
Beside, he's busy at his hop-yards now; 
I had a letter from him. If lie do, 



I Blaokfriavs was 
full of Puritans, 
many of whom 
were in the busi- 
ness of selling 
feathers. 



•10 rhansje one metal 
to another. 

-17 term of court. 

■!•'< chemical ch.Tnce 
of a substance by 
something which 
worked on it like 



yeast. 


r.2 In 1603. 


on crewel 


and 


4n supTilyintr with 


T).'? be carted for a 


v;orsted. 




fresh material to 


bawd. 


B7 The heroine 


of 


make up for evap- 


54 the pillory. 


the "Mirror 


of 


oration. 


■')-'■' have your ears 


Knighthood," 


a 


^'0 factiousness. 


cut off. 


romance. 




Gi crew. 


56 yarn ; note puns 







240 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



He '11 send such word, for airing o' the 

house, 
As you shall have sufficient time to quit 

it: 
Though we break up a fortnight, 't is no 

matter, 

Be-enter Dol. 

Suh. Who is it, Del? 

Dol. A fine young quodling.^^ 

Face. 0, 

My lawyer's clerk, I lighted on last night, 

In Holborn, at the Dagger. He would 

have 
(I told you of him) a familiar. 
To rifle ^^ with at horses, and win cups. 
Dol. 0, let him in. 
Suh. Stay. Who shall do'tl 

Face. Get you 

Your robes on ; I will meet him, as going 
out. 
Dol. And what shall I do! 
Face. Not be seen ; away ! 

Exit Dol. 
Seem you very reserv'd. 
Suh. Enough. 

Exit. 

Face. {Aloud and retiring.) God be wi' 

you, sir, 

I pray you let him know that I was here : 

His name is Dapper. I would gladly 

have stay'd, but 

Scene 2, 

Enter Face. 

Dap. (Within.) Captain, I am here. 
Face. Who 's that *? — He 's come, I think, 
doctor. 

Enter Dapper. 

Good faith, sir, I was going away. 
Dap. In truth, 

I am very sorry, captain. 
Face. But 1 thought 

Sure I should meet you. 
Dap. Aye, I am very glad. 

I had a scurvy writ or two to make. 
And I had lent my watch last night to 

one 
That dines to-day at the sheriff's, and so 

was robb'd 
Of my pass-time. 

Be-enter Subtle in Jiis velvet cap and 
gown. 
Is this the cunning-man'? 



Face. This is his worship. 
Dap. Is he a doctor"? 

Face. Yes. 

Dap. And ha' you broke °° with him, cap- 
tain? 
Face. Aye, 

Dap. And how? 

Face. Faith, he does make the matter, sir, 
so dainty, 
I know not what to say. 
Dap. Not so, good captain. 

Face. Would I were fairly rid on 't, be- 
lieve me. 
Dap. Nay, now you grieve me, sir. Why 
should you wish so? 
I dare assure you, I '11 not be ungrateful. 
Face. I cannot think you will, sir. But 
the law 

Is such a thmg and then he says, 

Reade's '''^ matter 

Falling so lately 

Dap. Reade ! he was an ass, 

And dealt, sir, with a fool. 
Face. It was a clerk, sir. 

Dap. A clerk! 

Face. Nay, hear me, sir. You know the 
law 

Better, I think 

Dap. I should, sir, and the danger: 

You know, I show'd the statute to you. 
Face. You did so. 

Dap. And will I tell then! By this hand 
of flesh. 
Would it might never write good court- 
hand more. 
If I discover.*^- What do you think of 

nie, 
That I am a chiaus? 
Face. AYhat's that? 

Dap. The Turk was here. 

As one would say, do you think I am a 
Turk? 
Face. I '11 tell the doctor so. 
Dap. Do, good sweet captain. 

Face. Come, noble doctor, pray thee let 's 
prevail ; 
This is the gentleman, and he is no chiaus. 
Suh. Captain, I have return'd you all my 
answer. 

I would do much, sir, for your love 

But this 
I neither may, nor can. 
Face. Tut, do not say so. 

You deal now with a noble fellow, doctor. 
One that will thank you richly; and he's 

no chiaus: 
Let that, sir, move you. 



58 codling, green 
apple ; hence, 
greenhorn. 



C!) raffle, gamble. 
60 broached the mat- 
ter. 



61 A man named 
Reade had been 
indicted in 1608 



for dealing with 
evil spirits. 



62 disclose. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



241 



Pray you, forbear- 



Pie has 



Sub. 
Face. 

Four angels here. 
Sub. You do me wrong, good sir. 

Face. Doctor, wherein? To tempt you 

with these spirits'? 
Sub. To tempt my art and love, sir, to my 
peril. 
'Fore heav'n, I scarce can think you are 

my friend, 
That so would draw me to apparent dan- 
ger. 
Face. I draw you! A horse draw you, 
and a halter, 
You, and your flies *^^ together- 



Dap. Nay, good captain. 

Face. That know no difference of men. 
Sub. Good words, sir. 

Face. Good deeds, sir, doctor dogs'-meat. 
'Slight, I bring you 
No cheating Clim o' the Cloughs or Clari- 

bels,6* 
That look as big as five-and-fifty, and 
flush ; 65 

And spit out secrets like hot custard 

Dap. Captain ! 

Face. Nor any melancholic underscribe, 
Shall tell the vicar; but a special gentle, 
That is the heir to forty marks a year. 
Consorts with the small poets of the time, 
Is the sole hope of his old grandmother; 
That knows the law, and writes you six 

fair hands, 
Is a fine clerk, and has his ciph'ring per- 
fect. 
Will take his oath o' the Greek Xenophon, 
If need be, in his pocket ; and can court 
His mistress out of Ovid. 



Dap. Nay, dear captain 

Face. Did you not tell me so? 
Dap. Yes ; but I 'd ha' you 

Use master doctor with some more re- 
spect. 
Face. Hang him, proud stag, with his 
broad velvet head ! ^^ — 
But for your sake, I 'd choke ere I would 

change 
An article of breath with such a puck- 
fist ! " 
Come, let 's be gone. 

(Going.) 
Sub. Pray you le' me speak with you. 

Dap. His worship calls you, captain. 
Face. I am soi-ry 

I e'er embark'd myself in such a business. 
Dap. Nay, good sir; he did call you. 



Face. 
Sub. 
Face. 
Siib. 
Face. 
Sub. 



Will he take then? 

First, hear me 

Not a syllable, 'less you take. 

Pray ye, sir 

Upon no terms but an assumpsit.^^ 
Your humor must be law. 
{He takes the money.) 
Face. Why now, sir, talk. 

Now I dare hear you with mine honor. 

Speak. 
So may this gentleman too. 
Sub. Why, sir- — - 

(Offering to whisper Face.) 
Face. No whisp'i'ing. 

Sub. 'Fore heav'n, you do not apprehend 
the loss 
You do yourself in this. 
Face. Wlierein ? for what ? 

Sub. Marry, to be so importunate for one 
That, when be has it, will undo you all: 
He '11 win up all the money i' the town. 
Face. How? 

Sub. Yes, and blow up gamester 

after gamester. 
As they do crackers in a puppet-play. 
If I do give him a familial'. 
Give you him all you play for; never 

set '^^ him : 
For he will have it. 
Face. You 're mistaken, doctor. 

Why, he does ask one but for cups and 

horses, 
A rifling fly; none o' your great famil- 
iars. 
Dap. Yes, captain, I would have it for all 

games. 
Sub. I told you so. 

Face. (Taking Dap. aside.) 'Slight, that 
is a new business ! 
I understood you, a tame bird, to fly 
Twice in a term, or so, on Friday nights, 
When you had left the office; for a nag 
Of forty or fifty shillings. 
Dap. Aye, 't is true, sir ; 

But I do think, now, I shall leave the 
law, 

And therefore 

Face. Why, this changes quite the case. 

Do you think that I dare move him? 
Dap. If you please, sir; 

All 's one to him, I see. 
Face. What! for that money? 

I cannot with my conscience; nor should 

you 
Make the request, methinks. 
Dap. No, sir, I mean 



63 familiar spirits. 

64 heroes of ballad 
and romance. 



5 that show a tell- 
tale face when 
holding fiveand- 



fifty and flush, the 
highest counts at 
primero. ( Schel- 



ling.) 

66 cap. 

67 close-fisted person. 



68 contract. 

69 bet with. 



242 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



To add consideration. 
Face. Why, then, sir, 

I'll tiy. {Goes to Subtle) Say that it 
w(?re. for all games, doctor'? 
Sub. I say then, not a mouth shall eat for 
him 
At any ordinary,''^'' but o' the score ; ''^ 
That is a gaming mouth, conceive me. 
Face. Indeed ! 

Sub. He '11 draw you all the treasure of 
the realm, 
If it be set him. 
Face. Speak you this from art? 

Sub. Aye, sir, and reason too, the ground 
of art. 
He is o' the only best complexion, 
The queen of Fairy loves. 
Face. What! Is he? 

Sub. Peace. 

He '11 overhear you. Sir, should she but 

see him 

What? 



Face. 
Sub. 
Face. 
Sub. 



Do not you tell him. 

W^ill he win at cards too? 
The spirits of dead Holland, living 
Isaac/- 
You 'd swear, were in him ; such a vigor- 
ous luck 
As cannot be resisted. 'Slight, he '11 put 
Six o' your gallants to a cloak, ^-^ indeed. 
Face. A strange success, that some man 
shall be born to ! 
He hears you, man- 



Sub. 
Bap. 
Face. 



Sir, I '11 not be ingratef ul. 
Faith, I have a confidence in his 
good natui'e : 
You hear, he says he will not be ingrate- 
ful. 
Sub. Why, as you please ; my venture fol- 
lows yours. 
Face:. Troth, do it, doctor; think him 
trusty, and make him. 
He may make us both happy in an hour; 
Win some five thousand pound, and send 
us two on 't. 
Dap. Believe it, and I will, sir. 
Face. And you shall, sir. 

You have heard all? 

(Face takes him aside.) 
Dap. No, what was't? Nothing, I, sir. 
Face. Nothing? 
Dap. A little, sir. 

Face. Well, a rare star 

ReigTi'd at your birth. 
Dap. At mine, sir! No. 
Face. The doctor 

Swears that you are 



Sub. Nay, captain, you '11 tell all now. 

Face. Allied to the queen of Fairy. 

Dap. Who ! That I am ? 

Believe it, no such matter 

Face. Yes, and that 

You were born with a caul o' your head.'^* 
Dap. Who says so? 

Face. Come 

You know it well enough, though you dis- 
semble it. 
Dap. V fac,^° I do not; you are mistaken. 
Face. How ! 

Swear by your fac, and in a thing so 
known 

Unto the doctor? How shall we, sir, 
trust you 

I' the other matter? Can we ever think. 

When you have won five or six thousand 
pound. 

You '11 send us shares in 't, by this rate? 
Dap. By Jove, sir, 

I '11 win ton thousand pound, and send 
you half. 

I' fac 's no oath. 
Sub. No, no, he did but jest. 

Face. Go to. Go thank the doctor. He 's 
your friend. 

To take it so. 
Dap. I tliank his worship. 

Face. So ! 

Another angel. 
Dap. ^ Must I ? 

Face. Must you ! 'Slight, 

What else is thanks? Will you be 
trivial ? — Doctor, 
{Dajiper gives him the monejf.) 

When nmst he come for his familiar? 
Dap. Shall I not ha' it with me? 
Sub. O, good sir! 

There nmst a world of ceremonies pass; 

You must be bath'd and fumigated 
first : 

Besides, the queen of Fairy docs not rise 

Till it be noon. 
Face. Not if she danc'd to-night. 

(S*?*?). And she must bless it. 
Face. Did you never see 

Pier royal grace yet? 
Dap. Whom? 

Face. Your aunt of Fairy? 

Sub. Not since she kist him in the cradle, 
captain ; 

I can resolve you that. 
Face. Well, see her grace, 

Whate'er it cost you, for a thing tliat I 
know. 

It will be somewhat hard to compass ; bu' 



70 eating house. 71 The gambh^rs (who frequcntpd ordinaries) will 72 Perhaps 73 strip to the cloak, 

be so impoverished through his winnings that two gam- 74 a sign of good luck, 

they will have to eat on credit. (Neilson.) blens of the 7.". faith. 

time. 



THE ALCHEIMIST 



243 



However, see her. You are made, be- 
lieve it, 
If you can see her. Her grace is a lone 

woman, 
And very rich ; and if she take a fancy. 
She will do strange things. See her, at 

any hand. 
'Slid, she may hap to leave you all she 

has! 
It is the doctor's fear. 
Bap. How will 't be done, then? 

Face. Let me alone, take you no thought. 
Do you 
But say to me, "Captain, I '11 see her 
grace." 
Dap. Cajitain, I '11 see her grace. 
Face. Enough. 

{One knocks tvithout.) 
Sub. Who's there? 

Anon. — (Aside to Face.) Conduct him 

forth by the back way. 
Sir, against one o'clock prepare your- 
self ; 
Till when you must be fasting; only take 
Three drops of vinegar in at your nose, 
Two at your mouth, and one at either 

ear; 
Then bathe your fingers' ends and wash 

your eyes, 
To sharpen your five senses, and cry hum 
Thrice, and then buz as often ; and then 
come. 

Exit. 

Face. Can you remember this? 

Dap. I warrant you. 

Face. Well then, away. It is but your 

bestowing 

Some twenty nobles 'moug her grace's 

servants, 
And put on a clean shirt. You do not 

know 
What grace her grace may do you in 
clean linen. 

Exeunt Face and Dapper. 

Scene 3. 

Sub. ( Within. ) Come in ! Good wives, I 
pray you forbear me now; 
Troth, I can do you no good till after- 
noon. — 

Enter Subtle, followed by Drugger. 

I Sub. What is your name, say you? Abel 
Drugger? 
Drug. Yes, sir. 

Sub. A seller of tobacco? 



76 Iselon^ing to the 77 plan. 

Grocers' Guild. 7S recommended. 



79 to shred 
on. 



JJrug. Yes, sir. 

Sub. Umph ! 

Free of the grocers? ''^ 
Drug. Aye, an 't please you. 

Sub. Well— 

Your business, Abel? 
Drug. This, an 't please your worsliip ; 
I am a young beginner, and am building 
Of a new shoji, an 't like your worship, 

just 
At corner of a street: — Here is the 

plot " on 't 

And I would know by art, sir, of your 

worship, 
Which way I should make my door, by 

necromancy, 
And where my shelves; and which should 

be for boxes, 
And which for pots. I would be glad to 

thrive, sir: 
And I was wish'd ^•'* to your worship by 

a gentleman. 
One Captain Face, that says you know 

men's planets, 
And their good angels, and their bad. 
Sub. I do. 

If I do see 'em 

Enter Face. 

Face. What ! my honest Abel ? 

Tliou art well met here. 
Drug. Troth, sir, I was speaking. 

Just as your worship came here, of your 

worshiji. 
I pray you speak for me to master doc- 
tor. 
Face. He shall do anything. Doctor, do 
you hear? 
This is my friend, Abel, an honest fel- 
low; 
He lets me have good tobacco, and he 

does not 
Sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil, 
Nor washes it in muscadel and grains, 
Nor buries it in gravel, under ground, 
Wrapp'd up in greasy leather, or piss'd 

clouts: 
Rut keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd, 
Smell like conserve of roses, or French 

beans. 
He has his maple block,''^ his silver tongs, 
Winchester j^ipes, and fire of juniper:^" 
A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no 
goldsmith. ^1 
Sub. He 's a fortunate fellow, that I am 
sure on. 

tobacco so to light pipes si usurer; gold- 

with smiths used to 

lend money. 



244 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Face. Already, sir, ha' you found it? Lo 
thee, Abel ! 

Suh. And in right way toward riches 

Face. Sir ! 

Suh. This summer. 

He will be of the clothing ®- of his com- 
pany. 
And next spring eall'd to the scarlet, ^^ 
spend what he can. 
Face. What, and so little beard? 
Suh. Sir, you must think. 

He may have a receipt to make hair 

come : 
But he '11 be wise, preserve his youth, and 

fine for 't ; 
His fortune looks for him another way. 
Face. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know 
this so soon? 
I am amus'd ^^ at that. 
Suh. By a rule, captain. 

In metoposcopy,^^ which I do work by; 
A certain star i' the forehead, which you 

see not. 
Your chestnut or your olive-color'd face 
Does never fail : and your long ear doth 

promise. 
I knew 't, by certain spots, too, in his 

teeth, 
And on the nail of his mei'curial finger. 
Face. Which finger 's tliat '? 
Suh. His little finger. Look. 

You were born npon a Wednesday' ? 
Drug. Yes, indeed, sir. 

Suh. The thumb, in chiromancy, we give 
Venus ; 
The forefinger to Jove; the midst to 

Saturn ; 
The ring to Sol; the least to Mercury, 
WTio was the lord, sir, of his horoscope, 
His house of life being Libra ; which f or- 

show'd 
He should be a merchant, and should 
trade with balance. 
Face. Why, this is strange! Is it not, 

honest Nab? 
Suh. There is a ship now coming from 
Ormus, 
That shall yield him such a commodity 

Of drugs This is the west, and this 

the south? 

{Pointing to the plan.) 
Drug. Yes, sir. 

Sub. And those are your two sides? 

Drug. Aye, sir. 

Suh. Make me your door then, south ; 

your broad side, west : 

And on the east side of your shop, aloft, 



Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat; 
Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel. 
They are the names of those Mercurial 

spirits 
That do fright flies from boxes. 
Drug. Yes, sir. 

Suh. And 

Beneath your threshold, bury me a load- 
stone 
To draw in gallants that wear spurs : the 

rest. 
They 'il seem to follow. 
Face. That's a secret. Nab! 

Sub. And, on your stall, a puppet, with a 
vice ^'^ 
And a court-fueus,^'' to call city-dames: 
You shall deal much with minerals. 
Drug. Sir, I have. 

At home, already 

Suh. Aye, I know, you 've arsenic. 

Vitriol, sal-tartar, argaile, alkali, 
Cinoper. I know all. — This fellow, cap- 
tain. 
Will come, in time, to be a great distiller, 
And give a say ^'^ — I will not say di- 
rectly. 
But very fair — at the i:)hilosopher's stone. 
Face. Why, how now, Abel! is this true? 
Drug. {Aside to Face.) Good captain, 

What must I give? 
Face. Nay, I '11 not counsel thee. 

Thou hear'st what wealth (he says, spend 

what thou canst) 
Thou 'rt like to come to. 
Drug. I would gi' him a crown. 

Face. A crown ! and toward such a for- 
tune ? Heart, 
Thou shalt rather gi' him thy shop. No 
gold about thee? 
Drug. Yes, I have a portague,^^ I ha' kept 

this half-year. 
Face. Out on thee, Nab ! 'Slight, there 
was such an offer — 
Shalt keep 't no longer, I '11 gi' it him for 

thee. Doctor, 
Nab prays your worship to drink this, 

and swears 
He will api^ear more grateful, as your 

skill 
Does raise him in the world. 
Drug. I would entreat 

Another favor of his worship. 
Face. What is 't, Nab? 

Drug. But to look over, sir, my almanac. 
And cross out my ill-days,'"' that I may 

neither 
Bargain, nor trust upon them. 



R2 be a full member. 
83 be made sheriff. 
8-4 amazed. 



s.i readins; charac- 
ter by the face, 
so a mechanism to 



move the puppet, ss make an attempt. 
■ cosmetic. so a gold coin. 



90 unlucky days. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



245 



Face. That he shall, Nab : 

Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst after- 
noon. 
Sub. And a direction for his shelves. 
Face. Now, Nab, 

Art thou well pleas'd, Nab'? 
Drug. 'Thank, sir, both your worships. 
Face. Away. 

Exit Drugger. 
Why, now, you smoky persecutor of na- 
ture! 
Now do you see, that something's to be 

done 
Beside your beech-coal, and your cor- 

'sive ^^ waters, 
Your crosslets,"- crucibles, and cucur- 
bites?»3 

You must have stuff brought home to 
you, to work on : 

And yet you think, I am at no expense 

In searching out these veins, then follow- 
ing 'em. 

Then trying 'em out. 'Fore God, my in- 
telligence 

Costs me more money than my share oft 
comes to, 

In these rare works. 
Sub. You 're pleasant, sir. — How now ! 

Scene 4. 

Face, Subtle. Enter Dol. 

Sub. What says my dainty Dolkin *? 
Dol. Yonder fish-wife 

Will not awa5^ And there 's your 

giantess, 
The bawd of Lambeth. 
Sub. Heart, I cannot speak with 'em. 

Dol. Not afore night, I have told 'em in a 
voice. 
Thorough the trunk,"* like one of your 

familiars. 
But I have sj^ied Sir Epicvire Mam- 
mon 

Sub. Where? 

Dol. Coming along, at far end of the 
lane. 
Slow of his feet, but earnest of his 

tongue 
To one that 's with him. 
Sub. Face, go you and shift. 

Dol, you must presently make ready too. 

Exit Face. 
Dol. Wby, what's the matter "? 
Sub. 0, I did look for him 

With the sun's rising: marvel he could 
sleep ! 



91 corrosive. 

92 crucibles. 



83 vessels for distilling 
94 speaking tube. 



This is the day I am to perfect for him 
The magisteriuni, our great work, the 

stone ; 
And yield it, made, into his hands; of 

which 
He has, this month, talk'd as he were 

possess'd. 
And now he 's dealing pieces on 't away. 
Methinks I see him ent'ring ordinaries. 
Dispensing for the pox, and plaguy 

houses. 
Reaching his dose, walking Moorfields 

for lepers. 
And off'ring citizens' wives pomander- 
bracelets,"^ 
As his i^reservative, made of the elixir; 
Searching the 'spital, to make old bawds 

young; 
And the highways, for beggars to make 

rich. 
I see no end of his labors. He will make 
Nature asham'd of her long sleep ; when 

art, 
Wlio 's but a step-dame, shall do more 

than she, 
In her best love to mankind, ever could. 
If his dream last, he '11 turn the age to 

gold. 

Exeunt. 

ACT IL 

Scene 1. 
Enter Sir Epicure Mammon and Surly. 

Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your 

foot on shore 
In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru: 
And there within, sir, are the golden 

mines, 
Great Solomon's Ophir! He was sailing 

to 't 
Three years, but Ave have reach'd it in ten 

months. 
This is the day wherein, to all my 

friends, 
I will pronounce the hapjiy word, Be 

rich; 
This day you shall be spectatissiml 
You shall no more deal with the hollow 

die, 
Or the frail card ; no more be at charge 

of keeping 
The livery-punk for the young heir, that 

must 
Seal, at all hours, in his shirt: no more. 
If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is 
That brings him the commodity ; no more 

95 bracelets with perfume balls attached 
to guard against the plague. 



246 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD 



Shall thirst of satin, or tlie covetous hun- 
ger 

Of velvet entrails '■'^ for a rude-spun 
cloak, 

To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, 
make 

The sons of Sword and Hazard fall be- 
fore 

The golden calf, and on their knees, 
whole nights. 

Commit idolatry with wine and trum- 
pets : 

Or go a-feasting- after drum and ensign. 

No more of this. You shall start up 
young viceroys, 

And have your punks and punkettees, 
my Surly. 

And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich. 

Where is my Subtle there? Within, ho! 
Face. [Within.) Sir, 

He '11 come to you by and by. 
Mam. That is his fire-drake, 

His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs 
his coals, 

Till he firk ^^ nature up, in her own 
center. 

You are not faithful,'-^^ sir. This night 
I '11 change 

All that is metal in my house to gold: 

And, early in the morning, will I send 

To all the plumbers and the pewterers. 

And buy their tin and lead up; and to 
Lothbui'y 

For all the copper. 
Sur. What, and turn that, too? 

Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire 
and Cornwall, 

And make them perfect Indies! You 
admire now? 
Sur. No, faith. 

Mam. But when you see th' effects of the 
Great Med'cine, 

Of which one part projected on a hun- 
di'ed 

Of Mercury, or Venus,°" or the Moon,^ 

Shall tuni it to as many of the Sun; ^ 

Nay, to a thousand, so ad in/tnitum : 

You will believe me. 
Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. 

But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I 

Giving 'em no occasion, sure I '11 have 

A whore, shall piss 'em out next day. 
Blam. Ha! why? 

Do you think I fable Avith you? I assure 
you. 

He that has once the flower of the sun. 



The pei'fect ruby, which we call elixir, 

Not only can do that, but by its virtue. 

Can confer honor, love, respect, long 
life; 

Give safety, vah)r, yea, and victory, 

To whom he will. In eight and twenty 
days, 

I '11 make an old man of fourscore, a 
child. 
Sur. No doubt ; he 's that already. 
3Iam. Nay, I mean, 

Kestore his years, renew him, like an 
eagle. 

To the fifth age; make him get sons and 
daughters. 

Young giants; as our philosophers have 
done, 

The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood. 

But taking, once a week, on a knife's 
point, 

The quantity of a grain of mustard of it ; 

Become stout Marses, and beget young 
Cupids. 
Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pickt-hatch ^ 
would thank you, 

That keep the fire alive there. 
Mam. 'T is the secret 

Of nature naturiz'd 'gainst all infec- 
tions. 

Cures all diseases coming of all causes; 

A month's grief in a tlay, a year's in 
twelve ; 

And, of what age soever, in a month. 

Past all the doses of your drugging doc- 
tors. 

I'll undertake, withal, to fright the 
plague 

Out o' the kingdom in three months. 
Sur. And I'll 

Be bound, the players shall sing your 
praises then. 

Without their jjoets.* 
Mam. Sir, I'll do 't. Meantime, 

1 '11 give away so much unto my man. 

Shall serve th' whole city with preserva- 
tive 

Weekly ; each house his ^ dose, and at the 

rate 

Sur. As he that built the Water-work does 

with water? 
Mam. You are incredulous. 
Sur. Faith, I have a humor, 

I would not willingly be gull'd." Your 
stone 

Cannot transmute me. 
Mam. Pertinax Surly, 



!)6 lining. 
07 rouse. 
OS crertiilous. 
'J'J copper. 



1 silver. 

2 gold. 

3 a quarter in Ijon- 

don of evil repute. 



4 Because the banish- 
ment of the plaRuo 
would mean that 
the theaters would 



never he oblijied to •> its. 
close on account of 6 tricked 
its prevalence. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



247 



Will you believe iintiquity? Records? 
I '11 show you a book where Moses, and 

his sister, 
And Soloinon have written of the art; 

Aye, and a ti'eatise i)enn'd by Adam 

Sur. How ! 

Mam. Of the philosopher's stone, and in 

High Dutch. 
Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch*? 
Mam. He did; 

Which i^roves it was the primitive 
tongue. 
Sur. What paper? 

Mam. On cedar board. 
Sur. O that, indeed, they say, 

Will last 'gainst worms. 
Mam. 'T is like your Irish wood 

'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of 

Jason's fleece too, 
Which was no other than a book of al- 
chemy, 
Writ in large sheepskin, a g'ood fat ram- 
vellum. 
Such was Pythagoras' thigh. Pandora's 

tub, 
And all that fable of Medea's charms. 
The manner of our work; the bulls, our 

furnace, 
Still breathing fire; our argent-vive,'' the 

dragon : 
The dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate. 
That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and 

the biting; 
And they are gather'd into Jason's helm, 
Th' alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his 

held, 
And thence sublim'd so often, till they're 

fix'd. 
Both this, th' Hesperian garden, Cad- 
mus' story, 
Jove's shower,** the boon of Midas, Ar- 
gus' eyes, 
P)OCcace his Demogorgon, thousands 

more, 
All abstract riddles of our stone. — How 
now ! 

Scene 2. 

Mammon, Surly. Enter Face, as a 
Servant. 

Mam. Do we succeed? Is our day come? 

And holds it? 
Face. The evening will set red upon you, 

sir; 
You have color for it, crimson : the red 

ferment 



Has done his ollice; three hours hence 

prepare you 
To see projection. 
Mam. Pertinax, my Surly. 

Again I say to thee, aloud. Be uicn. 
This day thou shalt have ingots; and 

to-morrow 
Give lords th' affront. — Is it, my Zephy- 

rus, right? 
Blushes the bolt's-head? » 
Face. Like a wench with child, sir. 

That were but now discover'd to her mas- 
ter. 
Mam. Excellent witty Lungs! — My only 
care is 
Where to get stuff enough now, to pro- 
ject on; 
This town Avill not half serve me. 
Face. No, sir? Buy 

The covering off o' churches. 
Mam. That's true. 

Face. Yes. 

Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory ; 
Or cap 'em new with shingles. 
Mam. No, good thatch : 

Thatch will lie light u^io' the rafters, 

Lungs. 
Lungs, I will manumit thee from the 

furnace ; 
I will restore thee thy comj^lexion. Puff, 
Lost in tlie embers; and repair this brain, 
Plurt wi' the fume o' the metals. 
Face. I have blown, sir, 

Hard, for your worship ; thrown by 

many a coal, 
When 't was not beech ; ^** weigh'd those I 

put in, just 
To keep your heat still even. These 

blear'd eyes 
Have Avak'd to read your several colors, 

sir. 
Of the pale citron, the green lion, the 

crow, 
The peacock's tail, the plumed swan. 
Blam. And lastly, 

Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis 
agni? ^^ 
Face. Yes, sir. 

Mam. Where's master? 

Face. At 's prayers, sir, he ; 

Good man, he 's doing his devotions 
For the success. 
Mam. Lungs, I will set a period 

To all thy labors ; thou shalt be the mas- 
ter 
Of my seraglio. 
Face. Good, sir. 



7 quicksilver. 

8 i. e. on Danae. 



9 a flask with a lonK 

neck. 

10 Beech was the 



sovereign wood in 
iii:ilving the al- 
chemist's fire. 



11 red, the color of 
the last stage of 



the alchemical 
process. 



248 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mam. But do you hear? 

I '11 geld you, Lungs. 
Face. Yes, sir. 

Mam. For I do mean 

To have a list of wives and concubines 
Equal with Solomon, who had the stone 
Alike with me; and I will make me a 

back 
With the elixir, that shall be as tough 
As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. — 
Thou 'rt sure thou saw 'st it blood? 
Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. 

Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, 

not stuft; 
Down is too hard: and then, mine oval 

room 
Fill'd Avith such pictures as Tiberius took 
From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 
But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
And multiply the figures, as I walk 
Naked between my succubae.^- My 

mists 
I '11 have of perfume, vapor'd 'bout the 

room, 
To lose our selves in ; and my baths, like 

pits 
To fall into; from whence we will come 

forth, 
And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. — 

Is it arrived ruby? Where I spy 

A wealthy citizen, or a rich lawyer. 
Have a sublim'd ^^ pure wife, unto that 

fellow 
I '11 send a thousand pound to be my 

cuckold. 
Face. And I shall carry it? 
Mam. No. I '11 ha' no bawds 

But fathers and mothers : they will do it 

best, 
Best of all others. And my flatterers 
Shall be the pure and gravest of divines, 
That I can get for money. My mere 

fools, 
Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets 
The same that writ so subtly of the 

fart. 
Whom I will entertain still for that sub- 
ject. 
The few that would give out themselves 

to be 
Court and town-stallions, and, each- 

where, belie 
Ladies who are known most innocent, for 

them, — 



Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs 

of: 
And they shall fan me with ten estrich 

tails 
A-piece, made in a plume to gather wind. 
We will be brave, Puff, now we ha' the 

med'cine. 
My meat shall all come in, in Indian 

shells. 
Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded 
With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and 

rubies. 
The tongues of carps, dormice, and cam- 
els' heels, 
Boil'd i' the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd 

pearl 
(Apicius' ^^ diet, 'gainst the epilepsy) : 
And I will eat these broths with spoons 

of amber. 
Headed with diamond and carbuncle. 
My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, cal- 

ver^d ^^ salmons, 
Ivnots,^*^ godwits,^** lampreys : ^^ I myself 

will have 
The beards of barbel ^^ serv'd, instead of 

salads ; 
Oil'd mushrooms; and the swelling unc- 
tuous paps 
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off, 
Drest with an exquisite and poignant 

sauce ; 
For which, I '11 say unto my cook, 

There 's gold; 
Go forth, and he a knight. ^^ 
Face. Sir, I'll go look 

A little, how it heightens. 

Exit. 

Mam. Do. — My shirts 

I '11 have of taffeta-sarsnet,^® soft and 

light 
As cobwebs; and for all my other rai- 
ment, 
It shall be such as might provoke the 

Persian, 
Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, per- 

fum'd 
With gums of paradise, and Eastern 

air 

Sur. - And do you think to have the stone 

with this? 
Mam. No, I do think t' have all this with 

the stone. 
Sur. Why, I have heard he must be homo 

friigi,-^ 



12 strumpets. 


particular fash- 


18 An allusion to 


who could pay for 


posed to be an es- 


13 surpassing. 


ion. 


James I's readi- 


the honor. 


sential character 


14 a famous epicure 


iG hirds delicate to 


ness to confer 


19 a fine, soft silk. 


istic of a success- 


of Tiberius' time. 


cat. 


knighthood on all 


20 Piety was sup- 


ful alchemist. 


15 dressed in some 


17 fish. 









THE ALCHEMIST 



249 



A pious, holy, and religious man, 
One free from mortal sin, a veiy viridn. 
Mam. That makes it, sir; he is so. But I 

buy it; 
My venture brings it me. He, honest 

wretch, 
A notable, superstitious, good soul, 
Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers 

bald. 
With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, 

let him 
Do it alone, for me, still. Here be 

comes. 
Not a pi'of ane word afore him ; 't is 

poison. — 

Scene 3. 

Mammon, Surly. Enter Subtle. 

Mam. Good morrow, father. 
Suh. Gentle son, good morrow. 

And to your friend there. What is be 

is with you"? 
Mam. An heretic, that I did bring along. 

In hope, sir, to convert him. 
Suh. Son, I doubt 

You 're covetous, that thus you meet your 

time 
I' the just point, prevent your day at 

morning. 
This argues something worthy of a fear 
Of importune and carnal appetite. 
Take heed you do not cause the blessing 

leave you. 
With your ungovern'd haste. I should 

be sorry 
To see my labors, now e'en at perfection, 
Got by long watching and large patience. 
Not prosper where my love and zeal hath 

plac'd 'em, 
Wliich (heaven I call to witness, with 

your self, 
To whom I have pour'd my thoughts) 

in all my ends. 
Have look'd no way, but unto public 

good. 
To pious uses, and dear charity. 
Now grown a prodigy with men. 

Wherein 
If you, my son, should now prevaricate, 
And to your own particular lusts em- 
ploy 
So great and catholic a bliss, be sure 
A curse will follow, yea, and overtake 
Your subtle and most secret ways. 
Mam. I know, sir; 



You shall not need to fear me ; I but come 
To ha' you confute this gentleman. 
Sur. _ Who is. 

Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief 
Toward your stone; would not be guU'd. 
Suh. Well, son, 

All that I can convince him in, is this, 
The work is done, bright Sol is in his 

robe. 
We have a med'cine of the triple soul. 
The glorified spirit. Thanks be to 

heaven. 
And make us worthy of it! — Ulen Spie- 
gel! 21 
Face. {Within.) Anon, sir. 
Suh. Look well to the register. 

And let your heat still lessen by degrees. 
To the aludels.22 
Face. {Within.) Yes, sir. 
Suh. Did you look 

0' the bolt's head yet? 
Face. {Within.) Which? On D, sir? 
Suh. Aye; 

What 's the complexion ? 
Face. {Within.) Whitish. 
Suh. Infuse vinegar. 

To draw his volatile substance and his 

tincture: 
And let the water in glass E be filt'red, 
And put into the gripe's egg."^"^ Lute ^s 

him well; 
And leave him clos'd in halneor* 
Face. {Within.) I will, sir. 

Sur. What a brave language here is ! next 

to canting.25 
Suh. 1 have another work you never saw, 
son. 
That three days since past the philoso- 
pher's wheel. 
In the lent 20 heat of Atbanor;27 and 's 

become 
Sulphur o' Nature. 
Mam. But 't is for me ? 

Suh. What need you? 

You have enough, in that is, perfect. 

Mam. 0, but 

Suh. Why, this is covetise! 
Mam. No, I assure you, 

I shall employ it all in pious uses, , 
Founding of colleges and grammar 

schools. 
Marrying young virgins, building hospi- 
tals, 
And, now and then, a church. 



Re-enter Face. 



21 the rascally hero 
of a German jest- 
book. 



22 vessels used in 
the alchemical 

process. 



23 smear with clay 
for protection 

from the fire. 



24 in the bath 
warm water. 

25 thieves' slang. 



of 



2c, slow. 

27 a furnace. 



250 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD 



Sub. How now ! 

Face. Sir, please you, 

Sliall I not change the filter'? 
Sub. Marry, yes; 

And bring me the complexion of glass B. 

Exit Face. 
Mam. Ha' you another? 
Sub. Yes, son; were I assurM 

Your piety were firm, we would not want 
The means to glorify it : but I hope the 

best. 
I mean to tinet C in sand-heat to-mor- 
row, 
And give him imbibition.-^ 
Mam. Of white oil? 

Sub. No, sir, of red. F is come over the 
helm too, 
I thank my maker, in S. Maiy's bath. 
And shows lac virginis, Blessed be 

heaven ! 
I sent you of his fasces there calcin'd : 
Out of that calx, I ha' won the salt of 
mereuiy. 
Mam. By pouring on your rectified 

water? 
Sub. Yes, and reverberating -^ in Atha- 
nor. 

Re-enter Face. 

How now! what color says it? 
Face. The ground black, sii'. 

Mam. That's your crow's head? 
Sur. Your cock's comb's, is it not? 

Sub. No, 't is not perfect. Would it wei'e 
the crow ! 

That work wants something. 
Sur. (Aside.) 0, I look'd for this, 

The hay 's ^° a pitching. 
Sub. Are you sure ynu loos'd 'em. 

In their own menstrue? 
Face. Yes, sir, and then married 'em, 

And put 'em in a bolt's-head nipp'd to 
digestion, 

According as you bade me, when I set 

The liquor of Mars to circulation 

In the same heat. 
Sub. The process then was right. 

Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort 
. brake. 

And what was sav'd was put into the 
pelican,^^ 

And sign'd with Hermes' seal.^- 
Sub. I tiiink 'twas so. 

We should have a new amalgama. 
Sur. (Aside.) O, this ferret 

Is rank as any polecat. 

2S saturation. 30 a rabbit net; i.e. 

29 beating by reflec- tbe snare is being 

tion. laid. 



Sub. But I care not; 

Let him e'en die; we have enough be- 
side, 
In embrion. li has his white shirt on? 
Face. Yes, sir, 

He 's ripe for inceration,'"'-'^ he stands 

warm. 
In his ash-fire. I would not you should 

let 
Any die now, if I might counsel, sir. 
For luck's sake to the rest : it is not 
good. 
Mam. He saj^s right. 

Sur. (Aside.) Aye, are you bolted?^* 

Face. Nay, I know 't, sir, 

I 've seen th' ill fortune. What is some 

thi'ee ounces 
Of fresh materials? 
Mam. Is 't no more? 

Face. No more, sir, 

Of gold, t' amalgam with some six of 
mercury. 
Mam. Away, hei'e 's money. What will 

sei've ? 
Face. Ask him, sir. 

Mam. How much? 
Sub. Give him nine pound : 

you may gi' him ten. 
S7ir. (Aside.) Yes, tweut}^ and be 

cozen'd, do. 
Mam. Thei'e 't is. 

(Gives Face the moneij.) 
Sub. This needs not ; but that you will 
have it so, 
To see conclusions of all : for two 
Of our inferior works are at fixation, 
A third is in ascension. Go your ways. 
Ha' you set the oil of Luna in kemia ? "^ 
Face. Yes, sir. 

Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar? 

Face. Aj'e. Exit. 

Sur. We shall have a salad ! 
Mam. When do you make projection? 

Suh. Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med'- 
cine. 
By hanging him in bahico vaporoso, 
And giving him snlulion; then congeal 

him ; 
And then dissolve him ; then again con- 

• geal him ; 
For look, how oft T iterate the woi'k. 
So many times I add unto his virtue. 
As, if at first one ounce convert a hun- 
dred. 
After his second loose, he'll turn a thou- 
sand ; 



31 alembic. 

32 hermetically 
scaled. 



33 softoninq:. 

34 driven out, like a 
rabbit. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



251 



His third solution, ten; his fourth, a hun- 
dred ; 
After his fifth, a thousand thousand 

ounces 
Of any imj^erfect metal, into pure 
Silver or gold, in all examinations, 
As good as any of the natural mine. 
Get you your stuff here against after- 
noon, 
Your brass, your pewter, and your and- 
irons. 
Mam. Not those of iron ? 
Sub. Yes, you may bring them too ; 

We '11 change all metals. 
Sur. I believe you in that. 

Mam. Then I may send my spits'? 
Suh. Yes, and your racks. 

Sur. And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, 
and hooks'? 
Shall he not 1 
Suh. If he please. 

Sur. — To be an ass. 

Suh. How, sir! 

Mam. This gent'man you must bv'^ar 
withal. 
I told you he had no faith. 
Sur. And. little hope, sir; 

But much less charity, should I gull my- 
self. 
Sub. Why, what have jon observ'd, sir, in 
our art. 
Seems so impossible? 
Sur. But your whole work, no more. 

That you should hatch gold in a furnace, 

sir. 
As they do eggs in Egypt ! 
Suh. Sir, do yon 

Believe that eggs are hatch'd so"? 
Sur. ' ' If I should? 

Sub. Wliy, I think that the greater mir- 
acle. 
No egg" but differs from a chicken more 
Than metals in themselves. 
Sur. That cannot be. 

The egg 's ordain'd by nature to that end. 
And is a chicken in potcntia. 
Sub. The same we say of lead and other 
j metals, 

I Which would be gold if they had time. 

j Mam. And tliat 

Our art doth further. 
Suh. Aye, for 't were absurd 

j To think that nature in the earfli bred 

I gold 

Perfect i' the instant : something went be- 
fore. 
1 There must be remote matter. 
( Sur. Aye, what is that '? 
Sub. Marry, we say - 



Mam. Aye, now it heats: stand, father, 

Pound him to dust. 
Sub. It is, of the one part, 

A humid exhalation, Avliich we call 

Materia liquida, or the unctuous water; 

On th' other part, a certain crass and 
viscous 

Portion of earth; both which, concor- 
porate, 

Do make the elementary matter of gold; 

Which is not yet propria materia, 

But common to all metals and all stones; 

For, where it is forsaken of that mois- 
ture. 

And hath more dryness, it becomes a 
stone : 

Where it retains more of the humid 
fatness, 

It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver. 

Who are the parents of all other metals. 

Nor can this remote matter suddenly 

Progress so from extreme unto extreme. 

As to grow gold, and leap o'er all the 
means. 

Nature doth first beget th' imperfect, 
then 

Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that 
airy 

And oily water, mercury is engend'rcd ; 

Sulplnir o' the fat and earthy part; the 
one. 

Which is the last, supplying the place of 
male. 

The other of the female, in all metals. 

Some do believe hermaphrodeity, 

That both do act and suffer. But these 
two 

Make the rest ductile, malleable, exten- 
sive. 

And even in gold they ai'e ; for we do 
find 

Seeds of them by our fire, and gold in 
them ; 

And can produce the species of each 
metal 

More perfect thence, than nature doth 
in earth. 

Beside, who doth not see in daily prac- 
tice 

Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, 
wasps. 

Out of the carcases and dung of crea- 
tures ; 

Yea, scorpions of an herb, being rightly 
plac'd? 

And these are living creatures, far more 
perfect 

And excellent than metals. 
Mam. Well said, father! 



252 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Nay, if be take you in liand, sir, with an 
argument, 

He '11 bray you in a mortar. 
Stir. Pray you, sir, stay. 

Rather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll be- 
lieve 

That Alchemy is a pretty kind of game, 

Somewhat like tricks o' the carets, to 
cheat a man 

With charming. 
Sub. Sir? 

Sur. What else are all your terms. 

Whereon no one o' your writers 'grees 
with other? 

Of your elixir, your lac virginis, 

Your stone, your med'cine, and your 
chrysosperm. 

Your sal, your sulphur, and your mer- 
cury, ^ 

Your oil of height, your tree of life, your 
blood. 

Your marchesite, your tutie, your mag- 
nesia. 

Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and 
your panther; 

Your sun, your moon, your firmament, 
your adrop, 

Your lato, azoch, zeniich, chibrit, heau- 
tarit, 

And then your red man, and your white 
woman, 

With all your broths, your menstrues, 
and materials 

Of piss and egg-shells, women's terms, 
man's blood, 

Hair o' the head, burnt clouts, chalk, 
merds, and clay. 

Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass, 

And worlds of other strange ingredients. 

Would burst a man to name? 
Suh. And all these, nam'd. 

Intending but one thing; which art our 
writers 

Us'd to obscure their art. 
Mam. Sir, so I told him— 

Because the simple idiot should not learn 
it. 

And make it vulgar. 
Sub. Was not all the knowledge 

Of the Egyptians writ in mystic sym- 
bols? ^ 

Speak not the scriptures oft in par- 
ables? 

Are not the choicest fables of the poets. 

That were the fountains and first springs 
of wisdom. 

Wrapt in perplexed allegories? 
Mam. I urg'd that. 



And clear'd to him, that Sisyphus was 

damn'd 
To roll the ceaseless stone, only because 
He would have made ours common. {Dol 

is seen at the door.) — Who is this? 
Sub. God's precious! — What do you 

mean? Go in, good lady. 
Let me entreat you. {Dol retires.) — 

Where's this varlet? 

Re-enter Face. 

Face. Sir. 

Suh. You very knave! do you use me 

thus? 
Face. Wherein, sir? 

Sub. Go in and see, you traitor. Go ! 

Exit Face. 
Mam. Who is it, sir? 

Suh. Nothing, sir; nothing. 
Mam. What's the matter, good sir? 

I have not seen you thus distemp'red : 
who is't? 
Sub. All arts have still had, sir, their ad- 
versaries ; 
But ours the most ignorant. — 

Face returns. 

What now? 
Face. 'T was not my fault, sir; she would 

speak with you. 
Sub. Would she, sir ! Follow me. 

Exit. 
Mam. {Stopping him.) Stay, Lungs. 
Face. I dare not, sir. 

Mam. How ! pray thee, stay. 
Face. She 's mad, sir, and sent hither — 
Mam. Stay, man; what is she? 
Face. A lord's sister, sir. 

He 'II be mad too. — 
Mam. I warrant thee. — Why sent hither? 
Face. Sir, to be eur'd. 
Sub. {Within.) Why, rascal! 
Face. Lo you ! — Here, sir ! 

Exit. 
Mam. 'Fore God, a Bradamante,^^ a brave 

piece. 
Sur. Heart, this is a bawdy-house! I'll 

be burnt else. 
Mam. 0, by this light, no: do not wrong 
him. He 's 
Too scrupulous that way : it is his vice. 
No, he 's a rare physician, do him right. 
An excellent Paracelsian, and has done 
Strange cures with mineral physic. He 

deals all 
With spirits, he ; he will not hear a word 
Of Galen; or his tedious recipes. — 
Face again. 



35 a female warrior in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



253 



How now, Lungs! 

Face. Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant 

To ha' told your worship all. This must 

not hear. 

Mam. No, he will not be gull'cl ; let him 

alone. 
Face. You 're very right, sir ; she is a 
most rare scholar. 
And is gone mad with studying Brough- 

ton's ^^ works. 
If you but name a word touching the 

Hebrew, 
She falls into her fit, and will discourse 
So learnedly of genealogies. 
As you would run mad too, to hear her, 
sir. 
Mam. How might one do t' have confer- 
ence with her, Lungs'? 
Face. 0, divers have run mad upon the 
conference. 
I do not know, sir: I am sent in haste 
To fetch a vial, 
Sur. Be not guU'd, Sir Mammon. 

Mayn. Wherein? Pray ye, be patient. 
Sur. Yes, as you are. 

And trust confederate knaves and bawds 
and whores. 
Mcrni. You are too foul, believe it. — Come 
here, Ulen, 
One word. 
Face. I dare not, in good faith. 

{Going.) 
Mam. Stay, knave. 

Face. He 's extreme angry that you saw 

her, sir. 
Mam. Drink that. (Gives him money.) 
What is she when she 's out of her 
lit? 
Face. 0, the most affablest creature, sir! 
so merry! 
So pleasant ! She '11 mount you up, like 

quicksilver, 
Over the helm ; and circulate like oil, 
A very vegetal : discourse of state. 

Of mathematics, bawdry, anything 

Mam. Is she no way accessible? no 
means, 

No trick to give a man a taste of her 

wit 

Or so? 
Suh. {Within.) Ulen! 
Face. I '11 come to you again, sir. 

Exit. 
Mam. Surly, T did not think one o' your 
breeding 
Would traduce personages of worth. 
Sur. Sir Epicure, 



Your friend to use; yet still loth to be 

guU'd : 
I do not like your philosophical bawds. 
Their stone is lechery enough to pay for. 
Without this bait. 
Mam. Heart, you abuse yourself. 

I know the lady, and her friends, and 

means, 
The original of this disaster. Her 

brother 
Has told me all. 
Sur. And yet you ne'er saw her 

Till now! 
Mam. O yes, but I forgot. I have, be- 
lieve it, 
One o' the treacherous'st memories, I do 

think, 
Of all mankind. 
Sur. What call you her brother? 

Mam. My lord 

He wi' not have his name known, now I 
think on 't. 
Sur. A very treacherous memory ! 

Mam. 0' my faith 

Stir. Tilt, if you ha' it not about you, 
pass it 
Till we meet nest. 
Mam. Nay, by this hand, 't is true. 

He 's one I honor, and my noble friend ; 
And I respect his house. 
Sur. Heart! can it be 

That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need, 
A wise sir, too, at other times, should 

thus. 
With his own oaths, and .arguments, 

make hard means 
To gull himself? An this be your elixir, 
Your lapis mineralis, and your lunaiy,^'^ 
Give me your honest trick yet at 

primero,^^ 
Or gleek,^^ and take your lutum sapien- 

tis, 
Your menstruum simplex! I'll have 

gold before you. 
And with less danger of the quicksilver. 
Or the hot sulphur. 

Re-enter Face. 

Face. (To Surly.) Here's one from 
Captain Face, sir. 

Desires you meet him i' the Temple- 
church, 

Some half-hour hence, and upon earnest 
business. 

Sir (Whispers Mammon) , if you please 
to cjuit us now, and come 



36 Hugh Broue:hton (1549-1612), 
a rabbinical scholar. 



37 The herb moon wort. 



38 games at cards. 



254 



THE ELIZABETHAN PElflOD 



Again within two hours, you shall have 
My master busy examining' o' the works; 
And 1 will steal you m unto the party, 
That you may see her converse. — Sir, 

shall I say 
You'll meet the captain's worshii)*? 
Sur. Sir, I will.— 

{Walks asUtc.) 
But, by attorney, and to a second pur- 
pose. 
Now, I am sure it is a bawdy-house; 
I'll swear it, were the marshal here to 

thank me : 
The naming this connnander doth con- 
firm it. 
Don Face ! why, he 's the most authentic 

dealer 
I' these commodities, the superintendent 
To all the quainter trallickers in town! 
He is the visilur, and does ai)point 
Who lies with whom, and at what hour; 

what price; 
Which gown, and in what smock; what 

fall,^'' what tire.*° 
Him will 1 prove, by a third person, to 

find 
The subtleties of this dark laljyrinth : 
Which if I do discover, dear Sir Mam- 
mon, 
You '11 give your poor friend leave, 

though no pliilosoi)lier. 
To laugh ; for you that are, 't is thought, 
shall weep. 
Face. Sir, he does pray you '11 not forget. 
Sur. I will not, sir. 

Sir Epicure, I shall leave you. 

Exit. 
Mam. I follow you straight. 

Face. But do so, good sir, to avoid sus- 
picion. 
This gent'man has a jiarlous head. 
Mam, I3ut wilt thou, Ulcn, 

Be constant to thy promise "I 
Face. As my life, sir. 

Mam. And wilt thou insinuate what I am, 
and ]iraise me. 
And say I am a noble fellow"? 
Face. O, what else, sir"? 

And that you '11 make her royal with the 

stone. 
An empress; and yourself King of Ban- 
tam. 
Mam. Wilt thou do this? 
Face. Wnil, sir! 

Mam. Lungs, my Lungs ! 

I love thee. 
Face. Send your stuff, sir, that my master 



39 a collar, or a veil. 

40 a head-dress. 



41 a machine for 
turning a spit. 



May busy himself about projection. 
Mam. Thou 'st witch'd me, rogue : take, go. 

{Gives him money.) 
Face. Your jack,'*^ and all, sir. 

Mam. Thou art a villain — I will send my 
jack. 
And the weights too. Slave, I could bite 

thine ear. 
Away, thou dost not care for me. 
Face. Not I, sir! 

Mam. Come, I was born to make thee, my 
good weasel, 
Set thee on a bench, and ha' thee twirl a 

chain 
With the best lord's vermin of 'em all. 
Face. Away, sir. 

Mam. A count, nay, a count palatine 

Face, Good sir, go. 

Mam. Shall not advance thee better: no, 
nor faster. 

Exit, 

Scene 4. 

Face. Re-enter Subtle and Dol. 

Sub. Has he bit"? has he bit? 
Face. And swallow'd, too, my Subtle. 

I ha' given him line, and now he plays, i' 
faith. 
Sub. And shall we twitch himf 
Face. Thorough both the gills. 

A Avench is a rare bait, with which a man 
No sooner 's taken, but he straight tirks 
mad. 
Sub. Dol, my Loi'd What's-hum's sister, 
you nuist now 
Bear yourself statelicli. 
Dol. O, let me alone, 

I '11 not forget my race, I warrant you. 
I '11 keep my distance, laugh and talk 

aloud ; 
Have all the tricks of a proud scurvy 

lady, 
And be as I'ude 's her woman. 
Face. Well said, sanguine ! *~ 

Sub. But will he send his andirons'? 
Face. His jack too, 

And 's iron shoeing-horn ; I ha' spoke to 

" him. Well, 
I must not lose my wary gamester yon- 
der. 
Sub, 0, Monsieur Caution, that will not 

be gull'd? 
Face, Aye, 

If I can strike a fine hook into him, 
now ! — 

•i;; with li;,'ht hair and ruddy complexion. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



255 



The Temple-cliiu'ch, there I have cast 

mine anyle. 
Well, pray fur nie. I 'II about it. 
(One knocks.) 
Sub. What, more gudgeons ! ^^ 

Dol, soout, scout! {Dol (joes to the uin- 

dow.) Stay, Face, you must go to 

the door; 
'Pray God it be my anabaptist — Who 

is't, Dol? 
Dol. I know him not: he hmks like a 

gold-end-man.** 
Sub. (jods so! 'tis he, he said he would 

send — what call you him'? 
The sanctified elder, that shtmld deal 
For JMammon's jack and andirons. Let 

him in. 
Stay, help me off, first, with my gxiwn. 

{Exit Face witJi the goun.) Away, 
Madam, to your withdraAving chamber. 

Now, 

Exit Dol. 
In a new tune, new gesture, but old lan- 
guage.- — 
This fellow is sent from one negotiates 

with me 
About the stone too, for the holy breth- 
ren 
Of Amsterdam, the exil'd saints, that 

hope 
To raise their discipline '^ by it. I must 

use him 
In some strange fashion now, to make 

him admire me. 



Scene 5. 

Subtle. Enter Ananias. 

Where is my drudge*? 

Enter Face. 

Face. Sir ! 

Sub. Take away the recipient, 

And rectify your menstrue from the 

phlegma. 
Then pour it on the Sol. in the cucurbile. 
And let 'em macerate together. 
i Face. Yes, sir. 

j And save the gi'ound'? 

Sub. No : terra damnata 

Must not have entrance in the work. — 

Who are you"? 

Ana. A faithful brother, if it please you. 

Sub. What's that? 



A Lullianist '? a Ripley'?*" Filius artis? 
("an you sublime and dulcify"? Calcine? 
Know you the sapor pontic? Sapor 

stiptic? 
Or what is homogene, or heler«)gene? 
^ina. 1 understand no heathen language, 

truly. 
Sub. Heathen! You Knipperdoling? ■"^ 
Is Ars sacra. 
Or chrysopoeia, or s})agyrica. 
Or the pamphysic, or i)anarchic knowl- 
edge, 
A heathen language? 
Ana. Heathen Greek, I take it. 

Sub. How! Heatlien Greek? 
Ana. All 's heathen but the Hebrew. 

Sub. Sirrah my varlet, stand you fortii 
and speak to him 
Like a pliilosopher : answer i' the lan- 
guage. 
Name llie vexations, and the martyriza- 

tions 
Of melals in the work. 
Face. Sir, putrefaction. 

Solution, ablution, sublimation, 
Cohubation, calcination, ceration, and 
Fixation. 
Sab. This is heathen Greek, to you, 

now ! — 
And when comes vivilication? 
Face. After mortification. 

Sub. What 's cohobatiou? 
Face. 'T is the pouring on 

Your aqua regis, and then drawing him 

off. 
To the trine circle of the seven spheres. 
Sub. What 's the i)roper passion of 

metals ? 
Face. Malleation. 

Sub. What's your itUimum supplicium 

uurif 
Face. Antimoniuni. 

Sub. This 's heathen Greek to you! — And 

what's your mercury? 
Face. A very fugitive, he will be gone, sir. 
Sub. How know you him? 
Face. By his viscosity, 

His oleosity, and his suscit ability. 
Sub. How do you sublime him? 
Face. With the calee of egg-shells, 

White marble, talc. 
Sub. Your magisterium now, 

What's that? 
Face. Shifting, sir, your elements, 

Dry into cold, cold into moist, moist into 
hot. 



\ 43 fools. 

44 a buyer of brok- 
en pieces of gold. 



45 Puritan form of 
church sovprn- 
ment. (Neilsou.) 



46 Lully and Ripley 
vvei'L' writers on 
alehemv. 



47 A German Ana- 
baptist. 



256 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Hot into dry. 
Sub. This is heathen Greek to you still ! 

Your lajiis philosopliicus? 
Face. 'T is a stone, 

And not a stone; a spirit, a soul, and a 

body: 
Which if you do dissolve, it is dissolv'd ; 
If you coagulate, it is coagulated; 
If you make it to fly, it flieth. 
Sub. Enough. 

Exit Face. 
This 's heathen Greek to you ! What are 
you, sir? 
Aria. Please you, a servant of the exil'd 
brethren. 
That deal with widows' and with orphans' 

goods, 
And make a just account unto the saints : 
A deacon. 
Sub. 0, you are sent from Master Whole- 
some, 
Your teacher? 
Ana. From Tribulation Wholesome, 

Our very zealous pastor. 
Sub. Good ! I have 

Some orphans' goods to come hei'e. 
Ana. Of what kind, sir? 

Sub. Pewter and brass, andirons and 
kitchenware. 
Metals, that we must use our med'cine 

on: 
Wherein the brethren may have a 

penn'orth 
For ready money. 
Ana. Were the orphans' parents 

Sincere professors? 
Sub. Why do you ask? 

Ana. Because 

We then are to deal justly, and give, in 

truth. 
Their utmost value. 
Sub. 'Slid, you 'd cozen else, 

An if their parents were not of the faith- 
ful !— 
I will not trust you, now I think on 

it, 
Till I ha' talk'd Avith your pastor. Ha' 

you brought money 
To buy more coals ? 
Ana. No, surely. 

Sub. No? How so? 

Ana. The brethren bid me say unto you, 
sir. 
Surely, they will not venture any more 
Till they may see projection. 
Sub. How ! 

Ana. You 've had 



For the instruments, as bricks, and loam, 
and glasses. 

Already thirty pound; and for materials, 

They say, some ninety more : and they 
have heard since, 

That one, at Heidelberg, made it of an 
egg, 

And a small paper of pin-dust. 
Sub. What 's your name? 

Ana. My name is Ananias. 
Sub. Out! the varlet 

That cozen'd the apostles ! Hence, away ! 

Flee, mischief! had your holy consistory 

No name to send me, of another sound 

Than wicked Ananias? Send your el- 
ders 

Hither, to make atonement for you, 
quickly. 

And gi' me satisfaction ; or out goes 

The fire; and down th' alembics, and the 
furnace, 

Piger Henricus, or what not. Thou 
wretch ! 

Both sericon and bufo shall be lost. 

Tell 'em. All hope of rooting out the 
bishops. 

Or th' anti- Christian hierarchy shall per- 
ish. 

If they stay threescore minutes : the 
aqueity, 

Terreity, and sulphureity 

Shall run together again, and all be an- 
null'd, 

Thou wicked Ananias! {Exit Ananias.) 
This will fetch 'em. 

And make 'em haste towards their gull- 
ing more. 

A man must deal like a rough nurse, and 
fright 

Those that are froward, to an appetite. 



Scene 6. 

Subtle. Enter Face in his uniform, fol- 
lowed by Drugger. 

Face. He 's busy with his spirits, but 
we '11 upon him. 

Sub. How now ! What mates, what Bay- 
ards *^ ha' we here? 

Face. I told you he would be furious. — 
Sir, here 's Nab 
Has brought you another piece of gold to 

look on ; 
— We must appease him. Give it me, — 
and prays you. 



48 "Bayard, the type of chivalry and soldierly bearing, in allusion to 
Face's uniform and Drugger's smart bearing." (Schelling.) 



THE ALCHEMIST 



257 



You would devise — what is it, Nab"? 
Drug. A sign, sir. 

Face. Aye, a good lucky one, a thriving 

sign, doctor. 
Suh. I was devising now. 
Face. {Aside to Subtle.) 'Slight, do not 

say so, 
' He Avill repent he ga' you any more. — 
What say you to his constellation, doc- 
tor, 
The Balanced 
Sub. No, that way is stale and common. 
A townsman born in Taurus, gives the 

bull, 
Or the bull's head : in Aries, the ram. — 
A poor device ! No, I will have his 

name 
Form'd in some mystic character; whose 

radii, 
Striking the senses of the passers-by, 
Shall, by a virtual influence, breed affec- 
tions. 
That may result upon the party owns il : 

As thus 

Face. Nab ! 

Sub. He first shall have a bell, that 's 

Abel; 
And by it standing one whose name is 

In a rug gown, there 's D, and Rug, 

that 's drug; 
And right anenst him a dog snarling er; 
There 's Drugger, Abel Drugger. That 's 

his sign. 
And here 's now mystery and hiero- 
glyphic ! 
Face. Abel, thou art made. 
Drug. Sir, I do thank his worship. 

Face. Six o' thy legs ^° more will not do 
it. Nab. 
He has brought you a pipe of tobacco, 
doctor. 
Drug. Yes, sir; 

I have another thing I would impart 

Face. Out with it, Nab. 

Drug. Sir, there is lodg'd, hard by me, 

A rich young widow 

Face. Good ! a bona roba *? ^^ 

Drug. But nineteen at the most. 
Face. Very good, Abel. 

Drug. Many, she 's not in fashion yet ; 
she wears 
A hood, but 't stands a-cop.^^ 
Face. No matter, Abel. 

Drug. And I do now and then give her a 

fucus 

Face. What! dost thou deal, Nab"? 



Sub. I did tell you, captain. 

Drug. And physic too, sometime, sir; for 
which she trusts me 
With all her mind. She 's come up here 

of purjDose 
To learn the fashion. 
Face. Good (his match too!) — On, Nab. 
Drug. And she does strangely long to 

know her fortune. 
Face. God's lid, Nab, send her to the doc- 
tor, hither. 
Drug. Yes, I have spoke to her of his 
worship already ; 
But she 's afraid it will be blown abroad, 
And hurt her marriage. 
Face. Hurt it ! 't is the way 

To heal it, if 't were hurt ; to make it 

more 
FolloAv'd and sought. Nab, thou shalt 

tell her this. 
She'll be more known, more talk'd of; 

and your widows 
Are ne'er of any price till they be fa- 
mous ; 
Their honor is their multitude of suit- 
ors. 
Send her, it may be thy good fortune. 

What! 
Thou dost not know? 
Drug. No, sir, she 'II never many 

Under a knight : her bi'other has made a 
vow. 
Face. What ! and dost thou despair, my 
little Nab, 
Knowing what the doctor has set down 

for thee, 
And seeing so many o' the city dubb'd? 
One glass o' thy water, with a madam I 

know, 
Will have it done, Nab. What 's her 
brother? a knight? 
Drug. No, sir, a gentleman newly warm 
in 's land, sir. 
Scarce cold in his one and twenty, that 

does govern 
His sister here; and is a man himself 
Of some three thousand a year, and is 

come up 
To learn to quarrel, and to live by his 

wits, 
And will go down again, and die i' the 
country. 
Face. How ! to quarrel ? 
Drug. Yes, sir, to carry quarrels. 

As gallants do; to manage 'em by line. 
Face. 'Slid, Nab, the doctor is the only 
man 



49 Dr. John Dee (1527-1608), an 
astrologer of great repute. 



60 bows. 

51 handsome wench. 



52 on the top of the head. 



258 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



In Christendom for him. He has made 

a table, 
With mathematical demonstrations, 
Tonehing- the art of quarrels : he will give 

him 
An instrument to quarrel by. Go, bring 

'em both, 
Him and his sister. And, for thee, with 

her 
The doctor happ'ly may persuade. Go 

to: 
'Shalt give his worship a new damask 

suit 
Upon the premises. 
Sub. 0, good captain ! 

Face. He shall ; 

He is the honestest fellow, doctor. Stay 

not, 
No offers; bring the damask, and the 
parties. 
Drug. I '11 try my power, sir. 
Face. And thy will too. Nab. 

Suh. 'T is good tobacco, this ! What is 't 

an ounce"? 
Face. He'll send you a pound, doctor. 
Suh. no. 

Face. He will do 't. 

It is the goodest soul ! — Abel, about it. 
Thou shalt know more anon. Away, be 
gone. 

Ej:it Abel. 
A miserable rogue, and lives with cheese, 
And has the worms. That was the cause, 

indeed. 
Why he came now: he dealt with me in 

private. 
To get a med'cine for 'em. 
Sub. And shall, sir. This works. 

Face. A wife, a wife for one on 's, my 
dear Subtle! 
We '11 e'en draw lots, and he that fails, 

shall have 
The more in goods, the other has in tail. 
Sub. Rather the less; for she may be so 
light 
She may want grains. 
Face. Aye; or be such a burden, 

A man would scarce endure her for the 
whole. 
Sub. Faith, best let 's see her first, and 

then determine. 
Face. Content : but Dol must ha' no 

breath on 't. 
Sub. Mum. 

Away you, to your Surly yonder, catch 
him. 
Face, Pray God I ha' not stay'd too long. 
Sub. I fear it. 

Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. The lane before Lovewit's house. 

Enter Tribulation Wholesome and 
Ananias. 

Tri. These chastisements are common to 
the saints. 
And such rebukes we of the separation 
Must bear with willing shoulders, as the 

trials 
Sent forth to tempt our frailties. 
Ana. In pure zeal 

I do not like the man; he is a heathen, 
And speaks the language of Canaan, 
truly. 
Tri. I think him a profane person indeed. 
Ana. He bears 

The visible mark of the beast in his fore- 
head. 
And for his stone, it is a work of dark- 
ness. 
And with philosophy blinds the eyes of 
man. 
Tri. Good brother, we must bend unto all 
means 
That may give furtherance to the holy 
cause. 
Ana. Which his cannot: the sanctified 
cause 
Should have a sanctified course. 
Tri. Not always necessary: 

The children of perdition are oft times 
Made instruments even of the greatest 

works. 
Beside, we should give somewhat to man's 

nature. 
The place he lives in, still about the fire, 
And fume of metals, that intoxicate 
The brain of man, and make him prone 

to passion. 
Where have you greater atheists than 

your cooks'? 
Or more profane or choleric, than your 

glassmen *? 
More anti-Christian than your bell- 
founders "? 
What makes the devil so devilish, I would 

ask you, 
Satan, our common enemy, but his being 
Perpetually about the fire, and boiling 
Brimstone and arsenic*? We must give, 

I say. 
Unto the motives, and the stirrers up 
Of humors in the blood. It may be so, 
When as the work is done, the stone is 

made. 
This heat of his may turn into a zeal. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



259 



And stand up for the beauteous disci- 
pline 

Against the menstrous ^^ cloth and rag 
of Rome. 

We must await his calling, and the com- 
ing 

Of the good spirit. You did fault, t' uj?-, 
braid Inm f 

With the brethren's blessing of Heidel- 
berg, weighing 

What need we have to hasten on the 
work, 

For the restonng of the silene'd saints,^'^ 

Which ne'er will be but by the philoso- 
pher's stone. 

And so a learned elder, one of Scotland, 

Assur'd me J auriim potabile being 

The only med'cine for the civil magis- 
trate, 

T' incline him to a feeling of the cause; 

And must be daily us'd in the disease. 
Ana. I have not edified more, truly, by 
man; 

Not since the beautiful light first shone 
on me : 

And I am sad my zeal hath so offended. 
Tri. Let us call on him then. 
Ana. The motion 's good. 

And of the spirit ; I will knock first. 
(Knocks.) Peace be within! 
The door is opened, and they enter. 



Scene 2. A room in Lovewit's house. 

Enter Subtle, followed by Tribulation 
and Ananias. 



Suh. 



time. 



0, are you come ? 'T was 
Your threescore minutes 

Were at last thread, you see ; and down 
had gone 

Furnus acediae, turris circiilatorius : 

Lembic, bolt's-head, retort, and pelican 

Had all been cinders. Wicked Ananias ! 

Art thou returu'd"? Nay, then it goes 
down yet. 
Tri. Sir, be appeased ; he is come to hum- 
ble 

Himself in spirit, and to ask your pa- 
tience. 

If too much zeal hath carried him aside 

From the due path. 
Sub. Why, this doth qualify! 

Tri. The brethi'en had no purpose, verily. 

To give you the least grievance ; but are 
ready 



To lend their willing hands to any proj- 
ect 
The spirit and you direct. 
Sub. This qualifies more ! 

Tri. And for the orphans' goods, let them 

be valu'd, 
Or what is needful else to the holy work, 
It shall be numb'red; here, by me, the 

saints 
Throw down their purse before you. 
Sub. This qualifies most ! 

Why, thus it should be, now you under- 
stand. 
Have I discours'd so unto you of our 

stone, 
And of the good that it shall bring your 

cause? 
Show'd you (beside the main of hiring 

forces 
Abroad, drawing the Hollanders, your 

friends. 
From th' Indies, to serve you, with all 

their fleet) 
That even the med'cinal use shall make 

you a faction 
And party in the realm? As, put the 

case, 
That some great man in state, he have 

the gout. 
Why, you but send three drops of your 

elixir. 
You help him straight : there you have 

made a friend. 
Another has the palsy or the dropsy. 
He takes of your incombustible stuff, 
He 's young again : there you have made 

a friend. 
A lady that is past the feat of body, 
Though not of mind, and hath her face 

decay'd 
Beyond all cure of paintings, you restore 
With the oil of talc : there you have made 

a friend ; 
And all her friends. A lord that is a 

leper, 
A knight that has the bone-ache, or a 

squire 
That hath both these, you make 'em 

smooth and sound 
With a bare f ricace ^^ of your med'cine ; 

still 
You increase your friends. 
Tri. Aye, 't is very pregnant. 

Sub. And then the turning of this law- 
yer's pewter 

To plate at Christmas 

Ana. Christ-tide,^^ I pray you. 



53 polluted. 

54 Non-conformist 



ministers not al- 
lowed to preach. 



(Neilson.) 
55 rubbing. 



56 because the Puritans objected to the 
use of the word mass in Christmas. 



260 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Suh. Yet, Ananias! 

Ana. I have done. 

Sub. Or changing 

His parcel •''' gilt to massy gold. You 
cannot 

But raise you friends. Withal, to be of 
power 

To pay an array in the field, to buy 

The King of France out of his realms, or 
Spain 

Out of his Indies. What can you not 
do 

Against lords spiritual or temporal, 

That shall oppone ^^ you"? 
Tri. Verily, 't is true. 

We may be temporal lords ourselves, I 
take it. 
Suh. You may be anything, and leave off 
to make 

Long-winded exercises; or suck up 

Your ha! and hum! in a tune. I not 
deny, 

But such as are not graced in a state, 

May, for their ends, be adverse in reli- 
gion. 

And get a tune to call the flock together : 

For, to say sooth, a tune does much with 
women 

And other phlegmatic people; it is your 
bell. 
Ana. Bells are profane; a tune may be 

religious. 
Suh. No warning with you"? Then fare- 
well my patience. 

'Slight, it shall down ; I will not be thus 
tortur'd. 
Tri. I pray you, sir. 

Sub. All shall perish. I have spoke it. 
Tri. Let me find grace, sir, in your eyes; 
the man. 

He stands corrected ; neither did his zeal. 

But as your self, allow a tune some- 
where. 

Which now, being tow'rd the stone, we 
shall not need. 
Sub. No, nor your holy vizard, to win 
widows 

To give you legacies; or make zealous 
wives 

To rob their husbands for the common 
cause : 

Nor take the start of bonds broke but 
one day, 

And say they were forfeited by provi- 
dence. 

Nor shall you need o'er night to eat huge 
meals. 



To celebrate your next day's fast the 
better ; 

The whilst the brethren and the sisters 
humbled, 

Abate the stiffness of the flesh. Nor 
cast 

Before your hungry hearers scrupulous 
bones ; 

As whether a Christian may hawk or 
hunt, 

Or whether matrons of the holy assem- 
bly 

May lay their hair out, or wear doublets, 

Or have that idol, starch, about their 
linen. 
Ana. It is indeed an idol. 
Tri. Mind him not, sir. 

I do command thee, spirit (of zeal, but 
trouble ) , 

To peace within him ! Pray you, sir, 
go on. 
Suh. Nor shall you need to libel 'gainst 
the prelates, 

And shorten so your ears ^^ against the 
hearing 

Of the next wire-drawn grace. Nor of 
necessity 

Rail against plays, to please the alder- 
man 

Whose daily custard you devour; nor lie 

With zealous rage till you are hoarse. 
Not one 

Of these so singular arts. Nor call your- 
selves 

By names of Tribulation, Persecution, 

Restraint, Long-patience, and such like, 
affected 

By the whole family or wood ^° of you. 

Only for glory, and to catch the ear 

Of the disciple. 
Tri. Truly, sir, they are 

Ways that the godly brethren have in- 
vented, 

For propagation of the glorious cause, 

As very notable means, and whereby also 

Themseh'es grow soon, and profitably, fa- 
mous. 
Sub. 0, but the stone, all's idle to't! 
Nothing ! 

The art of angels, nature's miracle. 

The divine secret that doth fly in 
clouds 

From east to west : and whose tradition 

Is not from men, but spirits. 
Ana. I hate traditions; 

I do not trust them 

Tri. Peace ! 



57 partly. 



58 oppose. 



59 in the pillory. 



60 crowd. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



261 



Ana. They are popish all. 

I will not peace: I will not 

Tri. Ananias ! 

Ana. Please the profane, to grieve the 

godly; I may not. 
Sub. Well, Ananias, thou shalt overcome. 
Tri. It is an ignorant zeal that haunts 
him, sir: 
But truly else a very faithful brother, 
A botcher,^^ and a man by revelation 
That hath a competent knowledge of the 
truth. 
Sub. Has he a eomiDetent sum there i' the 
bag 
To buy the goods within? I am made 

guardian, 
And must, for charity and conscience' 

sake, 
Now see the most be made for my poor 

oi'phan ; 
Though I desire the brethren, too, good 

gainers : 
There they are within. When you have 

view'd and bought 'em, 
And ta'en the inventory of what they 

are, 
They are ready for projection; there's 

no more 
To do : cast on the med'cine, so much 

silver 
As there is tin there, so much gold as 

brass, 
I '11 gi' it you in by weight. 
Tri. But how long time, 

Sir, must the saints expect yet"? 
Sub. Let me see, 

How 's the moon now '? Eight, nine, ten 

days hence. 
He will be silver potate ; then three days 
Before he citronise.'^- Some fifteen days. 
The magisterium will be perfected. 
Anu. About the second day of the third 
week, 
In the ninth month? 
Sub, Yes, my good Ananias. 

Tri, What will the orphans' goods arise 

to, think you? 
Sub. Some hundred marks, as much as 
fill'd three cars. 
Unladed noAv: you'll make six millions 

of 'em 

But I must ha' more coals laid in. 
Tri. How? 

Sub. Another load, 

And then we ha' finish'd. We must now 

increase 
Our fire to ignis ardens; we are past. 
Fimus equinus, balnei, cineris, 

61 a mender of clothes or shoes. 62 turn 



And all those lenter '^^ heats. If the holy 

l^urse 
Should with this draught fall low, and 

that the saints 
Do need a present sum, I have a trick 
To melt the pewter you shall buy now 

instantly. 
And with a tincture make you as good 

Dutch dollars 
As any are in Holland. 
Tri. Can you so? 

Sub. Aye, and shall bide the third exami- 
nation. 
Ana, It will be joyful tidings to the 

brethren. 
Sub, But you must carry it secret. 
Tri. Aye ; but stay. 

This act of coining, is it lawful? 
Ana. Lawful! 

We know no magistrate : or, if we did, 
This 's foreign coin. 
Sub. It is no coining, sir. 

It is but easting. 
Tri. Ha ! you distinguish well : 

Casting of money may be lawful. 
Ana, 'T is, sir. 

Tri. Truly, I take it so. 
Suh. There is no scrui^le, 

Sir, to be made of it ; believe Ananias ; 
This case of conscience he is studied in. 
Tri. I '11 make a question of it to the 

brethren. 
Ana. The brethren shall approve it law- 
ful, doubt not. 
Where shall 't be done? 
Sub. For that we'll talk anon. 
{Knock icithout.) 
There 's some to speak with me. Go in, 

I pray you. 
And view the parcels. That 's the inven- 

tor^'. 
I '11 come to you straight. {Exeunt Tri. 
and Ana.) Who is it? — Face! ap- 
pear. 



Scene 3. 

Subtle. Enter Face in Ms uniform. 

Sub. How now! good prize? 

Face. Good pox ! Yond' costive cheater 

Never came on. 
Sub, How then? 

Face. I ha' walk'd the round 

Till now, and no such thing. 
Sub. And ha' you quit him? 



yellow. 



63 gentler. 



262 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Face. Quit him ! An hell would quit him 

too, he were happy. 
'Slight! would you have me stalk like a 

mill- jade, 
All day, for one that will not yield us 

gi'ains ? 
I know him of old. 
Suh. 0, but to ha' guU'd him, 

Had been a mastery. 
Face. Let him go, black boy ! ^^ 

And turn thee, that some fresh news may 

possess thee. 
A noble count, a don of Spain (my dear 
Delicious compeer, and my party-bawd), 
Who is come hither private for his con- 
science 
And brought munition Avith him, six 

great slops,^^ 
Bigger than three Dutch hoys,'^'' beside 

round trunks, 
Furnish'd with pistolets,^^ and pieces of 

eight, 
Will straight be here, my rogue, to have 

thy bath, 
(That is the eolor,*^**) and to make his 

batt'ry 
Upon our Dol, our castle, our cinqueport, 
Our Dover pier, our what thou wilt. 

Where is she"? 
She must prepare perfumes, delicate 

Imen, 
The bath in chief, a banquet, and her 

wit, 
For she must milk his epididimis. 
^Wliere is the dosyl 
Sub. I '11 send her to thee : 

And but despatch my brace of little John 

Leydens ^^ 
And come again myself. 
Face. Are they within then*? 

Suh. Numb'ring the sun. 
Face. How much'? 

Suh. A hundred marks, boy. 

Exit. 
Face. Why, this is a lucky day. Ten 

pounds of Mannnon ! 
Three o' my clerk! A portague o' my 

grocer ! 
This o' the brethren ! Beside reversions 
And states to come, i' the widow, and 

my count ! 
My share to-day will not be bought for 

forty 



Dol. 

64 knave. 

C5 large breeches. 



Enter Dol. 
What^ 

60 small sloops, 
or Spanish coins. 



Face. Pounds, dainty Dorothy ! Art thou 

so near'? 
Dol. Yes; say, lord general, how fares our 

camp*? 
Face. As with the few that had entrench'd 

themselves 
Safe, by their discipline, against a world, 

Dol, 
And laugh'd within those trenches, and 

grew fat 
With thinking on the booties, Dol, 

bronglit in 
Daily by their small parties. This dear 

hour, 
A doughty don is taken with my Dol ; 
And thou mayst make his ransom what 

thou wilt. 
My Dousabel; he shall be brought here, 

fetter'd 
With thy fair looks, before he sees thee ; 

and thrown 
In a down-bed, as dark as any dungeon ; 
Where thou shalt keep him waking with 

thy drum ; 
Thy drum, my Dol, thy drum ; till he be 

tame 
As the poor blackbirds were i' the great 

frost, 
Or bees are with a basin ; and so hive him 
P the swan-skin coverlid and cambric 

sheets. 
Till he work honey and wax, my little 

God's-gift.^° 
Dol. What is he, general? 
Face. An adalantado,"^ 

A gTandee, girl. Was not my Dapper 

here yet "? 
Dol. No. 

Face. Nor my Drugger'? 

Dol. " Neither. 

Face. A pox on 'em. 

They are so long a-f umisliing ! such 

stinkards 
Would not be seen upon these festival 

days. — 

Ee-enter Suhtle. 

How now ! ha' you done *? 
Suh.. Done. They are gone: the sum 

Is here in bank, my Face. I Avould we 

knew 
Another chapman now who would buy 
'em outright. 
Face. 'Slid, Nab shall do 't against he ha' 
the widow. 
To furnish household. 



G8 pretext. 

69 Leyden was an 
Anabaptist leader. 



70 the literal mean- 
ing of Dorothy. 



71 governor of a 
province. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



263 



I 



Sub. Excellent, well thought on : 

Pray God he come. 
Face. I pray he keep away 

Till our new business be o'erpast. 
b'ub. But, Face, 

How camst thou by this secret don f 
Face. A spirit 

Brought me th' intelligence in a paper 
here, 

As I was conjuring yonder in my cir- 
cle 

For Surly; I ha' my flies abroad. Your 
bath 

Is famous. Subtle, by my means. Sweet 
Dol, 

You must go tune your virginal, no 
losing 

0' the least time. And — do you hear?— 
good action ! 

Firk like a flounder; kiss like a scallop, 
close ; 

And tickle him with thy mother-tongue. 
His gTeat 

Verdugoship has not a jot of lan- 
guage ; 

So much the easier to be eozen'd, my 
Dolly. 

He will come here in a hir'd coach, ob- 
scure. 

And our own coachman, whom I have 
sent as guide. 

No creature else. {One knocks.) 
Who's that? 

Exit Dol. 
Sub. It is not hel 

Face. no, not yet this hour. 

Re-enter Dol. 

Sub. Who is 't? 

Dol. Dapper, 

Your clerk. 
Face. God's will then. Queen of Fairy, 

On with your tire; {Exit Dol.) and, doc- 
tor, with your robes. 
Let 's despatch him for God's sake. 
Sub. 'T will be long. 

Face. I warrant you, take but the cues I 
give you, 
It shall be brief enough. {Goes to the 

window.) 'Slight, here are more! 
Abel, and I think the angry boy, the 

heir. 
That fain would quarrel. 
Sub. And the widow"? 

Face. No, 

Not that I see. Away ! 

Exit Sub. 



Scene 4. 

Face. Enter Dapper^ 

Face. 0, sir, you are welcome. 

The doctor is within a moving for you; 
I have had the most ado to win him 

to it !— 
He swears you '11 be the darling o' the 

dice: 
He never heard her highness dote till 

now. 
Your aunt has giv'n you the most gra- 
cious words 
That can be thought on. 
Dap. Shall I see her grace 9 

Face. See her, and kiss her too. — 

Enter Abel, followed by Kastril. 

What, honest Nab! 
Hast brought the damask? 
Drug. No, sir; here's tobacco. 

Face. 'T is well done. Nab ; thou 'It bring 

the damask too? 
Drug. Yes. Here 's the gentleman, cap- 
tain, Master Kastril, 
I have brought to see the doctor. 
Face. Where 's the widow ? 

Drug. Sir, as he likes, his sister, he says, 

shall come. 
Face. 0, is it so? Good time. Is your 

name Kastril, sir? 
Kas. Aye, and the best o' the Kastrils, I 'd 
be sorry else. 
By hfteen hundred a year. Where is 

this doctor? 
My mad tobacco-boy here tells me of one 
That can do things. Has he any skill? 
Face. Wherein, sir? 

Kas. To carry a business, manage a quar- 
rel fairly, 
Upon fit terms. 
Face. It seems, sir, you 're but young 

About the town, that can make that a 
question. 
Kas. Sir, not so young but I have heard 
some speech 
Of the angry boys,^- and seen 'em take 

tobacco ; 
And in his shop ; and I can take it too. 
And I would fain be one of 'em, and go 

down 
And practise' i' the country. 
Face. Sir, for the duello, 

The doctor, I assure you, shall inform 

you. 
To tiie least shadow of a hair; and show 
you 

72 "roaring boys," bravadoes. 



264 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



An instrument he has of his own mak- 

Wherewith, no sooner shall you make 

report 
Of any quarrel, but he will take the 

height on 't 
Most instantly, and tell in what degree 
Of safety it lies in, or mortality. 
And how it may be borne, whether in a 

right line, 
Or a half circle; or may else be cast 
Into an angle blunt, if not acute : 
And this he will demonstrate. And then, 

rules 
To give and take the lie by. 
Kas. How ! to take it 1 

Face. Yes, in oblique he '11 show you, or 
in circle ; '^^ 
But ne'er m diameter.'^* The whole town 
Study his theorems, and dispute them 

ordinarily 
At the eating academies. 
Kas. , But does he teach 

Living by the wits tool 
Face. Anything whatever. 

You cannot think that subtlety but he 

reads it. 
He made me a captain. I was a stark 

pimp. 
Just o' your standing, 'fore I met with 

him ; 
It 's not two months since. I '11 tell you 

his method : 
First, he will enter you at some ordi- 
nary. 
Kas. No, I '11 not come there : you shall 

pardon me. 
Face. For why, sir? 

Kas. There 's gaming there, and tricks. 
Face. Why, would you be 

A gallant, and not game? 
Kas. Aye, 't will spend a man. 

Face. Spend you ! It will repair you 
when you are spent. 
How do they live by their wits there, that 

have vented 
Six times your fortunes'? 
Kas. What, three thousand a year! 

Face. Aye, forty thousand. 
Kas. Are there such? 

Face. Aye, sir, 

And gallants yet. Here 's a young gen- 
tleman 
Is born to nothing. — (Points to Dapper.) 

forty marks a year 
Which I count nothing : — he 's to be in- 
itiated. 



73 the lie circum- 
Etuntial. 



71 the lie direct. charse of 

7ri an official having gaming at 



And have a fly o' the doctor. He will 
win you 

By unresistible luck, within this fort 
night. 

Enough to buy a barony. They will set 
him 

Upmost, at the groom porter's,^^ all the 
Christmas : 

And for the whole year through at every 
place 

Where there is play, present him with 
the chair. 

The best attendance, the best drink, some- 
times 

Two glasses of Canary, and pay noth- 
ing; 

The iDurest linen and the sharpest knife, 

The partridge next his trencher: and 
somewhere 

The dainty bed, in private, with the 
dainty. 

You shall ha' your ordinaries bid for 
him, 

As playhouses for a poet ; and the mas- 
ter 

Pray him aloud to name what dish he af- 
fects, 

Which must be butter'd shrimps : and 
those that drink 

To no mouth else, will drink to his, as 
being 

The goodly president mouth of all the 
board. 
Kas. Do you not gull one? 
Face. 'Odsmylife! Do you think it? 

You shall have a cast ''^ commander, 
(can but get 

In credit with a glover, or a spurrier. 

For some two pair of cither's ware afore- 
hand,) 

Will, by most swift posts, dealing [but] 
with him, 

Arrive at comioetent means to keep him- 
self. 

His punk, and naked boy, in excellent 
fashion. 

And be admir'd for 't. 
Kas. Will the doctor teach this? 

Face. He will do more, sir : when your 
land is gone, 

(As men of spirit hate to keep earth 
long), 

In a vacation,''^ Avhen small money is stir- 
ring, 

And ordinaries suspended till the term. 

He '11 show a perspective,^^ wliere on one 
side 

the 76 discharged. the law-courts, 

court. 77 between terms of 78 conjuror's glass. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



265 



I 



You shall behold the faces and the per- 


Face. As he was fain to be brought home. 


sons 


The doctor told me : and then a good old 


Of all sufficient young heirs in town, 


woman 


Whose bonds are current for com- 


Drug. Yes, faith, she dwells in Seacoal- 


modity; ■'^ 


lane, — did cure me 


On th' other side, the merchants' forms, 


With sodden ale, and pellitory o' the 


and others, 


wall; 81 


That without help of any second broker, 


Cost me but twopence. I had another 


Who would expect a share, will trust 


sickness 


such parcels : 


Was worse than that. 


In the third square, the very street and 


Face. Aye, that was with the grief 


sign 


Thou took'st for being cess'd *' at eight- 


Where the commodity dwells, and does 


een-pence, 


but wait 


For the waterwork. 


To be deliver'd, be it pepper, soap. 


Drug. In truth, and it was like 


Hops, or tobacco, oatmeal, woad,^° or 


T' have cost me almost ray life. 


cheeses. 


Face. Thy hair went off? 


All which you may so handle, to enjoy 


Drug. Yes, sir; 'twas done for spite. 


To your own use, and never stand 


Face. Nay, so says the doctor. 


oblig'd. 


Kas. Pray thee, tobacco-boy, go fetch my 


Kas. V faith ! is he such a fellow ? 


suster ; 


Face. Why, Nab here knows him. 


I '11 see this learned boy before I go ; 


And then for making matches for rich 


And so shall she. 


widows. 


Face. Sir, he is busy now: 


Young gentlewomen, heirs, the fortu- 


But if you have a sister to fetch hither. 


nat'st man ! 


Perhaps your own pains may command 


He 's sent to, far and near, all over Eng- 


her sooner; 


land, 


And he by that time will be free. 


To have his counsel, and to know their 


Kas. I go. 


fortunes. 


Exit. 


Kas. God 's will, my suster shall see him. 


Face. Drugger, she 's thine : the damask ! 


Face. I '11 tell you, sir. 


— {Exit Abel.) Subtle and I 


What he did tell me of Nab. It's a 


Must wrastle for her. {Aside.) Come 


strange thing — 


on. Master Dapper, 


(By the way, you must eat no cheese. 


You see how I turn clients here away. 


Nab, it breeds melancholy, 


To give your cause dispatch; ha' you 


And that same melancholy breeds worms) 


perform'd 


but pass it :^- 


The eetemonies were enjoin'd you? 


He told me, honest Nab here was ne'er at 


Dap. Yes, o' the vinegar, 


tavern 


And the clean shirt. 


But once in 's life. 


Face. 'T is well : that shirt may do you 


Drug. Truth, and no more I was not. 


More worship than you think. Your 


Face. And then he was so sick 


aunt's afire, 


Drug. Could he tell you that too 1 


But that she will not show it, t' have a 


Face. How should I know it ? 


sight of you. 


Drug. In troth, we had been a shoot- 


Ha' you provided for her grace's serv- 


ing; 


ants? 


And had a piece of fat ram-mutton to 


Dup. YeSt here are six score Edward shil- 


supper, 


lings. 


That lay so heavy o' my stomach 


Face. Good I 


Face. And he has no head 


Dap. And an old Harry's sovereign. 


To bear any wine; for what with the 


Face. Very good F 


noise o' the fiddlers, 


Dap. And three James shillings, and an 


And care of his shop, for he dares keep 


Elizabeth groat. 


no servants 


Just twenty nobles. 


Drug. My head did so ache 


Face. 0, you are too just. 



79 The reference is to the "commodity" fraud, in which a 
borrower was obliged to take part of a loan in merchan- 
dise, which the lender frequently bought back by agents for 
much, less than it represented in the loan. (Neilson.) 



80 used for blue dye. 

81 wall pellitory, a 
plant growing in 
old walls. 



82 assessed. 



266 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I would you had had the other noble in 
Maries. 
Dap. I have some Philip and Maries. 
Face. Aye, those same 

Are best of all: where are they? Hark, 
the doctor. 



Scene 5. 

Face, Dapper. Enter Subtle, disguised 
like a priest of Fairy with a strip of 
cloth. 

Sub. {In a feigned voice.) Is yet her 

grace's cousin come? 
Face. He is come. 

Sub. And is he fasting? 
Face. Yes. 

Sub. And hath cried "hum"? 

Face. Thrice, you must answer. 
Dap. Thrice. 

Sub. And as oft "buz"? 

Face. If you have, say. 
Dap. I have. 

Sub. Then, to her coz, 

Hoping that he hath vinegar'd his senses, 
As he was bid, the Fairy queen dis- 
penses, 
By me, this robe, the petticoat of For- 
tune; 
Which that he straight put on, she doth 

importune. 
And though to Fortune near be her petti- 
coat, 
Yet nearer is her smock, the queen doth 

note: 
And therefore, even of that a piece she 

hath sent. 
Which, being a child, to wrap him in was 

rent ; 
And prays him for a scarf he now will 

wear it, 
With as much love as then her grace did 

tear it, 
About his eyes (They blind him with the 

rag.) to show he is fortunate. 
And, trusting unto her to make his state. 
He '11 throw away all worldly pelf about 

him ; 
Which that he will perform, she doth not 
doubt him. 
Face. She need not doubt him, sir. Alas, 
he has nothing 
But what he will part withal as willingly, 
Upon her grace's word — throw away 
your purse — 

83 honestly. 



As she would ask it : — handkerchiefs and 

all- 
She cannot bid that thing but he'll 

obey. — 
If you have a ring about you, cast it off, 
Or a silver seal at your wrist; her grace 
will send 
{He throws away, as they bid him.) 
Her fairies here to search you, therefore 

deal 
Directly ^^ with her highness : if they 

find 
That you conceal a mite, you are undone. 
Dap. Truly, there 's all. 
Face. All what? 

Dap. My money; truly. 

Face. Keep nothing that is transitory 
about you. 
{Aside to Subtle.) Bid Dol play music, 
— Look, the elves are come 
{Dol enters with a cittern.) 
To pinch you, if you tell not the truth. 
Advise you. 

{They pinch him.) 
Dap. ! I have a paper with a spur- 

ryal ^'^ in 't. 
Face. Ti, ti. 

They knew 't, they say. 
Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti. He has more yet. 

Face. Ti, ti-ti-ti. I' the other pocket? 
Sub'. Titi, titi, titi, titi, titi. 

They must pinch him or he will never 
confess, they say. 

{They pinch him again.) 
Dap. 0, ! ■ 

Face. Nay, pray you, hold: he is her 
grace's nephew. 
Ti, ti, ti? What care you? Good faith, 

you shall care. — 
Deal plainly, sir, and shame the fairies. 

Show 
You are innocent. 
Dap. By this good light, I ha' nothing. 

Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti, to, ta. He does equivo- 
cate she says : 
Ti, ti do ti, ti ti do, ti da; and swears 
by the light when he is blinded. 
Dap. By this good dark, I ha' nothing but 
a half-crown 
Of gold about my wrist, that my love 

gave me ; 
And a leaden heart I wore sin' she for- 
sook me. 
Face. I thought 't was something. And 
would you incur 
Your aunt's displeasui'e for these trifles? I 
Come, 

84 a gold coin worth 15s. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



267 



I had rather you had thrown away 
twenty half-crowns. 

(Takes it off.) 
You may wear your leaden heart still. — 
How now ! 
Suh. What news, Dol? 
Dol. Yonder 's your knight, Sir Mammon. 
Face. God's lid, we never thought of him 
till now ! 
Where is he^ 
Dol. Here hard by. He 's at the door. 

Suh. And you are not ready now ! Dol, 
get his suit. 

Exit Dol. 
He must not be sent back. 
Face. 0, by no means. 

What shall we do with this same puffin ^^ 

here, 
Now he 's o' the spif? 
Suh. Why, lay him back awhile, 

With some device. 

Ee-enter Dol icith Face's clothes. 

— Ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, ti. Would her 
grace speak with me? 
I come. — Help, Dol ! 

(Knocking without.) 
Face. (Speaks through the keyhole.) — 
Who 's there ? Sir Epicure, 
My master 's i' the way. Please you to 

walk 
Three or four turns, but till his back be 

turn'd, 
And I am for you. — Quickly, Dol ! 
Sub. Her grace 

Commends her kindly to you, Master 
Dapper. 
Dap. I long to see her grace. 
Sub. She now is set 

At dinner in her bed, and she has sent 

you 
From her own private trencher, a dead 

mouse. 
And a piece of gingerbread, to be meri-y 

withal, 
And stay your stomach, lest you faint 

with fasting: 
Yet if you could hold out till she saw 

you, she says. 
It would be better for you. 
Face. Sir, he shall 

Hold out, an 't were this two hours, for 

her highness; 
I can assure you that. We will not lose 

All we ha' done. 

Suh. He must not see, nor speak 

85 fool. S6 



To anybody, till then. 
Face. For that we '11 put, sir, 

A stay in 's mouth. 
Sub. Of what? 

Face. Of gingerbread. 

Make you it fit. He that hath pleas'd 

her grace 
Thus far, shall not now crinkle ^"^ for a 

little. 

Gape, sir, and let him fit you. 
(They thrust a gag of gingerbread into his 
mouth.) 

Sub. Where shall we now 

Bestow him? 

Dol. I' the privy. 

Suh. Come along, sir, 

I must now show you Fortune's privy 
lodgings. 
Face. Are they perfum'd, and his bath 

ready? 
Suh. All : 

Only the fumigation 's somewhat strong. 
Face. (Speaking through the keyhole.) 
Sir Epicui'e, I am vours, sir, bv and 
by." 

Exeunt with Dapper. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. 

Enter Face and Mammon. 

Face. 0, sir, you 're come i' the only finest 
time. 

Mam. Where's master? 

Face. Now preparing for projection, sir. 
Your stuff will be all ehang'd shortly. 

Mam. " Into gold? 

Face. To gold and silver, sir. 

Mam. Silver I care not for. 

Face. Yes, sir, a little to give beggars. 

Mam. Wliere's the lady? 

Face. At hand here. I ha' told her such 
brave things o' you, 
Touching your bounty and your noble 
spirit 

Mam. Hast thou? 

Face. As she is almost in her fit to see 
you. 
But, good sir, no divinity i' your con- 
ference. 
For fear of putting her in rage. 

Mam. I warrant thee. 

Face. Six men will not hold her down. 
And then, 

aver. 87 immediately. 



268 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



If the old man should hear or see 

you 

Mam. Fear not. 

Face. The very house, sir, would run mad. 
You know it, 
How scrupulous he is, and violent, 
'Gainst the least act of Gin. Physic or 

mathematics. 
Poetry, state,*** or bawdry, as I told you, 
She will endure, and ncAe'r startle; but 
No word of controversy. 
Mam. I am school'd, cood Ulen. 

Face. And you must praise her house, re- 
member that, 
And her nobility. 
Mam. Let me alone: 

No herald, no, nor antiquaiy, Lungs, 
Shall do it better. Go. 
Face. (Aside.) ^Vhy, this is yet 

A kind of modern happiness,''^ to have 
Dol Common for a great lady. 

Exit. 

Mam. Now, Epicure, 

Heighten thyself, talk to her all in gold: 

Rain her as many showers as Jove did 

drops 
Unto his Danae; show the god a miser, 
Compar'd with Mammon. What ! the 

stone will do 't. 
She shall feel gold, taste gold, hear gold, 

sleep srold ; 
Nay, we will concumhere gold: I will be 

puissant, 
And mighty in my talk to her. — 

He-enter Face with Dol richly dressed. 

Here she comes. 
Face. To him, Dol. suckle him. This is 

the noble knight 

I told your ladyship 

Mam. Madam, with your pardon, 

I kiss your vesture. 
Dol. Sir, I were uncivil 

If I would suffer that ; my lip to you, sir. 
Mam. I hope my lord your brother be in 

health, lady. 
Dol. My lord my brother is, though I no 

lady, sir. 
Face. (Aside.) Well said, my Guinea 

bird. 

Mam. Right noble madam 

Face. (Aside.) 0, we shall have most 

fierce idolatry. 
Mam. 'T is your prerogative. 
Dol. Rather your courtesy. 

Mam. Were there nought else t' enlarge 

your virtues to me, 

88 politics. 



These answers speak your breeding and 
your blood. 
Dol. Blood we boast none, sir; a poor 

baron's daughter. 
Mam. Poor! and gat you? Profane not. 
Had your father 
Slept all the happy remnant of his life 
After that act, lain but there still, and 

panted. 
He 'd done enough to make himself, his 

issue, 
And his posterity noble. 
Dol. Sir, although 

We may be said to want the gilt and 

trappings. 
The dress of honor, yet we strive to keep 
The seeds and the materials. 
Mam. I do see 

The old ingredient, virtue, was not lost, 
Nor the drug money us'd to make your 

compound. 
There is a strange nobility i' your eye, 
This lip, that chin ! Methinks you do re- 

f emble 
One o' the Austriac princes. 
Face. (Aside.) Very like! 

Her father was an Irish costeraionger. 
Mam. The house of Valois just had such 
a nose, 
And such a forehead yet the Medici 
Of Florence boast. 
Dol. Troth, and I have been lik'ned 

To all these princes. 
Face. (Aside.) I'll be sworn, I heard it. 
Mam. I know not how ! it is not any one, 
But e'en the very choice of all their fea- 
tures. 
Face. (Aside.) I'll in, and laugh. 

Exit. 
Mam. A certain touch, or air, 

That sparkles a divinity beyond 
An earthly beauty ! 
Dol. O, you play the courtier. 

Mam. Good lady, gi' me leave 

Dol. In faith, I may not, 

To mock me, sir. 
Mam. To burn i' this sweet flame ; 

The phoenix never knew a nobler death. 
Dol. Nay, now you court the courtier, and 
destroy 
What you would build. This art, sir, i' 

your words. 
Calls your whole faith in question. 

Mam. By my soul 

Dol. Nay, oaths are made o' the same air, 

sir. 
Mam. Nature 

Never bestow'd upon mortality 

89 up-to-date fitness. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



269 



A more unblam'd, a more harmonious 
feature ; 

She play'd the step-dame in all faces 
else: 

Sweet madam, le' me be particular 

Dol. Particular, sir! I pray you, know 

your distance. 
Mam. In no ill sense, sweet lady : but to 
ask 

How your fair g'races pass the hours'? I 
see 

You 're lodg'd here, i' the house of a rare 
man. 

An excellent artist : but what 's that to 
you? 
Dol. Yes, sir; I study here the mathe- 
matics and distillation. 
Mam. 0, I cry your pardon. 

He's a divine instructor! can extract 

The souls of all thins^s by his art ; call 
all 

The virtues, and the miracles of the sun, 

Into a temperate furnace ; teach dull na- 
ture 

What her own forces are. A man, the 
emp'ror 

Has courted above Kelly ; ^° sent his 
medals 

And chains, t' invite him. 

Dol. Aye, and for his physic, sir 

Mam. Above the art of .L^sculapius, 

That drew the envy of the Thunderer! 

I know all this, and more. 
Dol. Troth, I am taken, sir. 

Whole with these studies that contem- 
plate nature. 
Mam. It is a noble humor; but this form 

Was not intended to so dark a use. 

Had you been crooked, foul, of some 
coarse mould, 

A cloister had done well; but such a 
feature, 

That might stand up the glory of a king- 
dom, 

To live recluse is a mere solecism. 

Though in a nunnery. It nuist not be. 

I muse, my lord your brother will per- 
mit it : 

You should spend half my land first, 
were I he. 

Does not this diamond better on my fin- 
ger 

Than i' the quarry? 
Dol. Yes. 

Mam. Why, you are like it. 

You were created, lady, for the light. 

Here, you shall wear it; take it, the first 
pledge 

90 An astrologer, and associate of John Dee 



Of what I speak, to bind you to believe 
me. 
Dol. In chains of adamant? 
Mam. Yes, the strongest bands. 

And take a secret too. — Here, by your 

side. 
Doth stand this hour the happiest man in 
Europe. 
Dol. You are contented, sir? 
Mam. Nay, in true being. 

The envy of princes and the fear of 
states. 
Dol. Say you so, Sir Epicure? 
Mam. Yes, and thou shalt prove it, 

Daughter of honor. I have cast mine 

eye 
Upon thy form, and I will rear this 

beauty 
Above all styles. 
Dol. You mean no treason, sir? 

Mam. No, I will take away that jealousy. 
I am the lord of the philosopher's 

stone, 
And thou the lady. 
Dol. How, sir! ha' you that? 

Mam. I am the master of the mastery. 
This day the good old wretch here o' the 

house 
Has made it for us : now he 's at projec- 
tion. 
Think therefore thy first wish now, let 

me hear it ; 
And it shall rain into thy lap, no shower, 
But floods of gold, whole cataracts, a del- 
uge. 
To get a nation on thee. 
Dol. You are pleas'd, sir. 

To work on the ambition of our sex. 
Mam. I am pleas'd the gloiy of her sex 
should know, 
This nook here of the Friars is no cli- 
mate 
For her to live obscurely in, to learn 
Physic and surgery, for the constable's 

wife 
Of some odd hundred in Essex; but come 

forth, 
And taste the air of palaces ; eat, drink 
The toils of empirics, and their boasted 

practice ; 
Tincture of pearl, and coral, gold, and 

amber ; 
Be seen at feasts and triumphs; have it 

ask'd, 
What miracle she is ; set all the eyes 
Of court a-fire, like a burning glass. 
And work 'em into cinders, when the 
jewels 

the emperor is Rudolph II of Germany. 



270 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 


Of twenty states adorn thee, and the 


Mam. Excellent ! Lungs, There 's for 


light 


thee.. 


Strikes out the stars thai, when thy name 


(Gives him money.) 


is mention'd, 


Face. But do you hearf 


Queens may look pale; and, we but show- 


Good sir, beware, no mention of the rab- 


ing our love, 


bins. 


Nero's Poppsea may be lost in story ! 


Mam. We think not on 'em. 


Thus will we have it. 


Exeunt Mam. and Dol. 


Dol. I could well consent, sir. 


Face. 0, it is well, sir. — Subtle ! 


But in a monarchy, how will this be"? 




The prince will soon take notice, and 




both seize 


Scene 2. 


You and your stone, it being a wealth 




unfit 


Face. Enter Subtle. 


For any private subject. 




Mam. If he knew it. 


Dost thou not laugh 1 


Dol. Yourself do boast it, sir. 


Sub. Yes; are they gone'? 


Mam. To thee, my life. 


Face. All 's clear. 


Dol. 0, but beware, sir! You may come 


Sub. The widow is come. 


to end 


Face. And your quarreling disciple? 


The remnant of your days in a loath'd 


Sub. Aye. 


prison, 


Face. I must to my captainship again 


By speaking of it. 


then. 


Mam. 'T is no idle fear. 


Sub. Stay, bring 'em in first. 


We '11 therefore go with all, my girl, and 


Face. So I meant. What is she? 


live 


A bonnibel? 


In a free state, Avhere we will eat our 


Sub. I know not. 


mullets, 


Face. We '11 draw lots : 


Sous'd in high-country wines, sup pheas- 


You'll stand to that? 


ants' eggs, 


Sub. What else? 


And have our cockles boil'd in silver 


Face. 0, for a suit. 


shells ; 


To fall now like a curtain, flap ! 


Our shrimps to swim again, as when they 


Sub. To th' door, man. 


liv'd, 


Face. You '11 ha' the first kiss, 'cause I am 


In a rare butter made of dolphins' milk, 


not ready. 


Whose cream does look like opals; and 


Exit. 


with these 


Siib. Yes, and perhaps hit you through 


Delicate meats set ourselves high for 


both the nostrils. 


pleasure, 


Face. (Within.) Who w^ould you speak 


And take us down again, and then renew 


with ? 


Our youth and strength with drinking the 


Kas. (Within.) Where 's the captain ? 


elixir. 


Face. (Within.) Gone, sir, 


And so enjoy a perpetuity 


About some business. 


Of life and lust! And thou shall ha' 


Kas. (Within.) Gone! 


thy wardrobe 


Face. (Within.) He '11 return straight. 


Richer than Nature's, still to change thy- 


But, master doctor, his lieutenant, is 


self. 


here. 


And vary oft'ner, for thy pride, than 




she, 


Enter Kastril, followed by Dame Pliant. 


Or Art, her wise and almost-equal serv- 




ant. 


Sub. Come near, my worshipful boy, 7ny 




terrae ftli, 


Ee-enter Face.' 


That is, my boy of land; make thy ap- 
proaches : 
Welcome; I know thy lusts and thy de- 


Face. Sir, you are too loud. I hear you 


every word 


sires, 


Into the laboratory. Some fitter place; 


And I will serve and satisfy 'em. Begin, 


The garden, or great chamber above. 


Charge me from thence, or thence, or in 


How like you her? 


this line; 



THE ALCHEMIST 



271 



Here is iny eenti'e : ground thy quarrel. 

Kas. You lie. 

Suh. How, child of wrath and anser ! the 

loud lid 

For what, my sudden boy? 

Kas. ^^ay? that look you to, 

I am aforeband. 
Suh. 0, this is no true grammar, 

And as ill logic ! You must render 

causes, child, 
Your first and second intentions, know 

your canons 
And your divisions, moods, degrees, and 

differences, 
Your jiredicaments, substance, and acci- 
dent. 
Series extern and intern, with their 

causes. 
Efficient, material, formal, final. 
And ha' your elements perfect? 
Kas. AYhat is this? 

The angry tongue he talks in? 
Suh. That false precept, 

Of being aforeband, has deeeiv'd a num- 
ber, 
And made 'em enter quarrels oftentimes 
Before they were aware ; and afterward, 
Against their wills. 
Kas. How must I do then, sir? 

Sub. I cry this lady mercy ; she should 
first 
Have been saluted. {Kisses her.) I do 

call you lady. 
Because you are to be one ere 't be long, 
My soft and buxom widow. 
Kas. Is she, i' faith ? 

Suh. Yes, or my art is an egregious liar. 
Kas. How know you? 
Suh. By inspection on her forehead, 

And subtlety of her lip, which must be 

tasted 
Often to make a judgment. (Kisses Tier 

again.) 'Slight, she melts 
Like a myrobolane.'*^ Here is yet a line, 
In rivo frontis, tells me he is no knight. 
Dame P. What is he then, sir? 
Sub. Let me see your hand. 

O, your Unea fortunae makes it plain ; 
And Stella here in monte "generis. 
But, most of all, junctura annularis. 
He is a soldier, or a man of art, lady. 
But shall have some great honor shortly. 
Dame P. Brother, 

He 's a rare man, believe me ! 

Re-enter Face, in his uniform. 

Kas. Hold your peace. 

91 a dried plum, a sweetmeat. 



Here comes t' other rare man. — 'Save 
you, captain. 
Face. Good Master Kastril I Is this your 

sister? 
Kas. Aye, sir. 

Please you to kuss her, and be proud to 
know her. 
Face. I shall be proud to know you, lady. 

{Kisses her.) 
Dame P. Brother, 

He calls me lady, too. 
Kas. Aye, peace : I heard it. 

{Takes her aside.) 
Face. The count is come. 
Suh. Where is he? 

Face. At the door. 

Suh. Why, you must entertain him. 
Face. What will you do 

With these the while? 
Sub. Why, have 'em up, and show 'em 

Some fustian ^^ book, or the dark glass. 
Face. 'Fore God, 

She is a delicate dabehick ! I must have 
her. 

Exit. 
Sub. (Aside.) Must you! Aye, if your 
foi'tune will, you must. — 
Come, sir, the captain will come to us 

presently : 
I '11 ha' you to my chamber of demonstra- 
tions, 
Where I '11 show you both the grammar 

and logic. 
And rhetoric of quarreling; my whole 

method 
Drawn out in tables; and my instrument. 
That hath the several scales upon 't shall 

make you 
Able to quarrel at a straw's-breadth by 

moonlight. 
And, lady, I '11 have you look in a glass, 
Some half an hour, but to clear your eye- 
sight. 
Against you see your fortune; which is 

greater 
Than I may judge upon the sudden, trust 
m.e. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Face. 

Face. Where are you, doctor? 

Suh. (Within.) I'll come to you pres- 
ently. 

Face. I will ha' this same widow, now I 
ha' seen her, 



02 full of incomprehensible jargon. 



272 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



On any composition.^^ 

Enter Subtle. 



Sub. 

Face. 

Sub. 

Face. 



What do you say? 
Ha' you dispos'd of them"? 

I ha' sent 'em up. 
Subtle, in troth, I needs must have 
tliis widow. 
Sub. Is that the matter? 
Face. Nay, but hear me. 

Sub. Go to. 

If you rebel once, Dol shall know it all : 
Therefore be quiet, and obey your chance. 
Face. Nay, thou art so violent now. Do 
but conceive, 

Thou art old, and canst not serve 

Sub. Who cannot? I? 

'Slight, I will serve her with thee, for 

a 

Face. Nay, 

But understand : I '11 gi' you composition. 
Sub. I will not treat with thee. What ! 
sell my fortune? 
'T is better than my birthright. Do not 

murnuir : 
Win her, and cany her. If you gTum- 

ble, Dol 
Knows it directly. 
Face. Well, sir, I am silent. 

Will you go help to fetch in Don in 
state? 

Exit. 
Sub. I follow you, sir. We must keep 
Face in awe. 
Or he will overlook us like a tyrant. 

Re-enter Face, introducing Surly like a 
Spaniard. 

Brain of a tailor! who comes here? 
Don John ! 
Sur. Senores, beso las manos a vuestras 

mercedes.^^ 
Sub. Would you had stoop'd a little, and 

kist our anos. 
Face. Peace, Subtle ! 

Sub. Stab me; I shall never hold, man. 
He looks in that deep ruff like a head in 

a platter, 
Serv'd in by a short cloak upon two tres- 
tles. 
Face. Or what do you say to a collar of 
brawn ,^^ cut down 
Beneath the souse,^^ and wriggled ^'^ with 
a knife? 



93 on any terms. !>G nnder the ears. 

94 "Sirs, I kiss your 07 slashed (so that it 
hands." looks like a ruff). 

95 a rolled-up piece os The Duke of 
of boar's flesh. Alva, pcovernor of 



Sub. 'Slud, he does look too fat to be a 

Spaniard. 
Face. Perhaps some Fleming or some 
Hollander got him 
In d' Alva's '•'8 time; Count Egmont's '^^ 
bastard. 
Sub. Don, 

Your scurvy, yellow, Madrid face is wel- 
come. 
Sur. Gratia. 

Sub. He speaks out of a fortification. 

Pray God he ha' no squibs in those deep 
sets.^ 
Sur. For dios, senores, muy linda casa!- 
Sub. What says he? 
Face. Praises the house, I think; 

I know no more but 's action. 
Sub. Yes, the casa, 

My precious Diego, will prove fair 

enough 
To cozen you in. Do you mark? You 

shall 
Be cozened, Diego. 
Face. Cozened, do you see. 

My Avorthy Donzel,^ cozened. 
Sur. Entiendo.^ 

Sub. Do you intend it? So do we, dear 
Don. 
Have you brought pistolets or portagues. 
My solemn Don? {To Face.) Dost 
thou feel any? 
Face. {Feels his pockets.) Full. 

Sub. You shall be emptied, Don, pumped 
and drawn 
Dry, as they say. 
Face. Milked, in troth, sweet Don. 

Sub. See all the monsters; the great lion 

of all, Don. 
Sur. Con Ucencia, se puede ver a esta se- 

nora f ^ 
Sub. What talks he now? 
Face. Of the senora. 

Sub. 0, Don, 

This is the lioness, which you shall see 
Also, my Don. 
Face. 'Slid, Subtle, how shall we do? 

Sub. For what? 

Face. Why, Dol 's employ'd, you know. 

Sub. That's true. 

'Foi'e heav'n I know not : he must stay, 

that 's all. 

Face. Stay ! that he must not by no means. 

S%ib. No! why? 

Face. Unless you '11 mar all. 'Slight. 

he '11 suspect it ; 

the Nethei'lands, i folds. 4 "T understand." 

l.'>67-73 2 "Gad, sirs, a very 5 "If you please, 
90 .\ Flemish leader. pretty house." may I see the 

e.xecuted by Alva. 3 squire. lady ?" 



THE ALCHEMIST 



273 



And then be will not pay, not half so 

well. 
This is a travell'd jjunk-niaster, and does 

know 
All the delays ; a notable hot rascal, 
And looks already rampant. 
Suh. 'Sdeath, and Mammon 

Must not be troubled. 
Face. Mammon ! in no ease. 

Suh. What shall we do then"? 
Face. Think : you must be sudden. 

Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan 
hermosa, que codicio tan a verla como la 
hien aventiiranza de mi vida.^ 
Face. Mi vida! 'Slid, Subtle, he puts me 
in mind o' the widow.' 
What dost thou say to draw her to 't, 

ha! 
And tell her 'tis her fortune? All our 

venture 
Now lies upon 't. It is but one man 

more, 
Which on 's chance to have her : and be- 
side. 
There is no maidenhead to be fear'd or 

lost. 
What dost thou think on 't. Subtle? 

Sub. \Ylio, U why 

Face. The credit of our house too is en- 

gag-'d. 
Suh. You made me an offer for my share 
ere-while. 
What wilt thou gi' me, i' faith f 
Face. 0, by that light 

I '11 not buy now. You know your 

doom ''' to me. 
E'en take your lot, obey your chance, sir; 

win her. 
And wear her out, for me. 
Sub. 'Slight, I '11 not work her then. 

Face. It is the common cause; therefore 
bethink you. 
Dol else must know it, as you said. 
Suh. I care not. 

Sur. Senores, porque se tarda tanto? ^ 
Suh. Faith, I am not tit, I am old. 
Face. That 's now no reason, sir. 

Sur. Puede ser de hazer hurla de mi 

amorf ° 
Face. You hear the Don too? By this air 
I call. 
And loose the hinges. Dol ! 

Sub. A plague of hell 

Face. Will you then do? 

Suh. You 're a terrible rogue ! 



I 'II think of this. Will you, sir, call the 
widow ? 
Face. Yes, and I '11 take her too with all 
her faults. 
Now I do think on 't better. 
Sub. With all my heart, sir; 

Am I discharg'd o' the lot? 
Face. As you please. 

Suh. Hands. 

{They sliake hands.) 
Face. Remember now, that upon any 
change 
You never claim her. 
Suh. Much good joy and health to you, 
sir, 
MaiTy a whore! Fate, let me wed a 
witch first. 

Sur. For estas honradus harhas ^° 

Sub. He swears by his beard. 

Dispatch, and call the brother too. 

Exit Face. 
Sur. Tengo duda, senores, que no me ha- 

gan alguna traycion.'^^ 
Sub. How, issue on? Yes, praesto, senor. 
Please you 
Enthratha the chamhratha, worthy don: 
Where if you please the fates, in your 

hatha da, 
You shall be soak'd, and strok'd, and 

tubb'd, and rubb'd, 
And scrubb'd, and fubb'd,^- dear Don, 

before you go. 
You shall in faith, my scurvy baboon 

Don, 
Be curried, claw'd, and flaw'd,^^ and 

taw'd,^* indeed. 
I will the heartlier go about it now. 
And make the widow a punk so much the 

sooner, 
To be reveng'd on this impetuous Face : 
The quickly doing of it is the grace. 

Exeunt Subtle and Surly. 



Scene 4. 
Enter Face, Kastril, and Dame Pliant. 

Face. Come, ladj^ : I knew the doctor 

would not leave 
Till he had found the very nick of her 

fortune. 
Kas. To be a countess, say yon ? 
Face. A Spanish countess, sir. 



6 "I understanil that fortune of my "Can it be that H "I fear, sirs, that 14 soaked. like 

the lady is so life " you make sport of you are playing hide in tanning 

handsome that I 7 pledge. ray love?" me some trick." 

am as eager to see 8 "Sirs, why so long lo "By this honored 12 gulled. 

her as the good delay?" beard " 1 3 cracked. 



274 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Dame P. Why, is that better than an 

English countess*? 
Face. Belter! 'Slight, make you that a 

question, lady? 
Kas. Nay, she is a fool, captain, you must 

pardon her. 
Face. Ask from your courtier to your 

inns-of-court-man, 
To your mere milliner; they will tell you 

all, 
Your Spanish jennet is the best horse; 

your Spanish 
Stoop ^^ is the best garb; ^^ your Spanish 

beard 
Is the best cut; your Spanish ruffs are 

the best 
Wear; your Spanish pavin ^'^ the best 

dance ; 
Your Spanish titillation in a giove 
The best perfume : and for your Spanish 

pike. 
And Spanish blade, let your poor cap- 
tain speak. — 
Here comes the doctor. 

Enter Subtle with a paper. 

Sub. My most honor'd lady. 

For so I am now to style you, having 

found 
By this my scheme,^^ you are to undergo 
An honorable fortune very shortly, 

What will you say now, if some 

Face. I ha' told her all, sir, 

And her right worshipful brother here, 

that she shall be 
A countess; do not delay 'em, sir; a 
Spanish countess. 
Sub. Still, my scarce-worshipful captain, 
you can keep 
No secret! Well, since he has told you, 

madam. 
Do you forgive him, and I do. 
Kas. She shall do that, sir; 

I '11 look to it ; 't is my charge. 
Sub. Well then : nought rests 

But that she fit her love now to her for- 
tune. 
Dame P. Truly I shall never brook a 

Spaniard. 
Sub. Nol 

Dame P. Never sin' eighty-eight ^'^^ could 
I abide 'em, 
And that was some three years afore I 
was born, in truth. 



Sub. Come, you must love him, or be 
miserable ; 
Choose which you will. 
Face. By this good rush, persuade her, 

She will cry ^° strawberries else within 
this twelve month. 
Sub. Nay, shads and mackerel, which is 

worse. 
Face. Indeed, sir! 

Kas. God's lid, you shall love him, or I '11 

kick you. 
Dame P. Why, 

I '11 do as you will ha' me, brother. 
Kas. Do, 

Or by this hand I '11 maul you. 
Face. Nay, good sir, 

Be not so fierce. 
Sub. No, my enraged child ; 

She will be rul'd. What, when she comes 

to taste 
The pleasures of a countess ! to be 

courted 

Face. And kiss'd and ruffled ! 
Sub. Aye, behind the hangings. 

Face. And then come forth in pomp ! 
Sub. And know her state ! 

Face. Of keeping all th' idolators o' the 
chamber 
Barer to her, than at their prayers ! 
Sub. Is serv'd 

Upon the knee! 
Face. And has her pages, ushers. 

Footmen, and coaches 

Sub. Her six mares 

Face. Nay, eight! 

Sub. To hun-y her through London, to th' 
Exchange,-^ 



Bet'lem,'- the China-houses ^^ 

Face. Yes, and have 

The citizens gape at her, and praise her 

tires. 
And my lord's goose-turd ^^ bands, that 
rides with her! 
Kas. Most brave! By this hand, you are 
not my suster 
If you refuse. 
Dame P. I will not refuse, brother. 

Enter Surly. 

Sur. Que es esto, senores, que non se 
venga ? 
Esta tardanza me mata!-^ 
Face. It is the count come: 

The doctor knew he would be here, by his 
art. 



IT) stooping posture. 

16 fashion. 

17 a stately dance. 

18 horoscope. 

10 1588, the year of 



the Armada. shops. 23 where oriental 

20 hawk about town. 22 It was a fashion- wares were sold. 

21 The Roval Ex able amusement to 2t preen. 

change had ar visit Bedlam, the 25 "Why does n't she 

cades of small lunatic asylum. 



come, sirs? This 
delay is killing 
me," 



THE ALCHEMIST 



275 



Sub. 



gal- 



En gallanta, madama, Don! 
lantissima! 
Sur. Por todos las dioses, la mas acahada 

Hermosura, que he visto en ma vida!^^ 
Face. Is 't not a gallant language that 

they speak? 
Kas. An admirable language ! Is 't not 

French 1 
Face. No, Spanish, sir. 
Kas. It goes like law French, 

And that, they say, is the court-liest lan- 
guage. 
Face. List, sir. 

Sur. El sol ha perdito su lumbre, con el 
Resplandor que trae esta dana! Valga 
me dios! ^'' 
Face. H' admires your sister. 
Kas. Must not she make curt'sy. 

Sub. 'Ods will, she must go to him, man, 
and kiss him ! 
It is the Spanish fashion, for the women 
To make first court. 
Face. 'T is true he tells you, sir : 

His art knovv'S all. 
Sur. Porque no se acude? ^^ 

Kas. He speaks to her, I think. 
Face. That he does, sir. 

Sur. Por el amor de dios, que es esto que 

se tarda? ^^ 
Kas. Nay, see: she will not understand 

him! Gull, noddy! 
Dame P. What say you, brother"? 
Kas. Ass, my suster, 

Go kuss him, as the cunning man would 

ha' you ; 
I '11 thrust a pin i' your buttocks else. 
Face. no, sir. 

Sur. Senora mia, mi persona muy indigna 
esta 
Allegar a tanta hermosura.^^ 
Face. Does he not use her bravely"? 
Kas. Bravely, i' faith ! 

Face. Nay, he will use her better. 
Kas. Do you think so*? 

Sur. Senora, si sera servida, entremos.^'^ 

Exit with Dame Pliant. 
Kas. "Where does he carry her"? 
Face. Into the garden, sir; 

Take you no thought : I must interpret 
for her. 
Sub. Give Dol the word. 

{Aside to Face, who goes out.) 

— Come, my fierce child, advance. 
We '11 to our quarreling lesson again. 
Kas. Agreed. 



26 "By .all the gods, 27 "The sun has 'ost 

the most perfect his light with the 

beauty I have splendor this lady 

seen in my life " brings, so help 

me God." 



I love a Spanish boy with all my heart. 
Sub. Nay, and by this means, sir, you 
shall be brother 
To a great count. 
Kas. Aye, I knew that at first. 

This match will advance the house of the 
Kastrils. 
Sub. 'Pray God your sister prove but 

pliant ! 
Kas. Why, 

Her name is so, by her other husband. 
Sub. How! 

Kas. The Widow Pliant. Knew you not 

thaf? 
Sub. No, faith, sir; 

Yet, by the erection of her figure,^- I 

guess'd it. 
Come, let 's go practise. 
Kas. Yes, but do you think, doctor, 

I e'er shall quarrel well*? 
Sub. I warrant you. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 5. 

Enter Dol followed by Mammon. 

Dol. {In her fit of talking.) For after 

Alexander's death 

Mam. Good lady 

Dol. That Perdiccas and Antigonus were 
slain, 
The two that stood, Seleuc' and Ptol- 
emy 

Mam. Madam — 

Dol. Made up the two legs, and the fourth 
beast. 
That tvas Gog-north and Egypt-south: 

which after 
Was called Gog-iron-leg and South-iron- 
leg 

Mam. Lady 

Dol. And then Gog-horned. So was 
Egypt, too: 
Then Egypt-clay-leg, and Gog-clay- 
leg 

Mam. Sweet madam 

Dol. And last Gog-dust, and Egypt-dust, 
which fall 
In the last link of the fourth chain. And 

these 
Be stars in story, which none see, or look 

at 

Mam. What shall I do? 

Dol. For, as he says, except 

31 "Madam, at your 
service, let lis go 



28 "Why don't you 30 "Madam, my per- 
draw near?" son is unworthy 

29 "For the love of to approach such 
God. why this de- beauty." 

lay?" 



32 by her horoscope. 



276 



THE ELIZABETHAN PEHIOD 



We call the rabbins, and the heathen 

Greeks 

Mam. Dear lady 

Dol. To come from Salem, and from 
Athens, 
And teach the people of Great Brit- 
ain 

Enter Face hastily, in his servant's 
dress. 

Face. What's the matter, sir? 

Dol. To speak the tongue of Eber and 

Javan 

Mam. Oh, 

She 's in her fit. 

Dol. We shall know nothing 

Face. Death, sir. 

We are undone ! 
Dol. Where then a learned linguist 

Shall see the ancient us'd communion 

Of vowels and consonants 

Face. My master will hear ! 

Dol. A wisdom, which Pythagoras held 

most high 

Mam. Sweet honorable lady ! 
Dol. To comprise 

All sounds of voices, in few marks of 
letters. 
Face. Nay, you must never hope to lay 
her now. 

{They all speak together.) 
Dol. And so we may arrive by Talmud 
skill,^^ 
And profane Greek, to raise the building 

up 
Of Helen's house against the Ismaelite, 
King of Thogarma, and his habergions 
Brimstony , blue, and fiery; and the force 
Of king Abaddon, and the beast of Cit- 

tim : 
Which rabbi David Kimchi, Onkelos, 
And Aben Ezra do interpret Rome. 
Face. How did you put her into 'f? 
Mam. Alas, I talk'd 

Of a fifth monarchy I would erect 
With the philosopher's stone, by chance, 

and she 
Falls on the other four straight. 
Face. Out of Broughton ! ^* 

T told you so. 'Slid, stop her mouth. 
Mam. Is 't best-? 

Face. She '11 never leave else. If the old 
man hear her, 
We are but faeces, ashes. 
Sub. {Within.) What 's to do there? 

33 In the earlv editions this speech is printed in par- 
allel columns with the dialogue immediately follow- 
ing, to indicate simultaneous utterance. (Neilson.) 



Face. 0, we are lost ! Now she hears 
him, she is quiet. 

Enter Subtle; upon Subtle's entry they 
disperse. 

Mam. Where shall I hide me! 
Sub. How! What sight is here? 

Close deeds of darkness, and that shun 

the light! 
Bring him again. Who is he? What, 

my son ! 
0, I have liv'd too long. 
Mam. Nay, good, dear father. 

There was no unchaste purpose. 
Sub. Not? and flee me 

When I come in? 
Mam. That was my error. 

Sub. Error? 

Guilt, guilt, my son; give it the right 

name. No marvel 
If I found check in oitr great work 

within, 
When such affairs as these were man- 
aging ! 
Mam. Why, have you so? 
Sub. It has stood still this half hour: 

And all the rest of our less works gone 

back. 
"\'\liere is the instrument of wickedness, 
My lewd false drudge? 
Mam. Nay, good sir, blame not him ; 

Believe me, 't was against his will or 

knowledge : 
I saw her by chance. 
Sub. Will you commit more sin, 

T' excuse a varlet? 
Mam. By my hope, 't is true, sir. 

Sub. Nay, then I wonder less, if you, for 
whom 
The blessing was prepar'd, would so 

tempt heaven. 
And lose your fortunes. 
Mam. Why, sir? 

Sub. This will retard 

The work a month at least. 
Mam. Why, if it do. 

What remedy? But think it not, good 

father : 
Our purposes were honest. 
Sub. ' As they were, . 
So the reward will prove. {A great 
crack and noise within.) — How now! 
ay me ! 
God and all saints be good to us. 

"Re-enter Face. 

34 cf. p. 254, n. 36, Dol's iargon is taken from a book 
of Broughton'6, The Concent of Scripture. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



277 



What 's that ? 
Face. 0, sir, we are defeated ! All the 
works 
Are flown in fumo, every glass is burst; 
Furnace and all rent down, as if a bolt 
Of thunder had been driven through the 

house. 
Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt heads, 
All struck in shivers ! 

{Subtle falls down as in a swoon.) 

Help, good sir ! alas. 
Coldness and death invades him. Nay, 

Sir Mammon, 
Do the fair offices of a man ! You stand, 
As you were readier to depart than he. 

(One knocks.) 
Who 's there ? My lord her brother is 
come. 
Mam. Ha, Lungs! 

Face. His coach is at the door. Avoid 
his sight. 
For he 's as furious as his sister 's mad. 
3Iam. Alas ! 

Face. My brain is quite undone 

with the fume, sir, 
I ne'er must hope to be mine own man 
again. 
Mam. Is all lost. Lung's'? Will nothing be 
preserv'd 
Of all our cost? 
Face. Faith, very little, sir; 

A peck of coals or so, which is cold com- 
fort, sir. 
Mam. 0, my voluptuous mind ! I am 

justly punish'd. 
Face. And so am I, sir. 

Mam. Cast from all my hopes 

Face. Nay, certainties, sir. 

Mam. By mine own base affections. 

Sub. (Seeming to come to himself.) 0, 

the curst fruits of vice and lust ! 
Mam. Good father, 

It was my sin. Forgive it. 
Sub. Hangs my roof 

Over us still, and will not fall, justice, 
Upon us, for this Avicked man ! 
Face. Nay, look, sir, 

You grieve him now with staying in his 

sight. 
Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and 

take you. 
And that may breed a tragedy. 
Mam. I '11 go. 

Face. Aye, and repent at home, sir. It 
may be, 
For some good penance you may ha' it yet ; 
A hundred pound to the box at Bet'- 
lem 

35 change your clothes. 



Mam. Yes. 

Face. For the restoring such as — ha' their 

wits. 
Mam. I 'II do 't. 

Face. I '11 send one to you to receive it. 
Mam. Do. 

Is no projection left *? 
Face. All flown, or stinks, sir. 

Mam. Will nought be sav'd that 's good 

for med'eine, think'st thou? 
Face. I cannot tell, sir. There will be 
perhaps 
Something about the scraping of the 

shards. 
Will cure the itch, — though not your itch 

of mind, sir. (Aside.) 
It shall be sav'd for you, and sent home. 

Good sir. 
This way, for fear the lord shall meet 
you. 

Exit Mammon. 

Sub. (Raising his head.) Face! 

Face. Aye. 

Sub. Is he gone? 

Face. Yes, and as heavily 

As all the gold he hop'd for were in 's 
blood. 

Let us be light though. 
Sub. (Leaping up.) Aye, as balls, and 
bound 

And hit our heads against the roof for 

joy: 
There 's so much of our care now east 
away. 
Face. Now to our don. 
Siib. Yes, your young widow by this 

time 
Is made a countess. Face ; she 's been in 

travail 
Of a young heir for yon. 
Face. Good, sir. 

Sub. Off with your ease,^^ 

And greet her kindly, as a bridegroom 

should. 
After these common hazards. 
Face. Very well, sir. 

Will you go fetch Don Diego off the 
while? 
Sub. And fetch him over too, if you '11 be 
pleas'd, sir. 
Would Dol were in her place, to pick his 
pockets now! 
Face. Why, you can do 't as well, if you 
would set to 't. 
I pray you prove your virtue.^® 
Sub. For your sake, sir. 

Exeunt. 

36 ability. 



278 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Scene G. 
Enter Surly and Dame Pliant. 

Sur. Lady, you see into what hands you 

are fall'n; 
'Mongst what a nest of villains ! and how 

near 
Your honor was t' have cateh'd a certain 

clap, 
Through your credulity, had I but been 
So punctually forward, as place, time, 
And other circumstance would ha' made 

a man ; 
For you 're a handsome woman : would 

you were wise too ! 
I am a gentleman come here disguis'd. 
Only to find the knaveries of this cita- 
del; 
And where I might have wrong'd your 

honor, and have not, 
I claim some interest in your love. You 

are. 
They say, a widow, rich ; and I 'm a 

bachelor. 
Worth nought : your fortunes may make 

me a man, 
As mine ha' preserv'd you a woman. 

Think upon it, 
And whether I have deserv'd you or no. 
Dame P. I will, sir. 

Sur. And for these household-rogues, let 

me alone 
To treat with them. 

Enter Subtle. 

Sub. How doth my noble Diego, 

And my dear madam countess? Hath 

the count 
Been courteous, lady"? libei'al and open? 
Donzel, methinks you look melancholic, 
I do not like the dulness of your eye; 
It hath a heavy cast, 't is upsee Dutch,^'' 
And says you are a lumpish whore-mas- 
ter. 
Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. 
(He falls to picking of them.) 
Sur. (Throws open his cloak.) Will you, 
Don bawd and pick-purse? (Strikes 
him down. ) How now ! Reel 
you? 
Stand up, sir, you shall find, since I am 

so heavy, 
I '11 gi' you equal weight. 
Sub. Help! murder! 

3T as if you were drunk as a Dutchman. 38 Bawds 

40 astrologer' 



Sur. No, sir, 

There 's no such thing intended. A good 

cart ^^ 
And a clean whip shall ease you of that 

fear. 
I am the Spanish Don that should be 

cozened. 
Do you see ? Cozened ? Where 's your 

Captain Face, 
That parcel-broker,^'' and whole-bawd, 

all rascal? 

Enter Face in liis uniform. 

Face. How, Surly ! 

Sur. 0, make your approach, good 

captain. 
I 've found from whence your copper 

rings and spoons 
Come now, wherewith you cheat abroad 

in taverns. 
'T was here you learn'd t' anoint your 

boot with brimstone, 
Then rub men's gold on 't for a kind of 

touch. 
And say, 't was naught, when you had 

chang'd the color, 
That you might ha't for nothing. And 

this doctor, 
Your sooty, smoky-bearded compeer, he 
Will close you so much gold, in a bolt's- 

head. 
And, on a turn, convey i' the stead an- 
other 
With sublim'd mercury, that shall burst 

i' the heat, 
And fly out all in fumo! Then weeps 

Mammon ; 
Then SAvoons his worship. Or (Face 

slips out.) he is the Faustus, 
That casteth figures and can conjure, 

cures 
Plagues, piles, and pox, by the ephemeri- 

^des.^o 
And holds intelligence with all the 

bawds 
And midwivos of three shires: while you 

send in 

Captain! — what! is he gone? — damsels 

- with child, 
Wives that are barren, or the waiting' 

maid 
With the groon sickness. (Seizes Subtle 

as he is retiring.) — Nay, sir, you 

must tany. 
Though he be scap'd ; and answer by the 

ears, sir. 

were carted through the streets. 39 part pawnbroker. 
s almanac. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



279 



Scene 7. 

Be-enter Face with Kastril to Surly and 
Subtle. 

Face. Why, now 's the time, if ever you 
will quarrel 
Well, as they say, and be a true-born 

child : 
The doctor and your sister both are 
abus'd.^i 
Kas. Where is he? Which is he? He is 
a slave. 
Whatever he is, and the son of a whore. — 

Are you 
The man, sir, I would know? 
Sur. I should be loth, sir. 

To confess so much. 
Kas. Then you lie i' your throat. 

Sur. How ! 

Face. (To Kastril.) A very arrant rogiie, 
sir, and a cheater, 
Employ'd here by another conjurer 
That does not love the doctor, and would 

cross him 
If he knew how. 
Sur. Sir, you are abus'd. 

Kas. You lie : 

And 't is no matter. 
Face. Well said, sir! He is 

The impudent'st rascal 

Sur. You are indeed. Will you hear me, 

sir? 
Face. By no means: bid him be gone. 
Kas. Begone, sir, quickly. 

Sur. This is strange ! — Lady, do you in- 
form your brother. 
Face. There is not such a foist *- in all 
the town. 
The doctor had him presently; and finds 

yet 
The Spanish count will come hei'e. — 
(Aside.) Bear up. Subtle. 
Sub. Yes, sir, he must appear within this 
I hour. 

Face. And yet this rogue would come in 
a disguise, 
By the temptation of another spirit. 
To trouble our art, though he could not 
I hurt it ! 

Kas. Aye, 

I I know — Away, (To his sister.) you talk 

like a foolish mauther.^^ 
r Sur. Sir, all is truth she says. 

Face. Do not believe him, sir. 

; He is the lying' st swabber! Come your 
I ways, sir. 

I Sur. You are valiant out of company! 

I 41 deceived. 42 rogue. 43 country girl. 



Kas. Yes, how then, sir? 

Enter Drugger with a piece of damask. 

Face. Nay, here 's an honest fellow too 
that knows him, 

And all his tricks. (Make good what I 
say, Abel. 

This cheater would ha' eozen'd thee o' the 
widow. ) 

He owes this honest Drugger here seven 
pound. 

He has had on him in twopenny'orths of 
tobacco. 
Drug. Yes, sir. And he has damn'd him- 
self three terms to pay me. 

Face. And what does he owe for lo- 
tium?44 

Drug. Thirty shillings, sir; 

And for six syringes. 
Sur. Hydra of villainy ! 

Face. Nay, sir, you must quarrel him out 

o' the house. 
Kas. I will : 

— Sir, if you get not out o' doors, you 

lie; 
And you are a pimp. 
Sur. Why, this is madness, sir, 

Not valor in you ; I must laugh at this. 
Kas. It is my humor; you are a pimp and 
a trig.-^s 
And an Amadis de Gaul, or a Don Quix- 
ote. 
Drug. Or a knight o' the curious coxcomb, 
do you see? 

Enter Ananias. 

Ana. Peace to the household ! 
Kas. I 'II keep peace for no man. 

Ana. Casting of dollars is concluded law- 
ful. 
Kas. Is he the constable? 
Sub. Peace, Ananias. 

Face. No, sir. 

Kas. Then you are an otter, and a shad, a 
whit, 

A very tim. 
Sur. You '11 hear me, sir? 

Kas. I will not. 

Ana. What is the motive? 
Sub. Zeal in the young gentleman. 

Against his Spanish slops. 
Ana. They are profane, 

Lewd, superstitious, and idolatrous 
breeches. 
Sur. New rascals ! 
Kas. Will you be gone, sir? 



44 a lotion. 



45 coxcomb. 



280 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ana, Avoid, Satan ! 

Thou art not of the light ! That ruff of 

pride 
About thy neck, betrays thee; and is the 

same 
With that which the unclean birds, in 

seventy-seven, 
Were seen to prank it with on divers 

coasts : 
Thou look'st like antichrist, in that lewd 
hat. 
Sur. I must give way. 
Kas. Be gone, sir. 

Sur. '' But I '11 take 

A course with you. 

Ana. Depart, proud Spanish fiend ! 

Sur. Captain and doctor. 
Ana. Child of perdition ! 

Kas. Hence, sir! — 

Exit Surly. 
Did I not quarrel bravely? 
Face. Yes, indeed, sir. 

Kas. Nay, an I give my mind to 't, I shall 

do 't. 
Face. 0, you must folloAv, sir, and 
thi'eaten him tame : 
He '11 turn again else. 
Kas. I '11 re-turn him then. 

Exit. 
Face. Drugger, this rogue prevented *^ us, 
for thee : 
We had determin'd that thou should'.st ha' 

come 
In a Spanish suit, and ha' carried her 

so ; and he, 
A brokerly slave, goes, puts it on him- 
self. 
Hast brought the damask f 
Drug. Yes, sir. 

Face. Thou must borrow 

A Spanish suit. Hast thou no credit 
with the players'? 
Drug. Yes, sir; did you never see me play 

the fool? 
Face. I know not, Nab; — thou shall, if I 
can help it. — {Aside.) 
Hieronimo's *'' old cloak, ruff, and hat 

will serve ; 
I '11 tell thee more when thou bring'st 'em. 
Exit Drugger. Subtle hath ivhisper^d 
with Ana. this while. 
Ana. Sir, I know. 

The Spaniard hates the brethren, and 

hath spies 
Upon their actions : and that this was 

one 
I make no scruple., — But the holy 
sjmod 



Have been in prayer and meditation for 

And 't is reveal'd no less to them than 

me, 
That casting of money is most lawful. 
Sub. True. 

But here I cannot do it : if the house 
Should chance to be suspected, all would 

out, 
And we be lock'd up in the Tower for 

ever. 
To make gold there for th' state, never 

come out ; 
And then are you defeated. 
Ana. I will tell 

This to the elders and the weaker breth- 
ren, 
That the whole company of the sepa- 
ration 
May join in humble prayer again. 
Sub. And fasting. 

Ana. Yea, for some fitter place. The 
peace of mind 
Rest with these walls! 

Exit. 

Sub. Thanks, courteous Ananias. 

Face. What did he come for? 

Sub. About casting dollars, 

Presently out of hand. And so I told 

him, 
A Spanish minister came here to spy, 

Against the faithful 

Face. I conceive. Come, Subtle, 

Thou art so down upon the least disaster! 

HoAV wouldst thou ha' done, if I had not 

helpt thee out? 

Sub. I thank thee, Face, for the angry 

boy. i' faith. 
Face. Who would ha' look'd *^ it should 
ha' been that rascal 
Surly? He had dv'd his beard and all 

Well, sir. 
Here 's damask come to make you a suit. 
Sub. Where's Drugger? 

Face. He is gone to borrow me a Spanish 
habit ; 
I '11 be the count now. 
Sub. But where 's the widow's' 

Face. Within, with my lord's sister; 
- Madam Dol 
Is entertaining her.. 
Sub. By your favor. Face. 

Now she is honest, I will stand again. 
Face. You will not offer it? 
Stib.. Why? 

Face. Stand to your word, 

Or — here comes Dol. She knows 

Sub. You 're tyrannous still.. 



40 anticipated. 



47 The hero of Kyd's Spanish Traijedy. 



4s expected. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



281 



Enter Dol hastily. 


You'll do it? 




Suh. Yes, I '11 shave you as well as I can. 


Face. — Strict for my right. — How now, 


Face. And not cut my throat, but trim 


Dol! Hast told her 


me? 


The Spanish count will come? 


Sub. You shall see, sir. 


Dol. Yes; but another is come, 


Exeunt. 


You little look'd for ! 




Face. Who's that? 




Dol. Your master; 


ACT V. 


The master of the house. 




Suh. How, Dol ! 


ScEKE 1. Before Lovewit's door. 


Face. She lies! 




This is some trick. Come, leave your 


Enter Lovewit, xvith several of the 


quiblms,*^ Dorothy. 


Neighbors. 


Dol. Look out and see. 




{Face goes to the window.) 


Love. Has there been such resort, say you? 


Sub. Art thou in earnest? 


1 Nei. Daily, Sir. 


Dol. 'Slight, 


2 Nei. And nightly, too. 


Forty o' the neighbors are about him. 


3 Nei. Aye, some as brave as lords. 


talking. 


4 Nei. Ladies and gentlewomen. 


Face. 'T is he, by this good day. 


5 Nei. Citizens' wives. 


Dol. 'T will prove ill day 


1 Nei. And knights. 


For some on us. 


6 Nei. In coaches. 


Face. We are undone, and taken. 


2 Nei. Yes, and oyster-women. 


Dol. Lost, I 'm afraid. 


1 Nei. Beside other gallants. 


Sub. You said he would not come. 


3 Nei. Sailors' wives. 


While there died one a week within the 


4 Nei. Tobacco men. 


liberties.^" 


o Nei. Another Pimlico.^' 


Face. No : 't was within the walls. 


Loiie. What should my knave advance. 


Sub. Was 't so? Cry you mercy. 


To draw this company? He hung out 


I thought the liberties. What shall we 


no banners 


do now. Face? 


Of a strange calf with five legs to be 


Face. Be silent : not a word, if he call or 


seen. 


knock. 


Or a huge lobster with six claws? 


I '11 into mine old shape again and meet 


6 Nei. No, sir. 


him, 


3 Nei. We had gone in then, sir. 


Of Jeremy, the butler. I' the meantime, 


Love. He has no gift 


Do you two pack up all the goods and 


Of teaching i' the nose ^^ that e'er I knew 


purchase ^^ 


of. 


That we can carry i' the two trunks. 


You saw no bills set up that promis'd 


I '11 keep him 


cure 


Off for to-day, if I cannot longer: and 


Of agues or the tooth-ache? 


then 


2 Nei. No such thing, sir! 


At night, I '11 ship you both away to 


Love. Nor heard a drum struck for 


Ratcliff, 


baboons or puppets? 


Where we will meet to-morrow, and there 


5 Nei. Neithei-, sir. 


we '11 share. 


Love. What device should he bring 


Let Mammon's brass and pewter keep the 


forth now? 


cellar ; 


I love a teeming wit as I love my nourish- 


We '11 have another time for that. But, 


ment : 


Dol, 


'Pray God he ha' not kept such open 


Prithee go heat a little water quickly; 


house. 


Subtle must shave me. All my captain's 


That he hath sold my hangings, and my 


beard 


bedding ! 


Must oif, to make me appear smooth 


I left him nothing else. If he have eat 


Jeremy. 


'em. 



49 quibbling. 

50 as long as there 
was one dead a 
week from the 



plague in the 52 a summer resort, 

parts of the city famous for cakes 

outside the walls. and ale. 
51 booty. 



53 preaching 
through the nose 
like a Puritan ; or 



"perhaps ventrilo- 
quism." (Scliel- 
ling. ) 



282 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 


A plague o' the moth, say I! Sure he 


1 Nei. Sir, best to knock again afore you 


has got 


break it. 


Some bawdy pictures to call all this 




The Friar and the Nun; or the new 


Scene 2. 


motion ^^ 




Of the knight's courser covering the par- 


Lovewit, Neighbors. 


son's mare; 




The boy of six year old, with the great 


Love. (Knocks again.) I will. 


thing : 




Or 't may be, he has the fleas that run at 

tilt 
Upon a table, or some dog to dance. 


Enter Face in his huiler's livery. 


Face. What mean you, sir? 


When saw you him? 


1, 2,4 Nei. 0, here 's Jeremy ! 


1 Nei. Who, sir, Jeremy"? 


Face. Good sir, come from the door. 


2 Nei. Jeremy butler? 


Love. Why, what 's the matter ? 


We saw him not this month. 


Face. Yet farther, you are too near yet. 


Love. How ! 


Love. V the name of wonder. 


4 Nei. Not these five weeks, sir. 


What means the fellow ! 


6" Nei. These six weeks, at the least. 


Face. The house, sir, has been visited. 


Love. You amaze me, neighbors! 


Love. What, with the plague? Stand 


5 Nei. Sure, if your worship know not 


thou then farther. 


where he is. 


Face. No, sir. 


He 's slipt away. 


I had it not. 


6 Nei. Pray God he be not made away. 


Love. Who had it then? I left 


(He knocks.) 


None else but thee i' the house. 


Love. Ha! it's no time to question. 


Face. Yes, sir, my fellow. 


then. 


The cat that kept the buttery, had it on 


6 Nei. About 


her 


Some three weeks since I heard a doleful 


A week before I spied it; but I got her 


cry, 


Convey'd away i' the night: and so I 


As I sat up a-mending my wife's stock- 


shut 


ings. 


The house for a month 


Love. This 's strange that none will an- 


Love. How ! 


swer! Did'st thou hear 


Face. Purposing then, sir. 


A eiy, sayst thou? 


To have burnt rose-vinegar, treacle, and 


6 Nei. Yes, sir, like unto a man 


tar. 


That had been strangled an hour, and 


And ha' made it sweet, that you should 


could not speak. 


ne'er ha' known it; 


2 Nei. I heard it, too, just this day three 


Because I knew the news would but af- 


weeks, at two o'clock 


flict you, sir. 


Next morning. 


Love. Breathe less, and farther off! 


Love. These be miracles, or you make 'em 


Why this is stranger: 


so! 


The neighbors tell me all here that the 


A man an hour strangled, and could not 


doors 


speak. 


Have still been open 


And both you heard him crj'? 


Face. How, sir! 


3 Nei. Yes, downward, sir. 


Love. Gallants, men and women, 


Love. Thou art a wise fellow. Give me 


And of all sorts, tag-rag, been seen to 


thy hand, I pray thee. 


flock here 


What trade art thou on? 


In threaves,'^'' these ten weeks, as to a 


3 Nei. A smith, an 't please your 


second Hogsden, 


worship. 


In days of Pimlico and Eye-bright.^^ 


Love. A smitli ! Then lend me thy help 


Face. Sir, 


to get this door open. 


Their wisdoms will not say so. 


3 Nei. That I will presently, sir, but 


Love. To-day they speak 


fetch my tools — 


Of coaches and gallants; one in a French 


Exit. 


hood 



54 Kang. 



55 puppet show. 



56 droves. 



possibly the name of a tavern. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



283 



P 



Went in, they tell me; and another was 

seen 
In a velvet gown at the window : divers 

more 
Pass in and out. 
Face. They did pass through the 

doors then, 
Or walls, I assure their eye-sights, and 

their spectacles; v 

For here, sir, are the keys, and here 

have been, 
In this my pocket, now above twenty 

days ! 
And for before, I kept the fort alone 

thei'e. 
But that 'tis yet not deep i' the after- 
noon, 
I should believe my neighbors had seen 

double 
Through the black pot, and made these 

apparitions ! 
For, on my faith to your worship, for 

these three weeks 
And upwards, the door has not been 

open'd. 
Love. Strange ! 

1 Nei. Good faith, I think I saw a coach. 

2 Nei. And I too, 
I 'd ha' been sw^orn. 

Love. Do you but think it now f 

And but one coach? 
4 Nei. We cannot tell, sir: Jeremy 

Is a very honest fellow. 
Face. Did you see me at allf 

1 Nei. No; that we are sure on. 

2 Nei. I'll be sworn o' that. 
Love. Fine rogues to have your testi- 
monies built on ! 

Ee-enter third Neiglibor, with his tools, 

3 Nei. Is Jeremy come ! 

1 Nei. yes ; you may leave your tools ; 
We were deceiv'd, he says. 

2 Nei. He 's had the keys ; 
And the door has been shut these three 

weeks. 

3 Nei. Like enough. 

Love. Peace, and get hence, you change- 
lings. 

Enter Surh/ and Mammon, 

Face. (Aside.) Surly come. 

And Mammon made acquainted ! They '11 

tell all. 
How shall I beat them off? What shall 

I do"? 



Nothing 's more wretched than a guilty 
conscience. 

Scene 3. 

Surly, Mammon, Lovewit, Face, 
Neighbors. 

Sur. No, sii% he was a great physician. 
This, 
It was no bawdy-house, but a mere chan- 
cel ! 
You knew the lord and his sister. 

Mam. Nay, good Surly. 

Sur. The happy word, Be rich 

Mam. Play not the tyrant. — 

Sur. Should be to-day pronounc'd to all 
your friends. 
And where be your andirons now? And 

your brass pots, 
That should ha' been golden flagons, and 
great wedges? 
Mam. Let me but breathe. What, they 
ha' shut their doors, 
Methinks ! 

{He and Snrli/ knock.) 
Sur. Aye, now 't is holiday with them. 
Mam,. Rogues, 

Cozeners, impostors, bawds ! 
Face. What mean you, sir? 

Mam. To enter if we can. 
Face. Another man's house ! 

Here is the owner, sir; turn you to him, 
And speak your business. 
Mam. Are you, sir, the owner? 

Love. Yes, sir. 
Mam. And are those knaves w^ithin, 

your cheaters ! 
Love. What knaves, what cheaters? 
Mam. Subtle and his Lungs. 

Face. The gentleman is distracted, sir! 
No lungs 
Nor lights ^^ ha' been seen here these 

three weeks, sir. 
Within these doors upon my word. 
Sur. Your word, 

Groom arrogant ! 
Face. Yes, sir, I am the housekeeper. 

And know the keys ha' not been out o' 
my hands. 
Sur. This 's a new Face. 
Face. You do mistake the house, sir: 

What sign was 't at ? ^^ 
Sur. You rascal ! This is one 

Of the confederacy. Come, let 's get 

officers. 
And force the door. 



58 lungs, punningly. 



59 Even private houses were sometimes distinguished by signs, like taverns or shops. 



284 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Love. Pray you stay, gentlemen. 

Sur. No, sir, we '11 come with warrant. 
Mam. Aye, and then 

We shall ha' your doors open. 

Exeunt Mam. and Sur. 
Love. What means this? 

Face. I cannot tell, sir. 
1 Nei. These are two o' the gallants 

That we do think we saw. 
Face. Two o' the fools ! 

You talk as idly as they. Good faith, sir, 

I think the moon has craz'd 'em all. — 
(Aside.) me, 

Enter Kastril. 

The angry boy come too ! He '11 make a 

noise, 
And ne'er away till he have betray'd us 
all. 
Kas. (Knocking.) What, rogues, bawds, 
slaves, you '11 open the door anon ! 
Punk, cockatrice, my suster! By this 

light 
I '11 fetch the marshal to you. You are 
a whore 

To keep your castle 

Face. Who would you speak with, sir? 

Kas. The bawdy doctor, and the cozening 
captain. 
And puss my suster. 
Love. This is something, sure. 

Face. Upon my trust, the doors were 

never open, sir. 
Kas. I have heard all their tricks told me 
twice over, 
By the fat knight and the lean gentle- 
man. 
Love. Here comes another. 

Enter Ananias and Trihidation. 

Face. Ananias too ! 

And his pastor! 
Tri. The doors are shut against us. 

(They beat too, at the door.) 
Ana. Come forth, you seed of sulphur, 
sons of fire ! 
Your stench it is broke forth ; abomina- 
tion 
Is in the house. 
Kas. Aye, my suster 's there. 

Ana. The place. 

It is become a cage of unclean birds. 
Kas. Yes, I will fetch the scavenger, and 

the constable. 
Tri. You shall do well. 
Ana. We '11 join to weed them out. 

Kas. You will not come then, punk de- 
vice,''° my suster ! 

60 complete. 



Ana. Call her not sister; she's a harlot 

verily. 
Kas. I '11 raise the street. 
Love. Good gentleman, a word. 

Ana. Satan, avoid, and hinder not our 
zeal! 

Exeunt Ana., Trib., and Kas. 
Love. The world 's turn'd Bet'lem. 
Face. These are all broke loose, 

Out of St. Katherine's, where they use 

to keep 
The better sort of mad-folks. 

1 Nei. All these persons 
We saw go in and out here. 

2 Nei. Yes, indeed, sir. 

3 Nei. These were the parties. 

Face. Peace, you drunkards! Sir, 

I wonder at it. Please you to give me 

leave 
To touch the door ; I '11 try an the lock 
be chang'd. 
Love. It mazes me ! 

Face. (Goes to the door.) Good faith, 
sir, I believe 
There 's no such thing : 't is all deceptio 

visus.^^ — 
(Aside.) Would I could get him away. 
Dap. (Within.) Master captain! Mas- 
ter doctor! 
Love. Who's that? 
Face. (Aside.) Our clerk within, that I 

forgot ! — I know not, sir. 
Dap. (Within.) For God's sake, when 

will her grace be at leisure? 
Face. " Ha ! 

Illusions, some spirit o' the air! — 

(Aside.) His gag is melted. 
And now he sets out the throat. 

Dap. (Within.) I am almost stifled 

Face. (Aside.) Would you were alto- 
gether ! 
Love. 'T is i' the house. 

Ha! list! 
Face. Believe it, sir, i' the air. 
Love. Peace, you. 

Dap. (Within.) Mine aunt's grace does 

not use me well. 
Sub. (Within.) You fool, 

Peace, you '11 mar all. 
Face. (Speaks through the keyhole, while 
Loveivit advances to the door unob- 
served.) Or you will else, you 
rogue. 
Love. 0, is it so? Then you converse 
with spirits ! — 
Come, sir. No more o' your tricks, good 

Jeremy. 
The truth, the shortest way. 

61 optical illusion. 



I 



THE ALCHEMIST 



285 



IPace. Dismiss this rabble, sir. — 

{Aside.) What shall I do"? I am 

catch'd. 
Love. Good neighbors, 

I thank you all. You may depart. {Ex- 
eunt Neiglibors.) — Come, sir, 
You know that I am an indulgent mas- 
ter; 
And therefore conceal nothing. What 's 

your medicine, 
To draw so many several sorts of wild 

fowl? 
Face. Sir, you were wont to affect mirth 

and wit — 
But here 's no place to talk on 't i' the 

street. 
Give me but leave to make the best of 

my fortune, 
And only pardon me th' abuse of your 

house : 
It 's all I beg. I '11 help you to a widow, 
In recompense, that you shall gi' me 

thanks for. 
Will make you seven years younger, and 

a rich one. 
'T is but your putting on a Spanish 

cloak : 
I have her within. You need not fear 

the house; 
It was not visited. 
Love. But by me, who came 

Sooner than you expected. 
Face. It is true, sir. 

Pray you forgive me. 
Love. Well : let 's see your widow. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4. A room in the house. 

Enter Subtle leading in Dapper, with his 
eyes hound as before. 

Sub. How! ha' you eaten your gag? 
Dap. Yes, faith, it crumbled 

Away i' my mouth. 
Sub. You ha' spoil'd all then. 

Dap. No ! 

I hope my aunt of Fairy will forgive me. 
l Sub. Your aunt's a gracious lady; but in 
troth 
You were to blame. 
Dap. The fume did overcome me, 

And I did do 't to stay my stomach. 
Pray you, 
I So satisfy her grace. 

\ Enter Face in his uniform. 

Here comes the captain. 



Face. How now! Is his mouth downf 
Sub. Aye, he has spoken ! 

Face. A pox, I heard him, and you too. 
He 's undone then. — 
{Aside to Subtle.) I have been fain to 

say, the house is haunted 
With spirits, to keep churl back. 
Sub. And hast thou done if? 

Face. Sure, for this night. 
Sub. Why, then triumph and sing 

Of Face so famous, the precious king 
Of present wits. 
Face. Did you not hear the coil ^^ 

About the door? 
Sub. Yes, and I dwindled with 

it. 
Face. Show him his aunt, and let him be 
dispatch'd : 
I '11 send her to you. 

Exit Face. 

Sub. Well, sir, your aunt her grace 

Will give you an audience presently, on 

my suit. 
And the captain's word that you did not 

eat your gag 
In any contempt of her highness. 
{Unbinds his eyes.) 
Dap. Not I, in troth, sii-. 

Enter Dol like the Queen of Fairy. 

Sub. Here she is come. Down o' your 
knees and wriggle : 
She has a stately presence. {Dapper 
kneels and shuffles towards her.) 
Good ! Yet nearer. 
And bid, God save you ! 
Dap. Madam ! 

Suh. And your aunt. 

Dap. And my most gracious aunt, God 

save your grace. 
Dol. Nephew, we thought to have been 
angry with you ; 
But that sweet face of yours hath tum'd 

the tide, 
And made it flow with joy, that ebb'd of 

love. 
Arise, and touch our velvet gown. 
Suh. The skirts, 

And kiss 'em. So! 
Dol. Let me now stroke that head. 

Much, nephew, shalt thou win, much 

shall thou spend; 
Much shalt thou give away, much shalt 
thou lend. 
Suh. {Aside.) Aye, much! indeed. — 

Why do you not thank her grace ? 
Dap. I cannot speak for joy. 



02 hutbub. 



286 



THE. ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Sub. See, the kind wretch ! 

Your grace's kinsman right. 

Dol. Give me the bird. 

Here is your fly in a purse, about your 

neck, cousin ; 
Wear it, and feed it about this day sev'n- 
night, 

On your right wrist 

Sub. Open a vein with a pin 

And let it suck but once a week ; till then, 
You must not look on 't. 
Dol. No : and, kinsman, 

Bear yourself worthy of the blood you 
came on. 
Sub. Her grace would ha' you eat no 
more Woolsack *^^ pies 
Nor Dagger ®^ f rumety.'^^ 
Dol. Nor break his fast 

In Heaven ^^ and Hell.*^^ 
Sub. She 's with you eveiy where ! 

Nor play with costermongers, at mum- 
chance,'^^ traytrip,*^^ 
God-make-you-rich "^ (when as your 

aunt has done it) ; but keep 
The gallant'st company, and the best 

games 

Dap. Yes, sii. 

Sub. Gleek ®^ and primero ; ^^ and what 

you get, be true to us. 
Dap. By this hand, I will. 
Sub. You may bring 's a thousand pound 
Before to-morrow night, if but three 

thousand 
Be stirring, an you will. 
Dap. I swear I will then. 

Sub. Your fly will learn you all games. 
Face. {Within.) Ha' you done there? 

Sub. Your grace will command him no 

more duties? 
Dol. No : 

But come and see nie often. I may 

chance 
To leave him three or four hundred 

chests of treasure. 
And some twelve thousand acres of fairy 

land. 
If he game well and comely with good 
gamesters. 
Suh. There 's a kind aunt : kiss her de- 
parting part. — 
But you must sell your forty mark a 
year now. 
Dap. Aye, sir, I mean. 
Sub. Or, give 't away; pox on't! 

Dap. I '11 gi' 't mine aunt. I '11 go and 
fetch the writings. 

Exit. 
Sub. 'T is well; away. 



Re-enter Face. 

Face. Where's Subtle? 

Sub. Here: what news? 

Face, Drugger is at the door; go take his 
suit. 
And bid him fetch a parson presently. 
Say he shall mai'ry the widow. Thou 

shalt spend 
A hundred pound by the service ! 

Exit Siihtlc. 
Now, Queen Dol, 
Have you pack'd up all? 
Dol. Yes. 

Face. And how do you like 

The Lady Pliant? 
Dol. A good dull innocent. 

Ee-enter Subtle. 

Stib. Here 's your Hieronimo's cloak and 

hat. 
Face. Give me 'em. 

Sub. And the ruff too? 
Face. Yes ; I '11 come to you presently. 

Exit. 
Sub. Now he is gone about his project, 
Dol, 
I told you of, for the widow. 
Dol. 'Tis direct 

Against our articles. 
Sub. Well, we will fit him, wench. 

Hast thou gull'd her of her jewels or her 
bracelets ? 
Dol. No; but I will do 't. 
Sub. Soon at night, my Dolly, 

When we are shipt, and all our goods 

aboard, 
Eastward for Ratcliff, we will turn our 

course 
To Brainford, westward, if thou sayst 

the word. 
And take our leaves of this o'erweening 

rascal. 
This peremptory Face. 
Dol. Content ; I 'm weary of him. 

Sub. Thou 'st cause, when the slave will 
run a-wiving, Dol, 
Against the instrument that was drawn 
between us. 
Dol. I '11 pluck his bird as bare as I can. 
Sttb. Yes, tell her 

She must by any means address some 

present 
To th' cunning man, make him amends 

for wronging 
His art with her suspicion ; send a ring. 
Or chain of pearl; she will be tortur'd 
else 



63 names of taverns. 



64 wheat boiled in milk. 



65 games of chance. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



287 



Extremely in her sleep, say, and ha' 

strange thing's 
Come to her. Wilt thoul 
Dol. Yes. 

Sub. My fine flitter-mouse,''® 

My bird o' the uisht".' AVe '11 tickle it at 

the Pigeons,*'^ 
When we have all, and may unlock the 

trunks. 
And say, this 's mine, and thine; and 

thine, and mine. (They kiss.) 

Ee-enter Face. 

Face. What now! a-billing'? 
Sub. Yes, a little exalted 

In the good passage of our stock-affairs. 
Face. Drugger has brought his parson; 
take him in, Subtle, 
And send Nab back again to wash his 
face. 
Sub. I will: and shave himself"? 

Exit. 
Face. If you can get him. 

Dol. You are hot upon it. Face, whate'er 

it is! 
Face. A trick that Dol shall spend ten 
pound a month by. 



Ee-enter Subtle. 

Is he gone? 
Sub. The chaplain waits you i' the hall, sir. 
Face. I '11 go bestow him. 

Exit. 

Dol. He '11 now marry her instantly. 

Sub. He cannot yet, he is not ready. 

Dear Dol, 

Cozen her of all thou canst. To deceive 

him 
Is no deceit, but justice, that would break 
Such an inextricable tie as ours was. 
Dol. Let me alone to fit him. 

Ee-enter Face. 

Face. Come, my venturers. 

You ha' pack'd up all? Where be the 
trunks? Bring forth. 
Sub. Here. 
Face. Let us see 'em. Where 's the 

money? 
Sub. Here, 

In this. 
Face. Mammon's ten pound ; eight 

score before : 
The brethren's money this. Drugger's 

and Dapper's. 
What paper's that? 

66 bat. 68 small change. 

67 an inn at Brentford. 



Dol. The jewel of the waiting maid's, 
That stole it from her lady, to know cer- 
tain 

Face. If she should have precedence of 

her mistress? 
Dol Yes. 

Face. What box is that? 
Sub. The fish-wives' rings, I think. 

And th' ale-wives' single money.®^ Is 't 
not, Dol? 
Dol. Yes ; and the whistle that the sailor's 
wife 
Brought you to know an her husband 
were with Ward.*^*^ 
Face. We '11 wet it to-morrow ; and our 
silver beakers 
And tavern cups. Where be the French 

petticoats 
And girdles and hangers? 
Sub. Here, i' the trunk, 

And the bolts of lawn. 
Face. Is Drugger's damask there, 

And the tobacco? 
Sub. Yes. 

Face. Give me the keys. 

Dol. Why you the keys? 
Sub. No matter, Dol; because 

We shall not open 'em before he comes. 
Face. 'T is true, you shall not open them, 
indeed ; 
Nor have 'em forth, do you see? Not 
forth, Dol. 
Dol. No ! 

Face. No, my smock-rampant. The right 
is, my master 
Knows all, has pardon'd me, and he will 

keep 'em. 
Doctor, 't is true — you look — for all your 

figures : 
I sent for him, indeed. '^^ Wherefore, 

good partners, 
Both he and she, be satisfied : for here 
Determines '^'^ the indenture tripartite 
'Twixt Subtle, Dol, and Face. All I can 

do 
Is to help you over the wall, o' the back- 
side, 
Or lend you a sheet to save your velvet 

gown, Dol. 
Here will be officers presently, bethink 

you 
Of some course suddenly to scape the 

dock ; 
For thither you '11 come else. (Some 
knock.) Hark you, thunder. 
Sub. You are a precious fiend! 
Offi. (Without.) Open the door. 

69 a notorious pirate. 7o Pace's crowning lie. 71 comes to an end. 



288 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Face. Dol, I am sorry for thee i' faith; 
but bear'st thou'? 
It shall go hard but I will place thee 

somewhere : 
Thou shalt ha' my letter to Mistress 

A mo 

TDol. Hang- you ! 

Face. Or Madam Ca;sarean. 
Dol. Pox upon you, rogue! 

Would I had but time to beat thee! 
Face. Subtle, 

Let 's know where you '11 set up next ; I 

will send you 
A customer now and then, for old ac- 
quaintance. 
What new course have you ? 
Sub. Rogue, I '11 hang myself. 

That I may walk a greater devil than 

thou, 
And haunt thee i' the flock-bed ^^ and 
the buttery. 

Exeunt., 



Scene 5. 

Enter Lovewit in the Spanish dress, with 
the Parson. Loud knocking at the 
door. 



Love. What do you mean, my masters'? 
Mam. {Without.) Open your door, 

Cheaters, bawds, conjurers. 
Offi. (Without.) Or we '11 break it open. 
Love. What warrant have you*? 
Offi. (Without.) Warrant enough, sir, 
doubt not, 

If you '11 not open it. 
Love."^ Is there an officer there'? 

Offi. (Without.) Yes, two or three for 

failing.'^^ 
Love. Have but patience. 

And I will open it straight. 

Enter Face, as hutler. 

Face. Sir, ha' you done? 

Is it a marriage? Perfect? 
Love. Yes, my brain. 

Face. Off with your ruff and cloak then; 

be yourself, sir. 
Sur. (Without.) Down with the door. 
Kas. (Without.) 'Slight, ding ^Mt open. 
Love. (Opening the door.) Hold, 

Hold, gentlemen, what means this vio- 
lence? 

Mammon, Surly, Kastril, Ananias, Trib- 
ulation and Officers rush in. 

72 mattress. 73 to prevent failure 



Mam. Where is this collier? 

Sur. And my Captain Face? 

Mam. These day-owls. 

Sur. They are birding in men's purses. 

Mam. Madam Suppository. 

Kas. Doxy, my suster. 

Ana. Locusts 

Of the foul pit. 
Tri. Profane as Bel and the Dragon. 

Ana. Worse than the grasshoppers, or the 

lice of Egypt. 
Love. Good gentlemen, hear me. Are 
you officers. 
And cannot stay this violence? 
1 Offi. Keep the peace. 

Love. Gentlemen, what is the matter? 

Whom do you seek? 
Mam. The chemical cozener. 
Sur. And the captain pander. 

Kas. The nun my suster. 
Mam. Madam Rabbi. 

Ana. Scorpions, 

And caterpillars. 
Love. Fewer at once, I pray yoji. 

1 Offi. One after another, gentlemen, I 
charge you, 
By virtue of my staff. 
Ana. They are the vessels 

Of pride, lust, and the cart. 
Love. Good zeal, lie still 

A little while. 
Tri. Peace, Deacon Ananias. 

Love. The house is mine here, and the 
doors are open ; 
If there be any such persons as you seek 

for, 
Use your authority, search on o' God's 

name, 
I am but newly come to town, and finding 
This tumult 'bout my door, to tell you 

true. 
It somewhat maz'd me ; till my man here, 

fearing 
My more displeasure, told me he had 

done 
Somewhat an insolent part, let out my 

house 
(Belike presuming on my known aver- 
sion 
From any air o' the town while there 

was sickness), 
To a doctor and a captain : who, what 

they are 
Or where they be, he knows not. 
Mam. Are they gone? 

Love. You may go in and search, sir. 
(Mammon, Ana., and Trib. go in.) 
Here, I find 

74 smash. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



2g9 



The empty walls worse than I left 'em, 

smok'd, 
A few crack'd pots, and glasses, and a 

furnace ; 
The ceiling fill'd with i^oesies of the can- 
dle, 
And "Madam with a dildo" ^^ writ o' the 

walls. 
Only one gentleAvoman I met here 
That is within, that said she was a 

widow 

Kas. Aye, that 's my suster; I '11 go thump 
her. Where is she*? 
(Goes in.) 
Love. And should ha' married a Spanish 
count, but he, 
When he came to 't, neglected her so 

grossly. 
That I, a Avidower, am gone through with 
her. 
Sur. How ! have I lost her then *? 
Love. Were you the don, sir'? 

Good faith, now she does blame you ex- 
tremely, and says 
You swore, and told her you had ta'en 

the pains 
To dye your beard, and umber o'er your 

face, 
Borrowed a suit, and ruff, all for her 

love : 
And then did nothing. What an over- 
sight 
And want of putting forward, sir, was 

this! ^ ■ 

Well fare an old harquebusier '^•^ yet, 
Could prime his powder, and give fire, 

and hit, 
All in a twinkling ! 

(Mammon comes forth.) 
Mam. The whole nest are tied ! 

Love. What sort of birds were they? 
Mam. A kind of choughs, 

Or thievish daws, sir, that have pick'd 

my purse, 
Of eight score and ten pounds within 

these five weeks. 
Beside my first materials ; and my goods. 
That lie i' the cellar, which I am glad 

they ha' left, 
I may have home yet. 
Love. Think you so, sir? 

Mam. Aye. 

Love. By order of law, sir, but not other- 
wise. 
Mam. Not mine own stuff! 
Love. Sir, I can take no knowledge 

That they are yours, but by public 
means. 



If you can bring certificate that you were 

guU'd of 'em. 
Or any formal writ out of a court, 
That you did cozen yourself, I will not 
hold them. 
Blam. I '11 rather lose 'em. 
Love. ^ That you shall not, sir, 

By me, in troth; upon these terms, 

they 're yours. 
What, should they ha' been, sir, turn'd 
into gold, all ? 
Mam. No. 

I cannot tell. — It may be they should. — 
What then? 
Love. What a great loss in hope have you 

sustain'd ! 
Mam. Not I; the commonwealth has. 
Face. Aye, he would ha' built 

The city new; and made a ditch about 

it 
Of silver, should have run with cream 

from Hogsden ; 
That every Sunday in Moorfields the 

younkers. 
And tits ^^ and tom-boys should have fed 
on, gratis. 
Mam. I will go mount a turnip-cart, and 
preach 
The end o' the world within these two 

months. Surly, 
What! in a dream? 
Sur. Must I needs cheat myself 

With that same foolish vice of honesty ! 
Come, let us go and hearken out the 

rogues : 
That Face I '11 mark for mine, if e'er I 
meet him. 
Face. If I can hear of him, sir, I '11 bring 
you word 
Unto your lodging; for in troth, they 

were strangers 
To me; I thought 'em honest as myself, 
sir. 

(TJiey com'e forth.) 

Re-enter Ananias and Tribulation. 

Tri. 'T is well, the saints shall not lose all 
yet. Go 

And get some carts 

Love. Tor what, my zealous friends? 

Ana. To bear away the portion of the 
righteous 
Out of this den of thieves. 
Love. What is that portion? 

Ana. The goods sometimes the orphans', 
that the brethren 
Bought with their silver pence. 



75 perhaps a ballad refrain. 



76 musketeer. 



77 strumpets. 



290 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Love. What, those i' the cellar, 

The knight Sir Mammon claims'? 
Ana. I do defy 

The wicked Mammon, so do all the 

brethren, 
Thou profane man ! I ask thee with 

what conscience 
Thou canst advance that idol against us, 
That have the seal?'^^ Were not the 

shillings numb'red 
That made the pounds; were not the 

pounds told out 
Upon the second day of the fourth week, 
In the eighth month, upon the table dor- 
mant, 
The year of the last patience of the 

saints, 
Six hundred and ten *? 
Love. Mine earnest vehement botcher, 

And deacon also, I cannot dispute with 

you: 
But if you get you not away the sooner, 
I shall confute you with a cudgel. 
Ana. Sir ! 

Tri. Be patient, Ananias. 
Ana. I am strong, 

And will stand up, well girt, against an 

host 
That thi'eatens Gad in exile. 
Love. I shall send you 

To Amsterdam, to your cellar. 
Ana. I will pray there, 

Against thy house. May dogs defile thy 

walls. 
And wasps and hornets breed beneath 

thy roof. 
This seat of falsehood, and this cave of 



coz'nage 



Love. 
Drug 
Love. 



Face 



Exeunt Ana. and Tri. 
Enter Drugger. 

Another tool 

Not I, sir, I am no brother. 
(Beats him.) Away, you Harry 
Nicholas !7» do you talk? 

Exit Drug. 
No, this was Abel Drugger. Good 
sir, go, (To the Parson.) 

And satisfy him ; tell him all is done : 
He stay'd too long a washing of his face. 
The doetoi', he shall hear of him at West- 
chester ; 
And of the captain, tell him, at Yar- 
mouth, or 
Some good port-town else, lying for a 
wind. 

Exit Parson. 



If you can get off the angry child now, 
sir 

Enter Kastril, dragging in his sister. 

Kas. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd 
most sweetly, ha' you not? 
Did not I say, I would never ha' you tupt 
But by a dubb'd boy,^" to make you a 

lady-tom ? 
'Slight, you are a mammet!®^ 0, I 

could touse you now. 
Death, mun ^- you mari-y with a pox ! 
Love. You lie, boy; 

As somid as you ; and I 'm af oi'ehand 
with you. 
Kas. Anon ! 

Love. Come, will you quan-el"? I will 
feeze ®^ you, sirrah ; 
Why do you not buckle to your tools? 
Kas. God's light. 

This is a fine old boy as e'er I saw ! 
Love. What, do you change your copy 
now ? Proceed ; 
Here stands my dove : stoop ^* at her if 
you dare. 
Kas. 'Slight, I must love him ! I cannot 
choose, i' faith, 
An I should be hang-'d for 't ! Suster, I 

protest, 
I honor thee for this match. 
Love. 0, do you so, sir? 

Kas. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and 
di'ink, old boy, 
I '11 give her five hundred pound more to 

her marriage. 
Than her own state. 
Love. Fill a pipe full, Jeremy. 

Face. Yes; but go in and take it, sir. 
Love. We will. 

I will be rul'd by thee in anything, 
Jeremy. 
Kas. 'Slight, thou art not hide-bound, 
thou art a jovy ^^ boy! 
Come, let us in, I pray thee, and take 
our whiffs. 
Love. Whiff in with your sister, brother 
boy. 

Exeunt Kas. and Dame Pliant. 
That master 
That hath receiv'd such happiness by a 

servant, 
In si;cli a widow, and with so much 

wealth, 
Were very ungrateful, if he would not be 
A little induls'ent to that servant's wit. 



78 sealed as God's 
people. 

79 a German reli- 



gious fanatic, who 
founded a sect 
called "The Fam- 



ily of Love." 

80 knight. 

81 puppet. 



82 must. 

83 settle your busi- 
ness. 



84 swoop, like a 
hawk on its prey. 

85 jovial. 



THE ALCHEMIST 



291 



And help his fortune, though with some 

small strain 
Of his own candor.^*^ {Advancing.) 

Therefore, gentlemen. 
And kind spectators, if I have outstrijot 
An old man's gravity, or strict canon, 

think 
What a young wife and a good brain 

may do; 
Stretch age's truth sometimes, and crack 

it too. 
Speak for thyself, knave. 
Face. So I will, sir. {Advancing to the 

front of the stage.) Gentlemen, 



My part a little fell in this last scene. 
Yet 't was decorum." And though I am 

clean 
Got off from Subtle, Surly, Mammon, 

Dol, 
Hot Ananias, Dapper, Drugger, all 
With whom I traded; yet I put myself 
On you, that are my country : ^^ and this 

pelf 
Which I have got, if you do quit me, 

rests. 
To feast you often, and invite new 

guests. 

Exeunt. 



87 dramatic proprietj'. 



88 jury. 



JOHN WEBSTER 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



Of the life of John Webster ( 1580T-1625?) , 
probably the son of a London tailor, almost 
nothing is known. He began writing for the 
stage as early as 1602, at tirst as a collabo- 
rator, more especially with Dekker, who 
strongly influenced his dramatic beginnings. 
Plays known to be by him alone number only 
four, all dating between 1607 and 1619. 
Writing slowly and carefully, compared with 
his contemporaries he apparently lacked pro- 
ductiveness and therefore prominence, but was 
thought highly of by good judges. 

Webster's reputation depends mainly on 
The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona 
(1607-12) and The Duchess of Malfi (1609- 
14), both romantic tragedies, the kind of play 
which most people are apt to think of, per- 
haps, as most typical of the Elizabethan 
drama, because the most intense of its plays 
are of this class. In the last hundred years 
and more they have been the chief models for 
writers of poetic drama (as in Shelley's 
Cenci). Both of Webster's plays mentioned 
belong to a subdivision of the type, the 
tragedy of blood. The most celebrated and 
influential early example is Thomas Kyd's 
Spanish Tragedy (1585-7) and the great- 
est is Shakespeare's Hamlet (1600-1604?), 
though its original elements are so reflned 
and ennobled as to gain a new character. 
The tragedy of blood abounds in crime, vio- 
lence, madness, and bloodshed; ghosts glide 
through its scenes, much is made of physical 
horror, revenge is a frequent motive of its 
personages. Its obvious appeal was some- 
what crude and popular ; but the great 
strength of the Elizabethan drama was that 
while its roots ran deep into popular belief, 
taste and life, it was formed by the great 
geniuses of the age. A particular develop- 
ment of the tragedy of blood is seen in these 
two plays of Webster and some others. Here 
the horror is both intensified and refined ; 
mere bloodshed is not enough, other and 
more elaborate physical horrors are added, 
and especially mental and moral horrors, in- 
human wickedness, long-drawn and ingenious 
agonies, the subleties of the sinner's inmost 
thought. The intensity is heightened by a 
more realistic setting; the ghosts are some- 
times absent, as in The Dtichess of Malfi, and 
we find ourselves in an almost contemporary 
age, often in Italy — which was regarded by 
the English, who had heard lurid tales of its 
corruption and had misunderstood Machi 



292 



avelli, as the home of dire and subtle evil. 
In The Duchess of Malfi there is no lack of 
murder and sudden death. All the chief 
characters die violently, four men, three 
women, two children. As often in Elizabethan 
tragedy, the play is closed by a groujj of lofty 
personages, unimportant for the play, with 
solemn and regretful comments on the gen- 
eral ruin. Strange and elaborate are the 
vehicles of dread and torment — the dancing 
and singing of lunatics, the feigned corpses 
of her husband and children which wring the 
Duchess' soul, the cold dead hand grasped in 
the dark, the coffin and bell, the dolorous 
echo, the poisoned book which slays by a kiss. 
The struggling and screaming of Cariola at 
her death not only serve as a foil to the 
Duchess' composure, but bring a new shock. 
The moral horror is not in the mere wicked- 
ness, common enough in all tragedy. Bosola 
is not a highly impressive villain, but an in- 
different counterpart to lago, with his pre- 
tense of frank honesty and success at dis- 
simulation; with also, it is true, some indi- 
vidual traits, melancholy, railing and a medi- 
tative and scholarly turn. He has a con- 
science and a heart at bottom; he serves as a 
contrast to the more depraved brothers, and 
rebels against them; the gods are just, and 
of their own creature make an instrument to 
destroy them. Their motives are revenge and 
covetousness ; botli brothers resent the sup- 
posed dishonor brought by the Duchess on 
their royal blood, and Ferdinand hoped 

Had she continued widow, to have gained 
An infinite mass of treasure by her death (IV. 
ii; cf. I. i). 

But their wickedness is so out of proportion 
to any advantage which it might produce that 
we feel it is the very air in which they live. 
We see it in the cold calculation with which 
they have planned all the accompaniments 
of "their sister's murder. Ferdinand is the 
weaker and less abnormal of the two. Violent 
and impulsive as he is, when he sees 
his sister lying dead his shell of callousness 
is finally broken by resurgent family feeling 
and remembrances of their youth, and re- 
morse invades his reason. As to the Car- 
dinal, he is more discerning, abler, firmer 
than his brother, and it is he who claims re- 
sponsibility for the strangling of the Ducliess 
and her children. His frigid calm can be dis- 
turbed only by the fear of political dis- 
grace, and by the briei moment when he per- 



JOHN WEBSTER 



293 



mits himself to peer into the gulf of eternity 
which lies before him. One of the most ab- 
horrent passages in Elizabethan tragedy is 
at the beginning of the final scene, where the 
Cardinal shudders over one of his theological 
books describing the fire of hell. He is a 
devil who half-believes and trembles. He re- 
calls the political cardinal of two or three 
centuries earlier who is reported to have said 
that if he had a soul he had lost it for the 
Ghibellines. 

Like Shakespeare, Webster is not borne 
down bj' the distressing, the negative, the de- 
structive; he is strong enough to battle his 
way above them. We do not almost forget 
them, as in Hamlet — he has taken good care 
that we should not. But we concern our- 
selves more with the normal and benign per- 
sonages who are finally engulfed in the murky, 
tempestuous ending. As usual with Webster, 
the most interesting person is a woman ; in- 
deed, for Julia too, as for Vittoria Corom- 
bona, he shows sympathy — for a bad woman 
who has heroic traits, a type always popular 
on the stage. The Duchess we fancy in the 
full ripeness of womanhood (though possibly 
meant to be younger ) , between youth and 
middle age, woman rather than sovereign, but 
both. Nothing covild be more perfect than 
the scene where she reveals to Antonio her 
resolve to marry him ; here is all the charm 
we feel when circumstances make it proper 
and necessary for a woman to do the woo- 
ing; the Duchess is mature enough to do it 
withovit embarrassment, but with the beam- 
ing eyes and roguish humor she always 
shows in talking with Antonio, as in the 
wonderfully human and dramatic scene (III. 
ii) where Ferdinand siirprises them to- 
gether. Yet she is almost more mother than 
wife, the sort of woman, the hope of the 
human race, who takes a husband to be the 
father of her children. Almost her last 
words are a domestic order (for a syrup for 
her boy's cold), which the situation raises to 
the highest poetry, but which turns to pain- 
ful irony when we see the children strangled 
instantly after her. Antonio, though less 
fascinating and lifelike, is more elaborately 
studied than she, doubtless in order to rec- 
oncile an aristocratic age to seeing a sov- 
ereign marry beneath her ; a soldier, diplo- 
mat, statesman, penetrating and with a re- 
markable knowledge of human nature, yet 
modest, honest, charitable, praised even by 
Bosola, and with a touch of modern-seeming 
cultivation in his love of ruins and history. 
He lacks interest a little through being pas- 
sive and acted on throughout, for his status, 
in the drama as in his life, is that of a prince 
consort. Another curious modern trait is in 
both, a certain emancipation and liberalism 
as to religion, partly a reflection of 
the usual English prejudice against popery. 
The Duchess rebukes her woman as " a 
superstitious fool " because she objects 
to feigning a pilgrimage, and it is doubtless 



not only the unconsciously ironical Cardinal 
who would say that Antonio did " account 
religion but a school-name " ( V. ii, and cf. 
111. iii). Both seem satisfied, as in the 
original source of the play, with a marriage 
certainly informal and barely legal. Julia 
too in her noble dying words "goes she 
knows not whither." A certain skepticism 
seems to have excited Webster's sympathy. 

In truly Elizabethan manner, the construc- 
tion and style of the play are ample and 
broad, not compact and minutely careful, 
like the work of such a man as Jonson. The 
verse is lax and irregular, sometimes unpar- 
donably so, approaching mere rhythmical 
prose, as in some of the latest of the drama- 
tists. Slurred and tumbling syllables often 
give a dramatic, easy, natural effect; but 
Webster's lines are sometimes difficult to 
read in any way which leaves the metrical 
norm still recognizable. In structure and 
incident he is at times a trifle careless. An- 
tonio draws up an unnatural and dangerous 
memorandum for his son's horoscope, and 
drops it inditTerently just when he' should 
have been most careful; and at the end of 
the play this child who had been condemned 
by the stars to an early death is the only one 
of his family who survives! The play takes 
a sudden emotional turn toward the middle. 
The cloud in the sunny sky which beams over 
the first part is no bigger than a man's hand. 
The storm rolls up with speed, and nothing 
breaks the gloom of the last part. Webster 
daringly allows the interest to drop after the 
death of the Duchess, but towards the mid- 
dle of the last act it revives, with new uncer- 
tainties and with the ingenious and appalling 
disasters which crush the sinners. 

The source of the play is the story of the 
Duchess of Amalfi, perhaps partly historical, 
which forms the twenty-third novel in the 
second volume of Painter's Palace of Pleas- 
ure (1567), and which came through the 
French of Belle-Forest from the Novelle of 
Bandello. Painter's interest, like that of all 
contemporary novelists, is in sensational 
events, in rhetorical talk, and in drawing 
forced moral lessons; he censures the Duchess 
for her uncontrolled desire for marriage, and 
Antonio for his ambitious folly in marrying 
above him. Tlie characterization is ex- 
tremely simple and obvious; Bosola is in- 
conspicuous, and Julia not present at all, 
nor most of the matter of Webster's fifth act. 
A near kinship between Webster and 
Shakespeare has long been felt by both 
readers and spectators (the play was acted 
long and successfully, even as lately as 1851, 
with overwhelming effect, it is said). There 
are signs of Shakespeare's influence on it, as 
of the death of Desdemona in that of the 
Duchess: if a strangled person revived, as 
they both do, well enough to be able to speak, 
there is no reason why she should not re- 
cover. But it is doubtful whether Webster 
should be called a pupil of Shakespeare; if so 



294 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



he was not ready to admit it, for in the pref- 
ace to The White Devil, after analyzing the 
merits of Chapman, Jonson, Beaumont and 
Fletcher, he dismisses Shakespeare, Dekker, 
and Heywood in one breath. He approaches 
Shakespeare on only one of his many dram- 
atic sides, in his deeply human tragedy. His 
two best plays put us more nearly in the 
frame of mind produced by Hamlet, Lear, 
and Othello than those of any other Eliza- 
bethan dramatist. The two men are alike in 
giving us more than we have any right to 
demand in a play. Without enlarging on ab- 
stract subjects, without mere talk, they give 
us glimpses into deep musings over human 
nature, life, and destiny. Both had wide in- 
tellectual interests. Both, in their greatest 
plays, though not ]:)essimists, are somber. 
Their people are more than carefully drawn 
and individual pictures; they have the con- 
trasting sides and the suggestions of strange 
possibilities, of the hidden and unknown, 
which we feel in the rare individual in real 



life. They give us the utterly unexpected, 
which we instantly accept. Webster knows 
what strangely commonplace, what terse and 
significant things, people will say at supreme 
moments, as in the staccato dialogue between 
Ferdinand and Bosola after the Duchess' 
murder (IV. ii). He makes us feel the mo- 
ment of tense silence which divides the chat- 
ter of affectionate intimacy from the queenly 
acceptance of doom : 

I '11 assure you, 
You shall get no more children till my brothers 
Consent to be your gossips. — Have you lost 
your tongue I 

'T is welcome : 
For know, whether I am doomed to live or die, 
I can do both like a prince. 

W'e are aware, in both poets, of mental power 
and acuteness combined with warmth of 
heart and a living soul. In Swinburne's 
words, there is no poet morally nobler than 
Webster. Such likeness was not due to 
study, it was innate. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 

By JOHN WEBSTER 

NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 



Ferdinand, Duke of Calahria. 

Cardinal, his brother. 

Antonio Bologna, Steicard of the House- 
hold to the Duchess. 

Delio, his friend. 

Daniel de Bosola, Gentleman of the Horse 
to the Duchess. 

Castruccio, an old lord. 

Marquis of Pescara. 

Count Maxateste. 

Roderigo, "j 

Silvio, i- Lords. 

Grisolan, J 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. Amalfi. The presence-chamber 
in the Duchess's palace. 

Enter Antonio and Delio. 

Del. You are welcome to your country, 
dear Antonio ; 

You have been long in France, and you 
return 

A very formal Frenchman in your habit. 

How do you like the French court? 
Ant. I admire it. 

In seeking to reduce both state and peo- 
ple 

To a tix'd order, their judicious king 

Begins at home; quits first his royal pal- 
ace 



Doctor. 

Several Madmen. 

Duchess of Malfi. 

Cariola, her uoman. 

JUT.IA, vnfe to Castruccio, and mistress to 

the Cardinal. 
Old Lady. 
Ladies, three young children, two pilgrims, 

executioners, court officers, and attendants. 

Scene. — Amalfi, Rome, Loretto, Milan. 

Of flatt'ring sycophants, of dissolute 
And infamous persons, — which he 

sweetly terms 
His master's master-piece, the work of 

heaven ; 
Considering duly that a prince's court 
Is like a common fountain, whence should 

flow 
Pure silver drops in general, but if 't 

chance 
Some curs'd example poison 't near the 

head. 
Death and diseases through the whole 

land spread. 
And what is 't makes this blessed govern- 
ment 
But a most provident council, who dare 

freely 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



295 



Inform him the eoriiiption of the times'? 
Though some o' th' court hold it pre- 
sumption 
To instruct princes what they ought to 

do, 
It is a noble duty to inform them 
What they ought to foresee.^ — Here 

comes Bosola, 
The only court-gall; yet I observe his 

railing 
Is not for simple love of piety : 
Indeed, he rails at those things which he 

wants ; 
Would be as lecherous, covetous, or 

proud. 
Bloody, or envious, as any man, 
If he had means to be so. — Here 's the 

cardinal. 

Enter Cardinal and Bosola. 

Bos. I do haunt you still. 

Card. So. 

Bos. I have done you better service than 
to be slighted thus. IVIiserable age, 
where only the reward of doing well is 
the doing of it ! 

Card. You enforce your merit too much. 

Bos. I fell into the galleys in your serv- 
ice; where, for two years together, I wore 
two towels instead of a shirt, with a knot 
on the shoulder, after the fashion of a 
Roman mantle. Slighted thus ! I will 
thrive some way. Blackbirds fatten best 
in hard weather; why not I in these dog 
days^ 

Card. Would you cov;ld become honest ! 

Bos. With all your divinity do but direct 
me the way to it. I have known many 
travel far for it, and yet return as arrant 
knaves as they went forth, because they 
carried themselves always along with 
them. {Exit Cardinal.) Are you gone? 
Some fellows, they say, are possessed 
with the devil, but this great fellow were 
able to possess the greatest devil, and 
make him worse. 

Ant. He hath denied thee some suif? 

Bos. He and his brother are like plum- 
trees that grow crooked over standing - 
pools ; they are rich and o'erladen with 
fruit, but none but crows, pies,^ and 
caterpillars feed on them. Could I be 
one of their flatt'ring panders, I would 
hang on their ears like a horse-leech till 
I were full, and then drop off. I pray, 
leave me. Who would rely upon these 
miserable dependencies, in expectation 



to be advanc'd to-morrow? What crea- 
ture ever fed worse than hoping Tan- 
talus"? Nor ever died any man more 
fearfully than he that hop'd for a par- 
don. There are rewards for hawks and 
dogs when they have done us service ; but 
for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a 
battle, nothing but a kind of geometry is 
his last supportation. 

Delio. Geometry "? 

Bos. Aye, to hang in a fair pair of slings, 
take his latter swing in the world upon 
an honorable pair of crutches, from hos- 
pital to hospital. Fare ye well, sir : and 
yet do not j'ou scorn us ; for places in the 
court are but like beds in the hospital, 
where this man's head lies at that man's 
foot, and so lower and lower. 

Exit. 

Del. I knew this fellow seven years in the 
galleys 
For a notorious murder; and 'twas 

thought 
The eai'dinal suborn'd it : he was releas'd 
By the French general, Gaston de Foix, 
When he recover'd Naples. 

Ant. 'T is great pity 

He should be thus neglected : I have 

heard 
He's very valiant. This foul melan- 
choly 
Will poison all his goodness ; for, I '11 

tell you, 
If too immoderate sleep be truly said 
To be an inward rust unto the soul, 
It then doth folloAA^ want of action 
Breeds all black malcontents; and their 

close rearing, 
Like moths in cloth, do hurt for want of 
wearing. 

Scene 2. The same. 

Antonio, Delio. Enter Silvio, Castruccio, 
Julia, Roderigo, and Grisolan. 

Delio. The presence 'gins to fill: you 

promis'd me 

To make me the pai'taker of the natures 

Of some of your great courtiers. 

Ant. The lord cardinal's 

And other strangers' that are now in 

court ? 
I shall. — Here comes the great Calabrian 
duke. 

Enter Ferdinand and Attendants. 

Ferd. Who took the ring of t'nest ? * 



1 provide against. 

2 stagnant. 



3 magpies. 



4 A sport in which a horseman tried to carry off on the point of his spear 
an iron ring* hanging from the cross-piece of a post. 



296 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Sil. Antonio Bologna, my lord. 

Ferd. Our sister duchess' great master of 
her household? Give him the jewel. — 
When shall we leave this sportive action, 
and fall to action indeed? 

Cast. Methinks, my lord, you should not 
desire to go to war in person. 

Ferd. Now for some gravity. — Why, my 
lord? 

Cast. It is fitting a soldier arise to be a 
prince, but not necessaiy a prince de- 
scend to be a captain. 

Ferd. No? 

Cast. No, my lord; he were far better do 
it by a deputy. 

Ferd. Why should he not as well sleep or 
eat by a deputy? This might take idle, 
offensive, and base office from him, 
whereas the other deprives him of honor. 

Cast. Believe my experience, that realm 
is never long in quiet w^here the ruler is 
a soldier. 

Ferd. Thou told'st me thy wife could not 
endure fighting. 

Cast. True, my lord. 

Ferd. And of a jest she broke of ^ a cap- 
tain she met full of wounds : I have for- 
got it. 

Cast. She told him, my lord, he was a piti- 
ful fellow, to lie,^ like the children of 
Ishmael, all in tentsJ 

Ferd. Why, there 's a wit were able to 
undo all the chirurgeons ^ o' the city ; for 
although gallants should quarrel, and had 
drawn their weapons, and were ready to 
go to it, yet her persuasions would make 
them put up. 

Cast. That she would, my lord. — How do 
you like my Spanish gennet? ^ 

Rod. He is all fire. 

Ferd. I am of Pliny's opinion, I think he 
was begot by the wind ; he runs as if he 
were ballas'd ^° with quicksilver. 

Sil. True, my lord, he reels from the tilt 
often. 

Rod. Oris. Ha, ha, ha! 

Ferd. Why do you laugh? Methinks you 
that are courtiers should be my touch- 
wood, take fire when I give fire; that is, 
laugh when I laugh, were the subject 
never so witty. 

Cast. True, my lord : I myself have heard 
a veiy good jest, and have seorn'd to 
seem to have so silly a wit as to under- 
stand it. 

Ferd. But I can laugh at your fool, my 

lord. 
Cast. He cannot speak, you know, but he 



makes faces; my lady cannot abide him. 

Ferd. No? 

Cast. Nor endure to be in merry com- 
pany; for she says too full laughing, and 
too much company, fills her too full of 
the wrinkle. 

Ferd. I would, then, have a mathematical 
instrument made for her face, that she 
might not laugh out of comi^ass. — I shall 
shortly visit you at Milan, Lord Silvio. 

Sil. Your grace shall arrive most wel- 
come. 

Ferd. You are a good horseman, Antonio : 
you have excellent riders in France ; what 
do you think of good horsemanship? 

Ant. Nobly, my lord : as out of the Gre- » 
cian horse issued many famous princes, 
so out of brave horsemanship arise the 
first sparks of growing resolution, that 
raise the mind to noble action. 

Ferd. You have bespoke it worthily. 

Sil. Your brother, the lord cardinal, and 
sister duchess. 

Enter Cardinal, Duchess, and Cariola. 

Card. Are the galleys come about? 

Oris. They are, my lord. 

Ferd. Here 's the Lord Silvio is come to 

take his leave. 
Delio. Now, sir, your promise : what 's 
that cardinal? 
I mean his temper. They say he 's a 

brave fellow, 
Will play his five thousand ci'owns at 

tennis, dance. 
Court ladies, and one that hath fought 
single combats. 
Ant. Some such flashes superficially hang 
on him for form ; but observe his inward 
character: he is a melancholy church- 
man. The spring in his face is nothing 
but the engend'ring of toads; where he 
is jealous of any man, he lays worse 
plots for them than ever was impos'd on 
Hercules, for he strews in his way flat- 
terers, panders, intelligencers, atheists, 
and a thousand such political ^^ monsters. 
He should have been Pope; but instead 
of coming to it by the primitive decency 
of the church, he did bestow bribes so 
largely and so impudently as if he would 
have carried it away without heaven's 
knowledge. Some good he hath done— — 
Belio. You have given too much of him. 

What's his brother? 
Ant. The duke there? A most perverse 
and turbulent nature. 



5 at the expense of. 
e lodge. 



7 rolls of lint used 
for bandages. 



8 surgeons. 

9 a small horse. 



10 ballasted. 



11 intriguing. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



297 



What appears in bim mirth is merely out- 
side; 

If he laug'ht heartily, it is to laugh 

All houestj^ out of fashion. 
Delio. Twins? 

Ant. In qualitj^ 

He speaks with others' tongues, and 
hears men's suits 

With others' ears; will seem to sleep o' 
th' bench 

Only to entrap offenders in their an- 
swers ; 

Dooms men to death by information; 

Rewards by hearsay. 
Delio. Then the law to him 

Is like a foul, black cobweb to a spider, — 

He makes it his dwelling and a prison 

To entangle those shall feed him. 
Ant. Most true : 

He never pays debts unless they be 
shrewd turns. 

And those he will confess that he doth 
owe. 

Last, for his brother there, the cardinal. 

They that do flatter him most say ora- 
cles 

Hang at his lips; and verily I believe 
them. 

For the devil speaks in them. 

But for their sistei', the right noble 
duchess. 

You never fix'd your eye on three fair 
medals 

Cast in one fig'ure, of so different temper. 

For her discourse, it is so full of rapture, 

You only will begin then to be sorry 

When she doth end her speech, and wish, 
in wonder. 

She held it less vain-glory to talk much, 

Than your penance to hear her. W^hilst 
she speaks. 

She throws upon a man so sweet a look 

That it were able to raise one to a gal- 
liard ^^ 

That lay in a dead palsy, and to dote 

On that sweet countenance ; but in that 
look 

There speaketh so divine a continence 

As cuts off all lascivious and vain hope. 

Her days are practis'd in such noble vir- 
tue. 

That sure her nights, nay, more, her very 
sleeps, 

Are more in heaven than other ladies' 
shrifts. 

Let all sweet ladies break their flatt'ring 
glasses. 

And dress themselves in her. 



12 a lively dance. 

13 throws into the shade. 



14 about to part. 



Delio. Fie, Antonio, 

You play the wire-drawer with her com- 
mendations. 
Ant. I '11 case the picture up ; only thus 
much : 
All her particular worth grows to this 

sum, — 
She stains ^^ the time past, lights the 
time to come. 
Cari. You must attend my lady in the gal- 
lery, 
Some half an hour hence. 
Ant. I shall. 

Exeunt Antonio and Delio. 
Ferd. Sister, I have a suit to you. 
Duch. To me, sir? 

Ferd. A gentleman here, Daniel de Bosola, 

One that was in the galleys 

Duch. Yes, I know him. 

Ferd. A worth};- fellow he 's : pray, let me 
entreat for 
The provisorship of your horse. 
Duch. Your knowledge of him 

Commends him and prefers him. 
Ferd. Call him hither. 

Exeunt Attendants. 
We [are] now upon parting. '^^ Good 

Lord Silvio, 
Do us commend to all our noble friends 
At the leag-uer.^^ 
Sil. Sir, I shall. 

Duch. You are for Milan ? 

Sil. I am. 

Duch. Bring the caroches.^^ — We '11 bring 
you down 
To the haven. 

Exeunt all hut Cardinal and Ferdinand. 
Card. Be sure you entertain that Bosola 
For your intelligence.^''^ I would not be 

seen in 't ; 
And therefore many times I have slighted 

him 
Wlien he did court our furtherance, as 
this morning. 
Ferd. Antonio, the great master of her 
household. 
Had been far fitter. 
Card. You are deceiv'd in him. 

His nature is too honest for such busi- 
ness. — 
He comes : I '11 leave you. 

Exit. 
Re-enter Bosola. 

Bos. I was lur'd to you. 

Ferd. My brother, here, the cardinal could 
never 
Abide you. 

15 camp. 16 coaches. 

17 to give you a spy's information. 



298 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Bos. Never since he was in my debt. 

Ferd. May be some oblique character in 

your face 

Made him suspect you. 

Bos. Doth he study physiognomy? 

There 's no more credit to be given to th' 

face 
Than to a sick man's urine, which some 

call 
The physician's whore, because she 

cozens ^^ him. 
He did suspect me wrongfully. 
Ferd. For that 

You must give great men leave to take 
their times. 
. Distrust doth cause us seldom be de- 
ceiv'd. 
You see the oft shaking of the cedar- 
tree 
Fastens it more at root. 
Bos. Yet take heed; 

For to suspect a friend unworthily 
Instructs him the next way to suspect 

you, 
And prompts him to deceive you. 
Ferd. There's gold. 

Bos. So : 

What follows? — (Aside.) Never rain'd 

such showers as these 
Without thunderbolts i' th' tail of them. 
— Wn.iose thi^oat must I cut? 
Ferd. Your inclination to shed blood 
rides post ^^ 
Before my occasion to use you. I give 

you that 
To live i' th' court here, and observe the 

duchess ; 
To note all the particulars of her be- 
havior, 
What suitors do solicit her for marriage, 
And whom she best affects.-" She 's a 

young widow: 
I would not have her many again. 
Bos. No, sir? 

Ferd. Do not you ask the reason ; but be 
satisfied. 
I say I would not. 
Bos. It seems you would create me 

One of your familiars. 
Ferd. ' Familiar! What's that? 

Bos. Why, a very quaint invisible devil in 
flesii,— 
An intelligencer.^^ 
Ferd. Such a kind of thriving thing 

I would wish thee; and ere long thou 

mayst arrive 
At a higher place by 't. 
Bos. Take your devils. 



Which hell calls angels ! -- These curs'd 

gifts would make 
You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor; 
And should I take these, they 'd take me 

[to] hell. 
Ferd. Sir, I '11 take nothing from you that 

I have given. 
There is a place that I i^rocur'd for you 
This morning, the provisorship o' th' 

horse ; 
Have you heard on 't ? 
Bos. No. 

Ferd. 'T is yours: is 't not worth thanks? 
Bos. I would have you curse yourself now, 

that your bounty 
(Which makes men truly noble) e'er 

should make me 
A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingi'atitude 
For the good deed you have done me, I 

must do 
All the ill man can invent ! Thus the 

devil 
Candies all sins o'er: and what heaven 

terms vile. 
That names he complimental. 
Ferd. Be yourself; 

Keep your old garb of melancholy ; 't will 

express 
You envy those that stand above your 

reach. 
Yet strive not to come near 'em. This 

Avill gain 
Access to private lodgings, where your- 
self 

May, like a politic dormouse 

Bos. As I have seen some 

Feed in a lord's dish, half asleep, not 

seeming 
To listen to any talk; and yet these 

rogues 
Have cut his throat in a dream. What 's 

my place? 
The provisorship o' th' horse? Say, 

then, my corruption 
Grew out of horse-dung: I am your crea- 
ture. 
Ferd. Away ! Exit. 

Bos. Let good men, for good deeds, covet 

good fame, 
Since place and riches oft are bribes of 

shame. 
Sometimes the devil doth preach. 

Exit. 

Scene 3. AmoWi. Galleri/ in the Duch- 
ess's palace. 
Enter Ferdinand. Dvchess, Cardinal, and 
Cariola. 



18 cheats. 



10 runs ahead of. 



20 likes. 



21 spy. 



22 gold coins worth ten shillings. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



299 



Card. We are to part from you; -and your 
own discretion 
Must now be your director. 
Ferd. You are a widow : 

You know already what man is; and 

therefore 
Let not youth, high promotion, elo- 
quence 

Card. No, 

Nor anything without the addition, 

honor. 
Sway your high blood. 
Ferd. Marry! They are most luxuri- 
ous ^^ 
Will wed twice. 
Card. 0, fie! 

Ferd. Their livers are more spotted 

Than Laban's sheep.-* 
Duch. Diamonds are of most value, 

They say, that have past through most 
jewelers' hands. 
Ferd. Whores by that rule are precious. 
Duch. Will you hear me*? 

I '11 never many. 
Card. So most widows say; 

But commonly that motion ^^ lasts no 

longer 
Than the turning of an hour-glass : the 

funeral sermon 
And it end both together. 
Ferd. Now hear me : 

You live in a rank pasture, here, i' th' 

court ; 
There is a kind of honey-dew that 's 

deadly; 
'T will poison your fame ; look to 't. Be 

not cunning; 
For they whose faces do belie their 

hearts 
Are witches ere they arrive at twenty 

years. 
Aye, and give the devil suck. 
Duch. This is terrible good counsel. 
Ferd. Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small 
thi-ead. 
Subtler than Vulcan's engine : "^ yet, be- 
lieve 't, 
Your darkest actions, nay, your privat'st 

thoughts. 
Will come to light. 
Card. You may flatter yourself, 

And take your own choice ; privately be 
married 

Under the eaves of night 

Ferd. Think 't the best voyage 

That e'er you made; like the irregular 
crab. 



Which, though 't goes backward, thinks 

that it goes right 
Because it goes its own way : but observe, 
Such weddings may more properly be 

said 
To be executed than celebrated. 
Card. The marriage night 

Is the entrance into some prison. 
Ferd. And those joys, 

Those lustful pleasures, are like heavy 

sleeps 
Which do fore-run man's mischief. 
Card. Fare you well. 

Wisdom begins at the end : remember it. 

Exit. 

Duch. I think this speech between you 

both was studied, 

It came so roundly off. 

Ferd. You are my sister; 

This was my father's poniard, do you 

see? 
I 'd be loth to see 't look rusty, 'cause 

't was his. 
I would have you give o'er these charge- 
able - '' revels : 
A visor and a mask are whispering- 
rooms 
That were ne'er built for goodness, — fare 

ye well — 
And women like that part which, like the 

lamprey, 
Hath ne'er a bone in 't. 
Duch. Fie, sir! 

Ferd. Nay, 

I mean the tongue; variety of courtship. 
What cannot a neat knave with a smooth 

tale 
Make a woman believe? Farewell, lusty 
widow. 

Exit. 
Duch. Shall this move me? If all my 
royal kindred 
Lay in my way unto this marriage, 
I 'd make them my low footsteps. And 

even now, 
Even in this hate, as men in some great 

battles, 
By apprehending danger, have achiev'd 
Almost impossible actions (I have heard 

soldiers say so), 
So I through frights and threat'nings 

will assay 
This dangerous venture. Let old wives 

report 
I wink'd -^ and chose a husband. — Cari- 

ola, 
To thy known secrecy I have given up 



23 lustful. 25 resolve. 

24 Genesis xxx. 31—42. 



26 the net in which he caught Venus and Mars. 

27 costly. 



28 shut my eyes. 



300 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



More thau my life, — my fame. 
Cari. Both shall be safe; 

For I'll conceal this secret from the 

world 
As warily as those that trade in poison 
Keep poison from their children. 
Duch. Thy protestation 

Is ingenious and hearty ; I believe it. 
Is Antonio come? 
Cari. He attends you. 

Duch. Good dear soul, 

Leave me; but place thyself behind the 

arras, 
"Where thou may'st overhear us. Wish 

me good speed ; 
For I am going into a wilderness. 
Where I shall find nor path nor friendly 

clue 
To be my guide. 

Cariola goes heJiind the arras. 

Enter Antonio. 

I sent for you: sit down; 
Take pen and ink, and write: are you 
ready? 
Ant. Yes. 

Duch. What did I say? 
Ant. That I should write somewhat. 
Duch. 0, I remember. 

After these triumphs and this large ex- 
pense 
It's fit, like thrifty husbands,"^ we in- 
quire 
What 's laid up for to-morrow. 
Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. 
• Duch. Beauteous ! 

Indeed, I thank you. I look young for 

your sake; 
You have ta'en my cares upon you. 
A nt. I '11 fetch your grace 

The particulars of your revenue and ex- 
pense. 
Duch. 0, you are 

An upright treasurer, but you mistook; 
For when I said I meant to make inquiry 
What's laid vip for to-morrow, I did 

mean 
Wliat 's laid up yonder for me. 
Ant. Where? 

Duch. In heaven. 

I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes 

should, 
In perfect memory), and, I pray, sir, 

tell me, 
Were not one better make it smiling, 

thus. 
Than in deep groans and ternble ghastly 
looks, 



As if the gifts we parted with proeur'd ^^ 

That violent distraction? 
Ant. 0, much better. 

Duch. If I had a husband now, this care 
v^ere quit : 

But I intend to make you overseer. 

What good deed shall we first remember? 
Say. 
Ant. Begin with that first good deed be- 
gan i' th' world 

After man's creation, the sacrament of 
marriage. 

I 'd have you first provide for a good 
husband; 

Give him all. 



Duch. 

Ant. 

Duch 

Ant. 

Duch 



All! 



Yes, your excellent self. 
In a winding sheet? 

In a couple.^"^ 
Saint Winifred, that were a strange 
will! 
Ant. 'T were stranger if there were no will 
in you 
To marry again. 
Duch. What do you thmk of marriage? 
Ant. I take't, as those that deny purga- 
tory. 
It locally contains or heaven or hell ; 
There 's no third place in 't. 
Duch. How do you affect it ? 

Ant. My banishment, feeding my melan- 
choly, 
Would often reason thus: — 
Duch. Pi'ay, let's bear it. 

Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have 
children. 
What takes that from him? Only the 

bare name 
Of being a father, or the weak delight 
To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse 
Upon a painted stick, or hear him chat- 
ter 
Like a taught starling. 
Duch. " Fie,^fie, what 's all this? 

One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my 

ring to 't. 
They say 't is very sovereign. 'T was my 

wedding-ring, 
And I did vow never to part with it 
But to my second husband. 
Ant. You have parted with it now. 
Duch. Yes. to help your eye-sight. 
Ant. You have made me stark blind. 
Duch. How? 

Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil 



Is dancing in this circle. 



Duch. 

Ant. 



Remove him. 

How? 



20 housekeepers. 



30 produced. 



31 in marriage. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



301 



Dueh. There needs small conjuratiou, 
when your finger 
May do it : thus. Is it fit? 
(SJie puts the ring upon his finger: he 
kneels.) 
Ant. What said you? 

Duch. Sir, 

This goodly roof of yours is too low 

built ; 
I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse. 
Without I raise it higher. Raise your- 
self; 
Or, if you please, my hand to help you : 
so. 

(Raises him.) 
Ant. Ambition, madam, is a great man's 
madness, 
That is not kept in chains and close-pent 

rooms, 
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is 

girt 
With the wild noise of prattling visitants. 
Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure. 
Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim ^- 
Whereto your favors tend : but he 's a 

fool ■ 
That, being a-cold, would thrust his 

hands i' th' fire 
To warm them. 
Duch. So, now the ground 's broke, 

You may discover what a wealthy mine 
I make you lord of. 
Ant. my unworthiness ! 

Duch. You were ill to sell yourself : ^^ 
This dark'ning of your worth is not like 

that 
Which tradesmen use i' th' city; their 

false lights ^* 
Are to rid bad wares off : and I must tell 

you, 

If you will know where breathes a com- 
plete man 

(I speak it without flattery), turn your 
eyes, 

And progress through yourself. 
Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, 

I should be honest: I have long serv'd 
virtue, 

And ne'er ta'en wages of her. 
Duch. Now she pays it. 

The misery of us that are bom great ! 

We are forc'd to woo, because none dare 
woo us; 

And as a tyrant doubles with his words 

And fearfully equivocates, so we 

Are forc'd to express our violent pas- 
sions 



In riddles and in dreams, and leave the 

path 
Of simple virtue, which was never made 
To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag 
You have left me heartless; mine is in 

your bosom: 
I hope 'twill multiply love there. You 

do tremble : 
Make not your heart so 'dead a piece of 

flesh, 
To fear more than to love me. Sir, be 

confident. 
What is 't distracts you ? This is flesh 

and blood, sir; 
'T is not the figure cut in alabaster 
Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, 

awake, man ! 
I do here put off all vain ceremony, 
And only do appear to you a young 

widow 
That claims you for her husband, and, 

like a widow, 
I use but half a blush in 't. 
Ant. Truth speak for me; 

I will remain the constant sanctuary 
Of your good name. 
Duch. I thank you, gentle love : 

And 'cause you shall not come to me in 

debt, 
Being now my steward, here upon your 

lips 
I sign your Quietus est.^^ This you 

should have begg'd now. 
I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats 

thus, 
As fearful to devour them too soon. 
Ant. But for your brothers'? 
Duch. Do not think of them : 

All discord without this circumference 
Is only to be pitied, and not feai-'d: 
Yet, should they know it, time will easily 
Scatter the tempest. 
Ant. These words should be mine, 

And all the parts you have spoken, if 

some part of it 
Would not have savoi*'d flattery. 
Duch. Kneel. 

(Cariola comes from behind the arras.) 
Ant. Ha ! 

Duch. Be not amaz'd : this woman 's of 

my counsel. 
I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a 

chamber 
Per verba presenti ^^ is absolute marriage. 
Bless, heaven, this sacred gordian,^^ which 

let violence 
Never untwine. 



32 guess. 34 the darkening of 35 The phrase used 

33 you would be a poor their shops. to indicate settle- 
salesman of yourself. 



ment of an ac- 36 in the hearing of 
count. a third person. 

37 knot. 



302 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ant. And may our sweet affections, like 
the spheres, 
Be still in motion ! 
Duch. Quiek'ning, and make 

The like soft music ! 
Ant. That we may imitate the loving 
palms. 
Best emblem of a peaceful marriage, 
That ne'er bore fruit, divided ! 
Duch. What can the church force more'? 
Ant. That fortune may not know an acci- 
dent, 
Either of joy or sorrow, to divide 
Our fixed wishes ! 
Duch. How can the church build 

faster? 38 

We now are man and wife, and 't is the 

church 
That must but echo this. — Maid, stand 

apart : 
I now am blind. 
Ant. What's your conceit in this"? 

Duch. I would have you lead your fortune 

by the hand 
Unto your maniage-bed : 
(You speak in me this, for we now are 

one. ) 
We '11 only lie and talk together, and plot 
T' appease my humorous ^° kindred ; and 

if you please. 
Like the old tale in Alexander and Lodo- 

wiek,*'^ 
Lay a naked sword between us, keep us 

chaste. 
0, let me shroud my blushes in your 

bosom. 
Since 't is the treasury of all my secrets ! 
Exeunt Duchess and Antonio. 
Cari. Wliether the spirit of greatness or 

of woman 
Reign most in her, 

shows 
A fearful madness. 

pity. 



I know not; but it 
I owe her much of 



Exit. 

ACT IL 

Scene 1. Amalfi. An apartment in the 
palace of the Duchess. 

Enter Bosola and Castruccio. 

Bos. You say you would fain be taken for 
an eminent courtier*? 

Cast. 'T is the very main *^ of my ambi- 
tion. 



Bos. Let me see: you have a reasonable 
good face for 't already, and your night- 
cap expresses your ears sutficient largely. 
I would have you learn to twiil the 
strings of your band with a good grace, 
and in a set speech, at th' end of every 
sentence, to hum three or four times, or 
blow your nose till it smart again, to re- 
cover your memory. When you come to 
be a president in criminal causes, if you 
smile upon a prisoner, hang him ; but if 
you frown upon him and threaten him, 
let him be sure to scape the gallows. 

Cast. I would be a very meny president. 

Bos. Do not sup o' nights; 'twill beget 
you an admirable wit. 

Cast. Rather it would make me have a 
good stomach to quarrel; for they say, 
your roaring boys *' eat meat seldom, and 
that makes them so valiant. But how 
shall I know whether the people take me 
for an eminent fellow? 

Bos. I will teach a ti'ick to know it : give 
out you lie a-dying, and if you hear the 
common people curse you, be sure you 
are taken for one of the prime night- 
caps. 

Enter an Old Lady. 

You come from painting now. 

Old Lady. From what? 

Bos. Why, from your scurvy face-physic. 
To behold thee not painted inclines some- 
what near a miracle. These in thy face 
here were deep ruts and foul sloughs the 
last progress. *3 There was a lady in 
France that, having had the small-pox, 
flayed the skin off her face to make it 
more level ; and whereas before she looked 
like a nutmeg grater, after she resembled 
an abortive hedge-hog. 

Old Lady. Do you call this painting? 

Bos. No, no, but you call [it] careening** 
of an old morphew'd *^ lady, to make her 
disembogue ''^ again : there 's rough-cast 
phrase to your plastie.*'^ 

Old Lady. - It seems you ai^e well ac- 
quainted with my closet. 

Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of 
witchcraft, to find in it the fat of ser- 
pents, spawn of snakes, Jews' spittle, and 
their young children's ordure; and all 
these for the face. I would sooner eat a 
dead pigeon taken from the soles of the 
feet of one sick of the plague,*^ than 
kiss one of you fasting. Here are two 



38 more firmly. 

39 captions. 

40 A sixteenth cen- 
tury ballad ; a 
play so entitled. 



dealing with the 
same story, is 
mentioned in 

Henslowe's Diart/ 
as acted in 1597. 



41 chief part. 
4 2 bullies. 

43 royal iourney. 

44 turnins; over. 

45 scabbed. 



46 di.scharfre. 

47 there's apppropri- 
ately rough lan- 
guage for your 



face modelling. 
48 a prescription 
actually used at 
the time. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



303 



of you, whose sin of your youth is the 
very patrimony of the physician; makes 
him renew his foot-cloth with the spring, 
and change his liigh-pric'd courtesan with 
the fall of the leaf. I do wonder you do 
not loathe yourselves. Observe my medi- 
tation now. 
What thing is in this outward form of 

man 
To be belov'd? We account it ominous, 
If nature do produce a colt, or Iamb, 
A fawn, or goat, in any limb resembling 
A man, and fly from 't as a prodigy. 
Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity 
In any other creature but himself. 
But in our own flesh though we bear dis- 
eases 
Which have their true names only ta'en 

from beasts, — 
As the most ulcerous wolf *^ and swinish 

measle,^° — 
Though we are eaten up of lice and 

worms. 
And though f'ontinually we bear about us 
A rotten and dead body, we delight 
To hide it in rich tissue : all our fear, 
Nay, all our terror, is, lest our physician 
Should put us in the ground to be made 

sweet. — 
Your wife 's gone to Rome : you two 
couple, and get you to the wells at Lucca 
to recover your aches. I have other work 
on foot. 

Exeunt Castruecio and Old Lady. 
I observe our duchess 
Is sick a-days, she pukes, her stomach 

seethes. 
The fins of her eye-lids look most teem- 
ing blue,^^ 
She wanes i' th' cheek, and waxes fat i' 

th' flank. 
And, contrary to our Italian fashion. 
Wears a loose-bodied gown : there 's 

somewhat in 't. 
I have a trick may discover it, 
A pretty one ; I have bought some apri- 

cocks, 
The first our spring yields. 

Enter Antonio and Belio, talking together 
apart. 

Belio. And so long since married'? 

You amaze me. 

Ant. Let me seal your lips for ever : 

For, did I think that anything but th' air 
Could carry these words from you, I 
should wish 



You had no breath at all. — Now, sir, in 

your contemplation? 
You are studying to become a great wise 
fellow. 
Bos. O, sir, the opinion of wisdom is a 
foul tetter ^- that runs all over a man's 
body: if simplicity direct us to have no 
evil, it directs us to a happy being; for 
the subtlest folly proceeds from the sub- 
tlest wisdom. Let me be simply honest. 
Ant. I do understand your inside. 
Bos. Do you so"? 

Ant. Because you would not seem to ap- 
pear to th' world 
Puff'd up with your preferment, you con- 
tinue 
This out-of- fashion melancholy: leave it, 
leave it. 
Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any 
phrase, in any compliment whatsoever. 
Shall I confess myself to you? I look no 
higher than I can reach : they are the gods 
that must ride on winged horses. A law- 
yer's mule of a slow pace will both suit 
my disposition and business; for, mark 
me, when a man's mind rides faster than 
his horse can gallop, they quickly both 
tire. 
Ant. You would look up to heaven, but I 
think 
The devil, that rules i' th' air, stands in 
your light. 
Bos. 0, sir, you are lord of the ascend- 
ant,^^ chief man with the duchess : a duke 
was your eousin-german remov'd. Say 
you were lineally descended from King 
Pepin, or he himself, what of this? 
Search the heads of the greatest rivers in 
the world, you shall find them but bubbles 
of water. Some would think the souls of 
princes were brought forth by some more 
weighty cause than those of meaner per- 
sons : they are deceiv'd, there 's the same 
hand to them; the like passions sway 
them ; the same reason that makes a vicar 
go to law for a tithe-pig, and undo his 
neighbors, makes them spoil a whole 
province, and batter down goodly cities 
with the cannon. 

Enter Duchess and Ladies. 

Dicch. Your arm, Antonio : do I not grow 

fat? 
I am exceeding short-winded. — Bosola, 
I would have you, sir, provide for me a 

litter ; 



49 lupus, ulcer. 

50 an eruptive dis- 
ease of swine was 



called measles. 
51 her eyelids look 
heavy and black 



as if she were 
pregnant. 
52 scurf. 



53 an astrological 
term for a posi- 



tion of 
tance. 



impor- 



304 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Such a one as the Duchess of Florence 
rode in. 
Bos. The duchess us'd one when she was 

great with child. 
Duch. I think she did. — Come hither, mend 
my ruft": 
Here, when ? thou art such a tedious lady ; 

and 
Thy breath smells of lemon-pills: would 

thou hadst done ! 
Shall I swoon under thy fingers'? I am 
So troubled with the mother ! ^^ 
Bos. {Aside.) I fear, too much. 

Duch. I have heard you say that the 
French courtiers 
Wear their hats on 'fore the king. 
Ant. I have seen it. 
Duch. In the presence"? 

Ant. Yes. 

Duch. Why should not we bring up that 
fashion "? 
'T is ceremony more than duty that con- 
sists 
In the removing of a piece of felt. 
Be you the example to the rest o' th' 

court ; 
Put on your hat first. 
Ant. You must pardon me : 

I have seen, in colder countries than in 

France, 
Nobles stand bare to th' prince; and the 

distinction 
Methought show'd reverently. 
Bos. I have a present for your gTaee. 
Duch. For me, sir"? 

Bos. Ajoricocks, madam. 
Duch. 0, sir, where are they? 

I have heard of none to-year.''^ 
Bos. {Aside.) Good; her color rises. 

Duch. Indeed, I thank you : they are won- 
drous fair ones. 
What an unskilful fellow is our gardener ! 
We shall have none this month. 
Bos. Will not your grace pare them? 

Duch. No : they taste of musk, methinks ; 

indeed they do. 
Bos. I know not : yet I wish your grace 

had par'd 'em. 
Duch. Why? 

Bos. I forgot to tell you, the knave gar- 
dener, 
Only to raise his profit by them the 

sooner, 
Did ripen them in horse-dung. 
Duch. P, you jest. — 

You shall judge : pray, taste one. 
Ant. Indeed, madam, 

I do not love the fruit. 



Duch. Sir, you are loth 

To rob us of our dainties. 'T is a delicate 

fruit ; 
They say they are restorative. 
Bos. 'T is a pretty art. 

This grafting. 
Duch. 'T is so ; a bett'ring of nature. 
Bos. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, 
A damson on a black-thorn. — {Aside.) 

How greedily she eats them ! 
A whirlwind strike off these bawd far- 
thingales ! 
For, but for that and the loose-bodied 

gown, 
I should have discover'd apparently ^® 
The young springal ^'' cutting a caper in 
her belly. 
Duch. I thank you, Bosola : they were 
right good ones, 
If they do not make me sick. 
Ant. How now, madam ! 

Duch. This green fruit and my stomach 
are not friends : 
How they swell me ! 
Bos. {Aside.) Nay, you are too much 

swell'd already. 
Duch. 0, I am in an extreme cold sweat ! 
Bos. I am very sorry. 

Exit. 

Duch. Lights to my chamber ! — good 

Antonio, 

I fear I am undone ! 

Delio. Lights there, lights ! 

Exeunt Duchess and Ladies. 

Ant. my most trusty Delio, we are lost ! 

I fear she's fall'n in labor; and there's 

left 
No time for her remove. 
Delio. Have you prepar'd 

Those ladies to attend her; and procur'd 
That politic safe conveyance for the mid- 
wife 
Your duchess plotted? 
Ant. I have. 

Delio. Make use, then, of this fore'd occa- 
sion. 
Give out that Bosola hath poison'd her 
With these apricocks ; that will give some 

color 
For her keeping close. 
Ant. Fie, fie, the physicians 

Will then flock to her. 
Delio. For that you may pretend 

She '11 use some prepar'd antidote of her 

own, 
Lest the physicians should re-poison her. 
Ant. I am lost in amazement : I know not 
what to think on 't. Exeunt. 



B4 hysteria. 



55 this year. 



56 clearly. 



57 youngster. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



305 



Scene 2. A hall in the palace. 
Enter Bosola and Old Lady. 

Bos. So, so, there 's no question but her 
teehuiess ^^ and most vulturous eatmg of 
the apricoeks are api^arent signs of breed- 
ing. — Kow? 

Old Lady. 1 am in haste, sir. 

Bos. There was a young waiting-woman 
had a monstrous desire to see the glass- 
house ^^ — 

Old Lady. Nay, pray, let me go. 

Bos. And it was only to know what 
strange instrument it was should swell up 
a glass to the fashion of a woman's belly. 

Old Lady. I will hear no more of the glass- 
house. You are still "^^ abusing women ! 

Bos. Who? If No; only, by the way 
now and then, mention your frailties. 
The orange-tree bears rij^e and green 
fruit and blossoms all together; and some 
of you give entertainment for pure love, 
but more for more precious reward. The 
lusty spring smells well; but drooping 
autumn tastes well. If we have the same 
golden showers that rained in the time of 
Jupiter the thunderer, you have the same 
Danaes still, to hold up their laps to re- 
ceive them. Didst thou never study the 
mathematics'? 

Old Lady. What's that, sir? 

Bos. Why, to know the trick how to make 
a many lines meet in one center. Go, go, 
give your foster-daughters good counsel : 
tell them, that the devil takes delight to 
hang at a woman's girdle, like a false 
rusty watch, that she cannot discern how 
the time passes. 

Exit Old Lady. 
Enter Antonio, Roderigo, and Grisolan. 

Ant. Shut up the court-gates. 

Rod. Why, sir? What 's the danger? 

Ant. Shut up the posterns presently,*'^ and 
call 
All the officers o' th' court. 

Oris. I shall instantly. 

Exit. 

Ant. Who keeps the key o' th' park-gate? 

Rod. Porobosco. 

Ant. Let him bring 't presently. 

Re-enter Grisolan and Servants. 

1 Serv. 0, gentlemen o' th' court, the 

foulest treason ! 
Bos. (Aside.) If that these apricoeks 
should be poison'd now, 
Without my knowledge? 



1 Serv. There was taken even now a Swit- 

zer in the duchess' bed-chamber — 

2 Serv. A Switzer! 

1 Serv. With a pistol in his great cod- 

jDiece. 
Bos. Ha, ha, ha ! 
1 Serv. The codpiece was the case for 't. 

3 Serv. There was a cunning traitor. 
Who would have search'd his codpiece? 

1 Serv. True ; if he had kept out of the 
ladies' chambers. And all the molds of 
his buttons were leaden bullets. 

2 Serv. wicked cannibal! A fire-lock 

in 's codpiece ! 

1 Serv. 'T was a French plot, upon my 

life. 

2 Serv. To see what the devil can do ! 
Ant. Are all the officers here? 
Servants. We are. 

Ant. Gentlemen, 

We have lost much plate you know ; and 

but this evening 
Jewels, to the value of four thousand 

ducats. 
Are missing in the duchess' cabinet. 
Are tl!e gates shut? 
Serv. Yes. 

Ant. 'T is the duchess' pleasure 

Each officer be lock'd into his chamber 
Till the sun-rising; and to send the keys 
Of all their chests and of their outward 

doors 
Into her bed-chamber. She is very sick. 
Rod. At her pleasure. 
Ant. She entreats you take 't not ill : the 
innocent 
Shall be the more approv'd by it. 
Bos. Gentlemen o' th' wood-yard, whei'e 's. 

your Switzer now ? 
1 Serv. By this hand, 't was credibly re- 
ported by one o' th' black guard. '^- 

Exeunt all except Antonio and Delio. 
Delio. How fares it with the duchess? 
Ant. She 's expos'd 

Unto the worst of torture, pain, and fear. 
Delio. Speak to her all happy comfort. 
Ant. How I do play the fool with mine 
own danger! 
You are this night, dear friend, to post 

to Rome : 
My life lies in your service. 
Delio. Do not doubt me. 

Ant. 0, 't is far from me : and yet fear 
presents me 
Somewhat that looks like danger. 
Delio. Believe it, 

'T is but the shadow of your fear, no 
more. 



58 irritability. there was such a Blackfriars Thpa- play was performed. 61 at once. 

09 glass factory ; factory near the ter, where this go always. 62 scullions. 



306 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



How superstitiously we mind our evils ! 
The throwing down salt, or crossing of a 

hare, 
Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a 

horse, 
Or singing of a cricket, are of power 
To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you 

well : 
I wish you all the joys of a bless'd father ; 
And, for my faith, lay this unto your 

breast, — 
Old friends, like old swords, still are 

trusted best. 

Exit. 
Enter Cariola. 

Cari. Sir, you are the happy father of a 
son : 
Your wife conunends him to you. 
Ant. Blessed comfort ! — 

For heaven' sake, tend her well : I '11 pres- 
ently 
Go set a figure for 's nativity.*'^ 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. The inner court of the palace. 

Enter Bosola, with a dark lantern. 

Bos. Sure I did hear a woman shriek : list, 
ha! 
And the sound came, if I receiv'd it right, 
From the duchess' lodgings. There 's 

some stratagem 
In the confining all our courtiers 
To their several wards : I must have part 

of it; 
My intelligence will freeze else. List, 

again ! 
It may be 't was the melancholy bird. 
Best friend of silence and of solitariness, 
The owl, that scream'd so.— Ha ! An- 
tonio ! 

Enter Antonio ivith a candle, his sword 

drawn. 

Ant. I heard some noise. — Who's there 1 

^\niat art thou"? Speak. 
Bos. Antonio, put not your face nor body 
To such a forc'd expression of fear; 
I am Bosola, your friend. 
Ant. Bosola ! — 

(Aside.) This mole does undermine me. — 
Heard you not 
A noise even nowl 
Bos. From whence'? 

Ant. From the duchess' lodging. 

Bos. Not I: did you? 



Ant. I did, or else I dream'd. 

Bos. Let 's walk towards it. 

Ant. No : it may be 't was 

But the rising of the wind. 
Bos. Very likely. 

Methinks 't is very cold, and yet you 

sweat : 
You look wildly. 
Ant. I have been setting a figure *'* 

For the duchess' jewels. 
Bos. Ah, and how falls your question? 

Do you find it radical "? ^^ 
Ant. What's that to you? 

'T is rather to be question'd what design, 
When all men were commanded to their 

lodgings, 
Makes you a night-walker. 
Bos. In sooth, I '11 tell you : 

Now all the court 's asleep, I thought the 

devil 
Had least to do here ; I came to say my 

prayers ; 
And if it do offend you I do so, 
You are a fine courtier. 
Ant. (Aside.) This fellow will undo 
me. — 
You gave the duchess apricocks to-day: 
Pray heaven they were not poison'd! 
Bos. Poison'd ! a Spanish fig ^° 

For the imputation ! 
Ant. Traitors are ever confident 

Till they are discover'd. There were 

jewels stol'n too : 
In my conceit, none are to be suspected 
More than yourself. 
Bos. You are a false steward. 

Ant. Saucy slave, I '11 pull thee up by the 

roots. 
Bos. May be the ruin will crush you to 

pieces. 
Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed, 
sir: 
Are you scarce warm, and do you show 

your sting? 
You libel «^ well, sir? 
Bos. No, sir: copy it out. 

And I will set my hand to 't. 
Ant. (Aside.) My nose bleeds. 

One that were superstitious would count 
This ominous, when it merely comes by 

chance. 
Two letters, that are wrought here for my 

name,*'^ 
Are drown'd in blood ! 
Mere accident. — For you, sir, I '11 take 
order 



C3 rast his horo- 
scope. 
64 making an 



trological calcula- 
tion to discover 
the jewels. 



'< going to the root 
of the matter. 



60 an obscene ges- 68 i.e. on a hand- 

ture of contempt. kerchief. 

67 write. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



307 



I' th' morn you shall be safe. — (Aside.) 

'T is that must color 
Her lying-in. — Sir, this door you pass 

not : 
I do not hold it fit that you come near 
The duchess' lodgings, till you have quit 

yourself. — 
(Aside.) The great are like the base, 

nay, they are the same, 
When they seek shameful ways to avoid 
shame. Exit. 

Bos. Antonio hereabout did drop a pa- 
per: — 
Some of your help, false friend.*'^ — 0, 

here it is. 
What's here? a child's nativity calcu- 
lated ! 

(Beads.) 
The duchess ivas deliver'd of a son, 'tween 
the hours twelve and one in the night, 
Anno Dom. 1504, — that 's this year — deci- 
mo nono Decemhris, — that 's this night — 
taken according to the meridian of Malfi, 
— that 's our duchess : happy discovery ! — 
The lord of the first house being com- 
bust '"^ in the ascendant signifies short 
life; and Mars being in a human sign,''^ 
joined to the tail of the Dragon, in the 
eighth house, doth threaten a violent 
death. Ccetera non scrutantur.'^^ 
Why, now 'tis most apparent; this pre- 
cise fellow 
Is the duchess' bawd : — I have it to my 

w^ish ! 
This is a parcel of intelligeney 
Our courtiers were cas'd up ''^ for : it 

needs must follow 
That I must be committed on pretense 
Of poisoning her; which I '11 endure, and 

laugh at. 
If one could find the father now ! but that 
Time will discover. Old Castruccio 
I' th' morning posts to Rome : by him I '11 

send 
A letter that shall make her brothers' 

galls 
O'erfiow their livers. This was a 

thrifty ^"^ way ! 
Though Lust do mask in ne'er so strange 

disguise, 
She 's oft found witty, but is never wise. 

Exit. 

Scene 4. Rome. A room in the Car- 
dinal's palace. 

Enter Cardinal and Julia. 



Card. Sit : thou art my best of wishes. 
Prithee, tell me 
What trick didst thou invent to come to 

Rome 
Without thy husband? 
Julia. Why, my lord, I told him 

I came to visit an old anchorite 
Here for devotion. 
Card. Thou art a witty false one, — 

I mean, to him. 
Julia. You have prevail'd with me 

Beyond my strongest thoughts-; I would 

not now 
Find you inconstant. 
Card. Do not put thyself 

To such a voluntary torture, which pro- 
ceeds 
Out of your own guilt. 
Julia. How, my lord ! 

Card. You fear 

My constancy, because you have ap- 

prov'd ^^ 
Those giddy and wild turnings in your- 
self. 
Julia. Did you e'er find them? 
Card. Sooth, generally for women, 

A man might strive to make glass mal- 
leable, 
Ere he should make them fixed. 
Julia. So, my lord? 

Card. We had need go borrow that fan- 
tastic glass 
Invented by Galileo the Florentine 
To view another spacious world i' th' 

moon. 
And look to find a constant woman there. 
Julia. This is very well, my lord. 
Card. Why do you weep? 

Are tears your justification? The self- 
same tears 
Will fall into your husband's bosom, lady, 
With a loud protestation that you love 

him 
Above the world. Come, I '11 love you 

wisely, 
That 's jealously; since I am very certain 
You cannot make me cuckold. 
Julia. I '11 go home 

To my husband. 
Card. You may thank me, lady, 

I have taken you off your melancholy 

perch. 
Bore you upon my fist, and show'd you 

game, 
And let you fly at it.'^^ I pray thee, kiss 
me. 



09 i.e. the lantern. 

70 within ei^ht de- 
grees and thirty 
minutes of the 
sun. 



71 one of the signs 
of the Zodiac with 
luiman form, e. g. 
Virgo. 



7 2 The rest not C07i- 

sidered. 
73 shut up. 



74 ins;enious. 

7.5 experienced. 

76 The figure in the 



three lines 
taken from 
conry. 



fal- 



308 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



When thou wast with thy husband, thou 

wast watch'd 
Like a tame elephant : — still you are to 

thank me : — 
Thou hadst only kisses from him and 

high feeding; 
But what delight was that"? 'T was just 

like one 
That hath a little fing'ring on the lute, 
Yet cannot tune it : — still you are to 

thank me. 
Julia. You told me of a piteous wound i' 

th' heart, 
And a sick liver, when you woo'd me 

first, 
And spake like one in physic. ''^ 
Card. Who 's that?— 

Enter Servant. 

Rest firm for my affection to thee, 
Lightning moves slow to 't. 
Serv. Madam, a gentleman 

That 's come post from IMalfi, desires to 
see you. 
Card. Let him enter : I '11 withdraw. 

Exit. 

Serv. He says 

Your husband, old Castruccio, is come to 

Rome, 
Most pitifully tir'd with riding post. 

Exit. 
Enter Delio. 

Julia. (Aside.) Signior Delio! 'tis one 

of my old suitors. 
Delio. I was bold to come and see you. 
Julia. Sir, you are welcome. 

Delio. Do you lie ''^ here *? 
Julia. Sure, your own experience 

Will satisfy you no : our Roman prelates 
Do not keep lodging for ladies. 
Delio. Very well. 

I have brought you no commendations 

from your husband. 
For I know none by him. 
Julia. I hear he 's come to Rome. 

Delio. I never knew man and beast, of a 
horse and a knight, 
So weary of each other. If he had had a 

good back. 
He would have undertook to have borne 

his horse. 
His breech was so pitifully sore. 
Julia. Your laughter 

Is my pity. 
Delio. Lady, I know not whether 



You want money, but I have brought you 

some. 
Julia. From my husband? 
Delio. No, from mine own allowance. 

Julia. I must hear the condition, ere I be 

bound to take it. 
Delio. Look on 't, 't is gold ; hath it not a 

fine color? 
Julia. I have a bird more beautiful. 
Delio. Try the sound on 't. 

Julia. A lute-string far exceeds it. 
It hath no smell, like cassia or civet ; 
Nor is it physical,'^^ though some fond *^ 

doctors 
Persuade us seethe 't in cullises.^^ I '11 

tell you, 
This is a creature bred by — 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Your husband 's come, 

Hath deliver'd a letter to the Duke of 

Calabria 
That, to my thinking, hath put him out of 
his wits. Exit. 

Julia. Sir, you hear: 

Pray, let me know your business and your 

suit 
As briefly as can be. 
Delio. With good speed : I would wish you, 
At such time as you are non-resident 
With your husband, my mistress. 
Julia. Sir, I '11 go ask my husband if I 
shall, 
And straight return your answer. 

Exit. 

Delio. Very fine ! 

Is this her wit, or honesty, that speaks 

thus? 
I heard one say the duke was highly 

mov'd 
With a letter sent from Malfi. I do fear 
Antonio is betray'd. How fearfully 
Shows his ambition now ! Unfortunate 

fortune ! 
They pass through whirl-pools, and deep 

woes do shim, 
Who the event weigh ere the action 's 
done. Exit. 

Scene 5. Another room in the Cardinal's 
palace. 

Enter Cardinal and Ferdinand tvith a 
letter. 

Ferd. I have this night digg'd up a man- 
di'ake.^- 



77 undergoing treat- 
ment. 

78 lodge. 



70 medicinal. 82 Popular superstition found in the forked root of the man- 

so foolish. drake resemblance to the human form, and alleged that the 

81 broths. root shrieked on beina: torn out of the ground ; the hearer 

of such shrieks went mad. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



309 



Card. Say you'? 

Ferd. And I am grown mad with 't. 
Card. What's the prodigy? 

Ferd. Read there, — a sister damn'd : she 's 
loose i' th' hilts ; **3 
Grown a notorious strumpet. 
Card. Speak lower. 

Ferd. Lower! 

Rogues do not whisper 't now, but seek to 

publish 't 
(As servants do the bounty of their 

lords) 
Aloud ; and with a covetous searching eye, 
To mark who note them. 0, confusion 

seize her! 
She hath had most cunning bawds to serve 

her turn. 
And more secure conveyances for lust 
Than towns of garrison for service. 
Card. Is 't possible 1 

Can this be certain*? 
Ferd. Rhubarb, 0, for rhubarb 

To purge this choler ! Here 's the cursed 

day 
To prompt my memory ; and here 't shall 

stick 
Till of her bleeding heart I make a 

sponge 
To wipe it out. 
Card. Why do you make yourself 

So wild a tempest ? 
Ferd. Would I could be one. 

That I might toss her palace 'bout her 

ears, 
Root up her goodly forests, blast her 

meads, 
And lay her general territory as waste 
As she hath done her honors. 
Card. Shall our blood. 

The royal blood of Arragon and Castile, 
Be thus attainted? 
Ferd. Apply desperate physic : 

We must not now use balsamum, but fire, 
The smarting cupping-glass, for that 's 

the mean 
To purge infected blood, such blood as 

hers. 
I'll give it to my handkercher; and now 
There is a kind of pity in mine eye, — 

't is here 
I '11 bequeath this to her bastard. 
Card. What to do? 

Ferd. Why, to make soft lint for his moth- 
er's wounds. 
When I have hew'd her to pieces. 
Card. Curs'd creature! 

Unequal nature, to place women's hearts 



So far upon the left side ! ®* 
Ferd. Foolish men, 

That e'er will trust their honor in a bark 

Made of so slight weak bulrush as is 
woman. 

Apt every minute to sink it ! 
Card. Thus ignorance, when it hath pur- 
chas'd honor, 

It cannot wield it. 
Ferd. Methinks I see her laughing, — 

Excellent hyena! Talk to me some- 
what,^^ quickly. 

Or my imagination will cany me 

To see her in the shameful act of sin. 
Card. With whom ? 

Ferd. Happily ^^ with some 

strong-thigh'd bargeman, 

Or one o' th' wood-yard that can quoit 
the sledge ^" 

Or toss the bar, or else some lovely squire 

That carries coals up to her privy lodg- 
ings. 
Card. You fly beyond your reason. 
Ferd. Go to, mistress ! 

'T is not your whore's milk that shall 
quench my wild-fire. 

But your whore's blood. 
Card. How idly shows this rage, which 
carries you. 

As men convey'd by witches through the 
air, 

On violent whirlwinds ! This intemper- 
ate noise 

Fitly resembles deaf men's shrill dis- 
course. 

Who talk aloud, thinking all other men 

To have their imperfection 
Ferd. Have not you 

My palsy? 
Card. Yes, [but] I can be angry 

Without this ruj^ture. There is not in 
nature 

A thing that makes man so deform'd, so 
beastly. 

As doth intemperate anger. Chide your- 
self. 

You have divers men who never yet ex- 
press'd 

Their strong desire of rest but by unrest, 

By vexing of themselves. Come, put 
yourself 

In tune. 
Ferd. So I will only study to seem 

The thing I am not. I could kill her now, 

In you, or in myself; for I do think 

It is some sin in us heaven doth revenge 

By her. 



83 unchaste. 



84 supposed to be a 
sign of folly. (N.) 



85 on some subject. S6 haply. 



87 throw the hammer. 



310 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Card. Are you stark mad'? 

Ferd. I would have their bodies 

Burnt in a coal-pit with the ventage 

stopp'd, 
That their curs'd smoke might not ascend 

to heaven; 
Or dip the sheets they lie in in pitch or 

sulphur, 
Wrap them in 't, and then light them like 

a match ; 
Or else to boil their bastard to a eullis, 
And give 't his lecherous father to renew 
The sin of his back. 
Card. I '11 leave you. 

Ferd. Nay, I have done. 

I am confident, had I been damn'd in hell, 
And should have heard of this, it would 

have put me 
Into a cold sweat. In, in ; I '11 go sleep. 
Till I know who leaps my sister, I '11 not 

stir : 
That known, I '11 find scorpions to string 

my wiiips, 
And fix her in a general eclipse. 

Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the 
Duchess's palace. 

Enter Antonio and Delio. 

Ant. Our noble friend, my most beloved 
Delio ! 
0, you have been a stranger long at 

court : 
Came you along with the Lord Ferdi- 
nand 1 
Delia. I did, sir : and how fares your noble 

duchess? 
Ant. Right fortunately well : she 's an ex- 
cellent 
Feeder of pedigrees ; since you last saw 

her, 
She hath had two children more, a son 
and daughter. 
Delio. Methinks 't was yestei-day. Let me 
but wink, 
And not behold your face, which to mine 

eye 
Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream 
It were within this half hour. 
Ant. You have not been in law, friend 
Delio, 
Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court. 
Nor begg'd the reversion of some great 
man's place, 



Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth 

make 
Your time so insensibly hasten. 
Delio. Pray, sir, tell me, 

Hath not this news arriv'd yet to the ear 
Of the lord cardinal? 
Ant. I fear it hath : 

The Lord Ferdinand, that 's newly come 

to court, 

Doth bear himself right dangerously. 

Delia. Pray, why? 

Ant. He is so quiet that he seems to sleep 

The tempest out, as dormice do in winter. 

Those houses that are haunted are most 

still 
Till the devil be up. 
Delia. What say the common people? 

Ant. The common rabble do directly say 

She is a strumpet. 
Delia. And your graver heads 

Which would be politic, what censure 
they? 
Ant. They do observe I grow to infinite 
purchase ^'^ 
The left hand way; and all suppose the 

duchess 
Would amend it, if she could; for, say 

they. 
Great prhices, though they grudge their 

officers 
Should have such large and unconfined 

means 
To get wealth under them, will not com- 
plain, 
Lest thereby they should make them odi- 
ous 
Unto the people. For other obligation 
Of love or marriage between her and me 
They never dream of. 
Delio. The Lord Ferdinand 

Is going to bed. 

Enter Duchess, Ferdinand, and 
Attendants. 

Ferd. I '11 instantly to bed. 

For I am weary. — I am to bespeak 
A husband for you. 
Duch. For me, sir! Pray, who is 't? 

Ferd. Tlie great Count Malateste. 
Duch. Fie upon him ! 

A count ! He 's a mere stick of sugar- . 

candy ; 
You may look qnite through him. When 

I choose 
A husband, I will marry for your honor. 
Ferd. You shall do well in 't. — How is 't. 
worthy Antonio? 



88 wealth. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



311 



Duch. But, sir, 1 am to have private con- 
ference with you 
About a scandalous report is spread 
Touching mine honor. 
Ferd. Let me be ever deaf to 't : 

One of Pasquil's paper-bullets,^" court- 
calumny, 
A pestilent air, which princes' palaces 
Are seldom purg'd of. Yet, say that it 

were true, 
I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love 
Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, 

deny 
Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, 

be safe 
In your own innocency. 
Duch. (Aside.) bless'd comfort! 

This deadly air is purg'd. 
Exeunt Duchess, Antonio, Delio, and 
Attendants. 
Ferd. Her guilt treads on 

Hot-burning coulters."" 

Enter Bosola. 

Now, Bosola, 
How thrives our intelligence ? 
Bos. Sir, uncertainly : 

'T is rumor'd she hath had three bas- 
tards, but 
By whom we may go read i' th' stars. 
Ferd. Why, some 

Hold opinion all things are written there. 
Bos. Yes, if we could find spectacles to 
read them. 
I do suspect there hath been some sorcerj' 
Us'd on the duchess. 
Ferd. Sorcery! to what purpose *? 

Bos. To make her dote on some desertless 
fellow 
She shames to acknowledge. 
Ferd. Can your faith give way 

To think there 's power in potions or in 

charms. 
To make us love whether we will or no'? 
Bos. Most certainly. 

Ferd. Away! these are mere gulleries,"^ 
horrid things. 
Invented by some cheating mountebanks 
To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or 

charms 
Can force the will? Some trials have 

been made 
In this foolish practice, but the ingre- 
dients 
Were lenitive poisons, such as are of 
force 



To make the patient mad; and straight 

the witch 
Swears by equivocation they are in love. 
The witch-craft lies in her rank blood. 

This night 
I will force confession from her. You 

told me 
You had got, within these two days, a 

false key 
Into her bed-chamber. 
Bos. I have. 

Ferd. As I would wish. 

Bos. What do you intend to do*? 
Ferd. Can you guess? 

Bos. No. 

Ferd. Do not ask, then : 

He that can compass me, and know my 

drifts. 
May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the 

world, 
And sounded all her quick-sands. 
Bos. I do not 

Think so. 
Ferd. What do you think, then, pray? 
Bos. That you 

Are your own chronicle "- too much, and 

grossly 
Flatter yourself. 
Ferd. Give me thy hand; I thank thee: 

I never gave pension but to flatterers. 
Till I entertained thee. Farewell. 
That friend a great man's ruin strongly 

checks. 
Who rails into his belief all his defects. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. The hed-chamher of the Duchess 
in the same. 

Enter Duchess, Antonio, and Cariola. 

Duch. Bring me the casket hither, and the 
glass. — 
You get no lodging here to-night, my 
lord. 
Ant. Indeed, I must persuade one. 
Duch. Very good : 

I hope in time 't will grow into a custom, 
That noblemen shall come with cap and 

knee 
To purchase a night's lodging of their 
wives. 
Ant. I must lie here. 
Duch. Must! You are a 

lord of mis-rule.^^ 
Ant. Indeed, my rule is only in the night. 



89 "Lampoons posted on a mutilated statue in Rome and com- nn plousrhshares. 
monly railed pasquih from a satirical cobbler named Pasquin, oi deceptions, 
who began the practice." (Thorndike.) 



92 chronicle your 
own deeds. 

93 master of revels. 



312 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Duch. To what use will you put me 1 
Ant. We '11 sleep together. 

Duch. Alas, what pleasure can two lovers 

find in sleep"? 
Cari. My lord, I lie with her often, and I 
know 
She '11 much disquiet you. 
Ant. See, you are complain'd of. 

Cari. For she 's the sprawling'st bedfellow. 
Ant. I shall like her the better for that. 
Cari. Sir, shall I ask you a question? 
Ant. I pray thee, Cariola. 
Cari. Wherefore still when you lie with 
my lady 
Do you rise so early ? 
Ant. Laboring men 

Count the clock oft'nest, Cariola, 
Are glad when their task 's ended. 
Duch. I '11 stop your mouth. 

{Kisses him.) 
Ant. Nay, that's but one; Venus had two 
soft doves 
To draw her chariot; I must have an- 
other. — 

{She kisses him- again.) 
When wilt thou mari;y, Cariola *? 
Cari. Never, my lord. 

Ant. 0, fie upon this single life! forgo 
it. 
We read how Daphne, for her peevish 

flight, 
Became a fruitless bay-tree; Syrinx 

turn'd 
To the pale empty reed ; Anaxarete 
Was frozen into marble : whereas those 
Which married, or prov'd kind unto their 

friends, 
Were by a gracious influence trans-shap'd 
Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry, 
Became flowers, precious stones, or emi- 
nent stars, 
Cari. This is a vain poetry: but I pray 
you, tell me. 
If there were propos'd me, wisdom, 

riches, and beauty. 
In three several young men, which should 
I choose? 
Ant. 'T is a hard question. This was 
Paris' case, 
And he was blind in 't, and there was a 

great cause; 
For how was 't possible he could judge 

right. 
Having three amorous goddesses in view. 
And they stark naked"? 'T was a mo- 
tion 9* 
Were able to benight the apprehension 
Of the severest counselor of Europe. 



Now I look on both your faces so well 

form'd, 
It puts me in mind of a question I would 

ask. 
Cari. What is 't? 

Ant. I do wonder why hard-favor'd ladies, 
For the most part, keep worse-favor'd 

waiting-women 
To attend them, and cannot endure fair 

ones. 
Duch. 0, that 's soon answered. 

Did you ever in your life know an ill 

painter 
Desire to have his dwelling next door to 

the shop 
Of an excellent picture-maker? 'T would 

disgrace 
His face-making, and undo him. I pri- 
thee, 
WTien were we so merry? My hair '? 

tangles. 
Ant. Pray thee, Cariola, let 's steal forth 

the room. 
And let her talk to herself: I have divers 

times ^ 

Serv'd her the like, when she hath chaf'd 

extremely. 
I love to see her angry. Softly, Cariola. 
Exeunt Antonio and Cariola. 
Duch. Doth not the color of my hair 'gin 

to change? 
When I wax gray, I shall have all the 

court 
Powder their hair with arras,^^ to be like 

me. 
You have cause to love me ; I ent'red you 

into my heart 

Enter Ferdinand unseen. 

Before you would vouchsafe to call for 

the keys. 
We shall one day have my brothers take 

you napping. 
Methinks his presence, being now in 

court. 
Should make you keep your own bed ; but 

you '11 say 
Love mixt Avith fear is sweetest. I '11 as- '^ 

sure you, 
You shall get no more children till my 

brothers * 

Consent to be your gossips.^^ Have you 

lost your tongue? 

{Perceiving Ferdinand.) 
'T is welcome : 
For know, whether I am doom'd to live or 

die, 
I can do both like a prince. 



94 proposal. 



05 orris-root. 



06 god-parents. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



313 



Ferd. Die, then, quickly. 

{Giving her a poniard.) 
Virtue, where art thou hid? What hide- 
ous thing 
Is it that doth eclipse thee'? 
Duch. Pray? sir, hear me. 

Ferd. Or is it true thou art but a bare 
name. 
And no essential thing f 
Duch. Sir — 

Ferd. Do not speak. 

Duch. No, sir: 

I will plant my soul in mine ears, to hear 

you. 

Ferd. most imperfect light of human 

reason, 

That mak'st [us] so unhappy to foresee 

What we can least prevent ! Pursue thy 

wishes, 
And glory in them : there 's in shame no 

comfort 
But to be past all bounds and sense of 
shame. 
Duch. I pray, sir, hear me : I am married. 
Ferd. So ! 

Duch. Happily, not to your liking : but for 
that, 
Alas, your shears do come untimely now 
To clip the bird's wings that's already 

flown ! 
Will you see my husband "? 
Ferd. Yes, if I could change 

Eyes with a basilisk.^'^ 
Duch. Sure, you came hither 

By his confederacy. 
Ferd. The howling of a wolf 

Is music to thee, screech-owl : prithee, 

peace. — 
Whate'er thou art that hast enjoy'd my 

sister, 
For I am sure thou hear'st me, for thine 

own sake 
Let me not know thee. I came hither 

prepar'd 
To work thy discovery; yet am now per- 
suaded 
It would beget such violent effects 
As would damn us both. I would not for 

ten millions 
I had beheld thee : therefore use all means 
I never may have knowledge of thy name ; 
Enjoy thy lust still, and a wretched life, 
On that condition. — And for thee, vile 

woman, 
If thou do wish thy lecher may grow old 
In thy embraeements, I would have thee 
build 



Such a room for him as our anchorites 
To holier use inhabit. Let not the sun 
Shine on him till he 's dead ; let dogs and 

monkeys 
Only converse with him, and such dumb 

things 
To whom nature denies use to sound his 

name; 
Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn 

it; 
If thou do love him, cut out thine own 

tongue. 
Lest it bewray him. 
Duch. Why might not I marry "? 

I have not gone about in this to create 
Any new world or custom. 
Ferd. Thou art undone ; 

And thou hast ta'en that massy sheet of 

lead 
That hid thy husband's bones, and folded 

it 
About my heart. 
Duch. ■ Mine bleeds for 't. 

Ferd. Thine ! thy heart ! 

. What should I name 't, unless a hollow 

bullet 
Fill'd with unquenchable wild-fire"? 
Duch. You are in this 

Too strict ; and were you not my princely 

brother, 
I would say, too wilful : my reputation 
Is safe. 
Ferd. Dost thou know what reputa- 

tion is ? 
I '11 tell thee, — to small purpose, since th' 

instruction 
Comes now too late. 
Upon a time Reputation, Love, and 

Death, 
Would travel o'er the world ; and it was 

concluded 
That they should part, and take three 

several ways. 
Death told them, they should find him in 

great battles, 
Or cities plagu'd with plagues ; Love gives 

them counsel 
To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious 

shepherds. 
Where dowries were not talk'd of, and 

sometimes 
'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing 

left 
By their dead parents : "Stay," quoth 

Reputation, 
"Do not forsake me ; for it is my nature, 
If once I part from any man I meet. 



97 i.e. so that I could kill him with a glance (like the fabled basilisk). 



314 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I am never found again." And so for 

you: 
You have shook hands with Reputa- 
tion, 
And made him invisible. So, fare you 

well : 
I will never see you more. 
Duch. ^Vhy should only I, 

Of all the other princes of the world, 
Be cas'd up, like a holy relic ? I have 

youth 
And a little beauty. 
Ferd. So you have some virgins 

That are witches. I will never see thee 
more. 

Exit. 
Re-enter Antonio with a pistol, and 
Cariola. 

Duch. You saw this apparition 1 
Ant. Yes : we are 

Betray'd. How came he hither? 1 

should turn 
This to thee, for that. 
Cari. Pray^ sir, do ; and when 

That you have cleft my heart, you shall 

read there 
Mine innocence. 
Duch. That gallery gave him entrance. 

Antt. I would this terrible thing would 
come again, 
That, standing on my guard, I might re- 
late 
My warrantable love. — 

{She shows the poniard.) 

Ha ! what means this 1 
Duch. He left this with me, 
^1 nt. And it seems did wish 

You would use it on yourself. 
Duch. His action seem'd 

To intend so much. 
Ant. This hath a handle to 't, 

As well as a point : turn it towards him, 

and 
So fasten the keen edge in his rank gall. 

{Knocking within.) 
How now! who knocks'? More earth- 
quakes ■? 
Duch. I stand 

As if a mine beneath my feet were ready 
To be blown up. 
Cari. 'T is Bosola. 

Duch. Away! 

misery! methinks unjust actions 
Should wear these masks and curtains, 

and not we. 
You must instantly part hence: I have 
fashion'd it already. 

Exit Antonio. 



Enter Bosola. 

Bos. The duke your brother is ta'en up in 
a whirlwind; 
Hath took horse, and 's rid post to Rome. 
Duch. So late'? 

Bos. He told me, as he mounted into th' 
saddle, 
You were undone. 
Duch. Indeed, I am very near it. 

Bos. What's the matter'? 
Duch. Antonio, the master of our house- 
hold, 
Hath dealt so falsely with me in 's ac- 
counts. 
My brother stood engag'd with me for 

money 
Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews, 
And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit. 
Bos. Strange! — {Aside.) This is cun- 
ning. 
Duch. And hereupon 

My brother's bills at Naples are protested 
Against. — Call up our officers. 
Bos. I shall. 

Exit. 
Re-enter Antonio. 

Duch. The place that you must fly to is 
Ancona : 
Hire a house there ; I '11 send after you 
My treasure and my jewels. Our weak 

safety 
Runs upon enginous wheels: ^^ short syl- 
lables 
Must stand for periods. I nmst now ac- 
cuse you 
Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls 
Magnanima menzogna, a noble lie, 
'Cause it must shield our honors. — Hark ! 
they are coming. 

Re-enter Bosola and Officers. 

Ant. "Will your grace hear me"? 

Duch. I have got well by you; you have 

yielded me 
A million of loss : I am like to inherit 
The people's curses for your stewardship. 
You had the trick in audit-time to be sick, 
Till I had sign'd your quietus ;^^ and 

that cur'd you 
Without help of a doctor. — Gentlemen, 
I would have this man be an example to 

you all ; 
So shall you hold my favor; I pray, let 

him ; ^ 
For h' as done that, alas, you would not 

think of, 
And, because I intend to be rid of him. 



OS wheels swift as an engine's. 



99 Cf. n. 35, p. 302. 



1 let him go. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFl 



315 



I mean not to publish. — Use your fortune 

elsewhere. 

Ant. 1 am strongly arm'd to brook my 

overthrow, 

As commonly men bear with a hard year. 

I will not blame the cause on't; but do 

think 
The necessity of my malevolent star 
Procures this, not her humor. O, the in- 
constant 
And rotten ground of service ! You may 

see, 
'T is even like him, that in a winter 

night. 
Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, 
A-loth to part from 't; yet parts thence as 

cold 
As when he first sat dov\-n. 
Duch. AVe do confiscate, 

Towards the satisfying of your accounts, 
All that you have. 
Ant. I am all yours; and 'tis very fit 

All mine should be so. 
Duch. So, sir, you have your pass. 

Ant. You may see, gentlemen, what 't is to 
serve 
A prince with body and soul. 

Exit. 
Bos. Here 's an example for extortion : 
what moisture is drawn out of the sea, 
when foul weather comes, pours down, 
and runs into the sea again. 
Duch. I would know M'hat are your opin- 
ions 
Of this Antonio. 

2 Off. He could not abide to see a pig's 
head gaping : I thought your grace would 
find him a Jew. 

3 Off". I would you had been his officer, 
for your own sake. 

4 Oft'. You would have had more money. 

1 Off. He stopp'd his ears with black 
wool, and to those came to him for money 
said he was thick of hearing. 

2 Off. Some said he was an hermaphro- 
dite, for he could not abide a woman. 

4 Off. How scur\-y proud he would look 
when the treasury was full! Well, let 
him go. 

1 Off. Yes, and the chippings of the but- 
tery fly after him, to scour - his gold 
chain. ^ 

Duch. Leave us. — 

Exeunt Officers. 
What do you think of these? 

Bos. That these are rogues that in 's pros- 
perity, 



But to have waited on his fortune, could 

have wish'd 
His dirty stirrujD riveted through their 

noses, 
And f ollow'd after 's mule, like a bear in 

a ring; 
Would have prostituted their daughters 

to his lust; 
Made their first-born intelligencers; 

thought none happy 
But such as were bom under his blest 

planet. 
And wore his livery : and do these lice 

drop off now? 
Well, never look to have the like again: 
He hath left a sort ^ of flatt'ring rogues 

behind him; 
Their doom must follow. Princes pay 

flatterers 
In their own money: flatterers dissemble 

their vices. 
And they dissemble their lies; that's jus- 
tice. 
Alas, poor gentleman! 
Duch. Poor! he hath amply fill'd his cof- 
fers. 
Bos. Sure, he was too honest. Pluto,'^ the 

god of riches, 
When he 's sent by Jupiter to any man. 
He goes limping, to signify that wealth 
That comes on God's name comes slowly; 

but Avhen he 's sent 
On the devil's errand, he rides post and 

comes in by scuttles.*^ 
Let me show you what a most unvalu'd 

jewel 
You have in a wanton humor thrown 

awa}', 
To bless the man shall find him. He was 

an excellent 
Courtier and most faithful ; a soldier that 

thought it 
As beastly to know his own value too 

little 
As devilish to acknowledge it too much. 
Both his virtue and form deserv'd a far 

better fortune : 
His discourse rather delighted to judge 

itself than show itself: 
His breast was fill'd with all perfec- 
tion. 
And yet it seem'd a private whisp'ring- 

room, 
It made so little noise of 't. 
Duch. But he was basely descended. 
Bos. Will you make yourself a mercenary 

herald. 



2 polish. 



3 the badge of a steward. 



5 Properly Plutus. 



6 quick steps. 



31G 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Rather to examine men's pedigrees than 
virtues ? 

You shall want "^ him : 

For know an honest statesman to a prince 

Is like a cedar planted by a spring; 

The spring bathes the tree's root, the 
grateful tree 

Rewards it with his shadow: you have 
not done so. 

I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes 
on 

Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied 

Together with an intelligencer's heart- 
string, 

Than depend on so changeable a prince's 
favor. 

Fare thee well, Antonio ! Since the mal- 
ice of the world 

Would needs down with thee, it cannot 
be said yet 

That any ill happen'd unto thee, consid- 
ering thy fall 

Was accompanied with virtue. 
Duch. 0, you render me excellent music ! 
Bos. Say you*? 

Duch. This good one that you sj^eak of is 

my husband. 
Bos. Do I not dream f Can this ambi- 
tious age 

Have so much goodness in 't as to prefer 

A man merely for worth, without these 
shadows 

Of wealth and painted honors'? Possi- 
ble? 
Duch. I have had three children by him. 
Bos. Fortunate lady ! 

For you have made your private nuptial 
Ijed 

The humble and fair seminary of peace, 

No question but: many an unbenefic'd 
scholar 

Shall pray for you for this deed, and 
rejoice 

That some preferment in the world can 
yet 

Arise from merit. The virgins of your 
land 

That have no dowries shall hope your 
example 

Will raise them to rich husbands. Should 
you want 

Soldiers, 't would make the very Turks 
and Moors 

Turn Christians, and serve you for this 
act. 

Last, the neglected poets of your time, 

In honor of this trophy of a man, 



Rais'd by that curious engine, your white 

hand, 
Shall thank you in your grave for 't, and 

make that 
More reverend than all the cabinets 
Of living i^rinces. For Antonio, 
His fame shall likewise flow from many 

a pen, 
When heralds shall want coats to sell to 

men. 
Duch. As I taste comfort in this friendly 

si^eech, 
So would I find concealment. 
Bos. 0, the secret of mj' prince, 

Which I will wear on th' inside of my 

heart ! 
Duch. You shall take charge of all my 

coin and jewels. 
And follow him ; for he retires himself 
To Ancona. 
Bos. So. 

Duch. Whither, within few days, 

I mean to follow thee. 
Bos. Let me think : 

I would wish your grace to feign a pil- 
grimage 
To our Lady of Loretto,^ scarce seven 

leagues 
From fair Ancona ; so may you depart 
Your country with more honor, and your 

flight 
Will seem a princely progress, retaining 
Your usual train about you. 
Duch. Sir, your direction 

Shall lead me by the hand. 
Cari. In my opinion, 

She were better progress to the baths at 

Lucca, 
Or go visit the Spa 

In Geiinany; for, if you will believe me, 
I do not like this jesting with religion, 
This feigned pilgrimage. 
Duch. Thou art a superstitious fool : 
Prepare us instantly for our departure. 
Past sorrows, let us moderately lament 

them. 
For those to come, seek wisely to prevent 

them. 

Exeunt Duchess and Cariola. 
Bos. A politician is the devil's quilted an- 

vil; 
He fashions all sins on him, and the 

blows 
Are never heard : he may work in a lady's 

chamber. 
As here for proof. What rests ^ but I 

reveal 



7 miss. 



8 Loretto boasted tlie possession of the house in which the Virgin Mary was 
born, miraculously taken there from Palestine; the shrine was famous. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



317 



All to my lord ? 0, this base quality ^° 
Of intelligencer! Why, eveiy quality i' 

th' world 
Prefers but gain or commendation : 
Now, for this act I am certain to be 

rais'd, 
And men that paint weeds to the life are 

prais'd. 

Exit. 

Scene 3. Rome. A room in the Cardi- 
nal's palace. 

Enter Cardinal, Ferdinand, Malateste, 
Pescara, Delio, and Silvio. 

Card. Must we turn soldier, then"? 
Mai. The emperor. 

Hearing your worth that way, ere you 

attaiu'd 
This reverend garment, joins you in com- 
mission 
With the right fortunate soldier the Mar- 
quis of Pescara, 
And the famous Lannoy. 
Card. He that had the honor 

Of taking the French king ^^ prisoner? 
Mai. The same. 

Here 's a plot drawn for a new fortifica- 
tion 
At Naples. 
Ferd. This great Count Malateste, 

I perceive, 
Hath got employment ? 
Delio. No employment, my lord ; 

A marginal note in the muster-book that 

he is 
A voluntary lord. 
Ferd. He 's no soldier ? 

Delio. He has worn gun-powder in 's hol- 
low tooth for the tooth-ache. 
Sil. He comes to the leaguer ^- with a full 
intent 
To eat fresh beef and garlic, means to 

stay 
Till the scent be gone, and straight re- 
turn to court. 
Delio. He hath read all the late service ^^ 
As the City Chronicle relates it; 
And keeps two pewterers going, only to 

express 
Battles in model. 
Sil. Then he '11 fight by the book.i* 

Delio. By the almanac, I think. 

To choose good days and shun the criti- 
cal; 
That 's his mistress' scarf. 



Sil. Yes, he protests 

He would do much for that taffeta. 

Delio. I think he would run away from a 
battle. 
To save it from taking ^^ prisoner. 

Sil. He is horribly afraid 

Gun-powder will spoil the perfume on 't. 

Delio. I saw a Dutchman break his pate 
once 
For calling him pot-gun ; he made his head 
Have a bore in 't like a musket. 

Sil. I would he had made a touch-hole 
to 't. 
He is indeed a guarded sumpter-cloth,^*' 
Only for the remove of the court. 



Enter Bosola. 



Pes. 



Bosola arriv'd! What should be the 
business ? 
Some falling-out among the cardinals'? 
Tliese factions amongst great men, they 

are like 
Foxes, when their heads are divided,^'' 
They carry fire in their tails, and all the 

country 
About them goes to wrack for 't. 

Sil. ^ What's that Bosola? 

Delio. I knew him in Padua, — a fantasti- 
cal scholar, like such who study to know 
how many knots was in Hercules' club, 
of what color Achilles' beard was, or 
whether Hector were not troubled with 
the tooth-ache. He hath studied himself 
half blear-ey'd to know the true symme- 
try of Cffisar's nose by a shoeing-horn ; 
and this he did to gain the name of a 
speculative man. 

Pes. Mark Prince Ferdinand : 
A very salamander lives in 's eye, 
To mock the eager violence of fire. 

Sil. That cardinal hath made more bad 
faces with his oppression than ever 
Michael Angelo made good ones. He 
lifts up 's nose, like a foul porpoise be- 
fore a storm. 

Pes. The Lord Ferdinand laughs. 

Delio. Like a deadly cannon 

That lightens ere it smokes. 

Pes. These are your true pangs of death, 
The pangs of life, that struggle with 
great statesmen. 

Delio. In such a deformed silence witches 
whisper their charms. 

Card. Doth she make religion her riding- 
hood 



10 profession. 12 camp. 14 i.e. he is a theo- 16 an elaborate sad- court is making a 

11 Francis I, at 13 an account of the retical soldier. dlecloth, used journey. 

Pavia, in 1525. late campaign. 15 being taken. only when the 17 Cf. Judges, xv. 4. 



318 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



To keep ber from the sun and tempest f 
Ferd. That, that damns her. Methinks 
her fault and beautj', 

Blended together, show like leprosy, 

The whiter the fouler. I make it a ques- 
tion 

Whether her beggarly brats were ever 
christ'ned. 
Card. I will instantly solicit the state of 
Aneona 

To have them banish'd. 
Ferd. You are for Loretto : 

I shall not be at your ceremony, fare you 
well-»- 

Write to the Duke of Malfi, my young 
nephew, 

She had by her first husband, and ac- 
quaint him 

With 's mother's honesty. 
Bos. I will. 

Ferd. Antonio ! 

A slave that only smell'd of ink and coun- 
ters. 

And ne'er in 's life look'd like a gentle- 
man. 

But in the audit-time. — Go, go presently, 

Draw me out an hundred anct fifty of our 
horse. 

And meet me at the foot-bridge. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. Loretto. 

Enter Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our 
Lady of Loretto. 

1 Pil. I have not seen a goodlier shrine 

than this; 
Yet I have visited many. 

2 Pil. The Cardinal of Arragon 
Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat ; 
His sister duchess likewise is arriv'd 

To pay her vow of pilgrimage. I expect 
A noble ceremony. 
1 Pil. No question. — They come. 

Here the ceremony of the Cardinal's in- 
stalment in the habit of a soldier per- 
form' d in delivering up his cross, hat, 
robes and ring at the shrine, and invest- 
ing him with sxcord, helmet, shield, and 
spurs. Then Antonio, the Duchess and 
their children, having presented them- 
selves at the shrine, are, by a form of 
banishment in dumb-show expressed to- 
wards them by the Cardinal and the state 



of Aneona, banished: during all which 
ceremony, this ditty is sung, to very 
solemn music, by divers church-men; 
and then exeunt all except the Two Pil- 
grims. 

Arms and honors deck thy story,^^ 
To thy fame's eternal glory ! 
Adverse fortune ever fly thee; 
No disastrous fate come nigh thee ! 
I alone will sing thy praises. 
Whom to honor virtue raises. 
And thy study, that divine is, 
Bent to martial discipline is; 
Lay aside all those robes lie by thee; 
Crown thy arts with arms, tliey '11 beautify 
thee. 

worthy of worthiest name, adorn'd in 

this manner, 

Lead bravely thy forces on under wain's 
warlike banner! 

0, mayst thou jirove fortunate in all mar- 
tial courses! 

Guide thou still by skill in arts and forces ! 

Victory attend thee nigh, whilst fame sings 
loud thy powers ; 

Triumphant conquest crown thy head, and 
blessings pour down showers ! 

1 Pil. Here 's a strange turn of state ! who 

would have thought 

So great a lady would have match'd her- 
'"self 

Unto so mean a i^erson? Yet the cardi- 
nal 

Bears himself much too cruel. 

2 Pil. They are banish'd. 

1 Pil. But I would ask what power hath 

this state 
Of Aneona to determine ^^ of a free 
prince ? 

2 Pil. They are a free state, sir, and her 

brother show'd 
How that the Pope, fore-hearing of her 

looseness, 
Hath seiz'd into th' protection of the 

church 
The dukedom which she held as dowager. 

1 Pil. But by what justice? 

2 Pil. Sure, I think by none, 
Only her brother's instigation. 

1 Pil. What was it with such violence he- 

took 
Off from her finger? 

2 Pil. 'T was her wedding-ring; 
Which he vow'd shortly he would sacri- 
fice 

To his revenge. 



18 The first quarto has in the margin: "The author disclaims this ditty to be his." 19 dispose. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



319 



1 Pil, Alas, Antonio ! 

If that a man be thrust into a well, 
No matter who sets hand to 't, his own 

weight 
Will bring him sooner to th' bottom. 

Come, let 's hence. 
Fortune makes this conclusion general. 
All things do help th' unhappy man to 

fall. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 5. Near Loretto. 

Enter Duchess, Antonio, Children, Cariola, 
and Servants. 

Duch. Banish'd Ancona! 

Ant. Yes, you see what power 

Lightens in great men's breath. 
Duch. Is all our train 

Shrunk to this poor remainder"? 
Ant. These poor men, 

Which have got little in your service, vow 
To take your fortune : but your wiser 

buntings, 
Now they are fledg'd, are gone. 
Duch. They have done wisely. 

This puts me in mind of death : phy- 
sicians thus, 
With their hands full of money, use to 

give o'er 
Their patients. 
Ant. Right the fashion of the world: 

From decay'd fortunes every tiatterer 

shrinks ; 
Men cease to build where the foundation 
sinks. 
Duch. I had a very strange dream to- 
night. 
Ant. What was 't? 

Duch. Methought I wore my coronet of 
state, 
And on a sudden all the diamonds 
Were chang'd to pearls. 
Ant. My interpretation 

Is, you'll weep shortly; for to me the 

pearls 
Do signify your tears. 
Duch. The birds, that live i' th' field 

On the wild benefit of nature, live 
Happier than we: for they may choose 

their mates, 
And carol their sweet pleasures to the 
spring. 

Enter Bosola with a letter. 

Bos. You are happily o'erta'en. 

Duch. From my brother? 



Bos. Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand your 
brother 
All love and safety. 
Duch. Thou dost blanch mischief, 

Would'st make it white. See, see, like to 

calm weather 
At sea before a tempest, false hearts 

speak fair 
To those they intend most mischief. 

(Beads.) 
"Send Antonio to me ; I want his head in 

a business." 
A politic equivocation ! 
He doth not want your counsel, but your 

head ; 
That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead. 
And here 's another pitfall that 's strew'd 

o'er 
With roses ; mark it, 't is a cunning one : 

(Reads.) 
"I stand engaged for your husband for 
severaj debts at Naples : let not that trou- 
ble him ; I had rather have his heart than 
his money." — 
And I believe so too. 
Bos. What do you believe? 

Duch. That he so much distrusts my hus- 
band's love, 
He will by no means believe his heart is 

with him 
Until he see it: the devil is not cunning 

enough 
To circumvent us in riddles. 
Bos. Will you reject that noble and free 
league 
Of amity and love which I present you? 
Duch. Their league is like that of some 
13olitic kings, 
Only to make themselves of strength and 

power 
To be our after-ruin : tell them so. 
Bos. And what from you? 
Ant. Thus tell him : I will not come. 

Bos. And what of this? 
Ant. My brothers have dispers'd 

Bloodhounds abroad ; which till I hear 

are muzzl'd, 
No truce, though hateh'd with ne'er such 

politic skill. 
Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' 

will. 
I '11 not come at them. 
Bos. This proclaims your breeding. 

Every small thing draws a base mind to 

fear 
As the adamant draws iron. Fare you 

well, sir; 
You shall shortly hear from 's. 

Exit. 



320 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Duch. I suspect some ambush; 

Therefore by all my love I do conjure 
you 

To take your eldest son, and fly towards 
Milan, 

Let us not venture all this poor remain- 
der 

In one unlucky bottom. 
Ant. You counsel safely. 

Best of my life, farewell. Since we 
must part, 

Heaven hath a hand in 't ; but no other- 
wise 

Than as some curious artist takes in sun- 
der 

A clock or watch, when it is out of frame, 

To bring 't m better order. 
Duch. I know not which is best, 

To see you dead-, or part with you. Fare- 
well, boy : 

Thou art happy that thou hast not un- 
derstanding 

To know thy misery; for all our wit 

And reading brings us to a truer sense 

Of sorrow. — In the eternal church, sir, 

I do hope we shall not part thus. 
Ant. 0, be of comfort ! 

Make patience a noble fortitude. 

And think not how unkindly we are us'd : 

Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being 
bruis'd. 
Duch. Must I, like to a slave-born Rus- 
sian, 

Account it praise to suffer tyranny"? 

And yet, heaven, thy heavy hand is 
in 't ! 

I have seen my little boy oft scourge his 

top,20 

And compar'd myself to 't : naught made 
me e'er 

Go right but heaven's scourge-stick. 
Ant. Do not weep : 

Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we 
strive 

To bring ourselves to nothing. — Fare- 
well, Cariola, 

And thy sweet armful. — If I do never see 
thee more. 

Be a good mother to your little ones. 

And save them from the tiger: fare you 
well. 
Duch. Let me look upon you once more, 
for that speech 

Came from a dying father. Your kiss is 
colder 

Than that I have seen an holy anchor- 
ite 

Give to a dead man's skull. 

20 Tops were 



Ant. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump 
of lead. 
With which I sound my danger : fare you 
well. 

Exeunt Antonio and his son. 
Duch. My laurel is all withered. 
Cari. Look, madam, what a troop of armed 
men 
Make toward us ! 

Re-enter Bosola, masked, with a Guard. 

Duch. 0, they are very welcome : 

When Fortune's wheel is over-eharg'd 

with princes. 
The weight makes it move swift : I would 

have ray ruin 
Be sudden. — I am your adventure, am I 
not? 
Bos. You are: you must see j^our husband 

no more. 
Duch. What devil art thou that counter- 

feit'st heaven's thunder? 
Bos. Is that terrible? I would have you 
tell me whether 
Is that note worse that frights the silly 

birds 
Out of the corn, or that which doth allure 

them 
To the nets? You have heark'ned to the 
last too much. 
Duch. misery! like to a rusty o'er- 
charg'd cannon, 
Shall I never fly in pieces? Come, to 
what prison? 
Bos. To none. 
Duch. Whither, then? 

Bos. To your palace. 

Duch. I have heard 

That Charon's boat serves to convey all 

o'er 
The dismal lake, but brings none back 
again. 
Bos. Your brothers mean you safetj' and 

pity. 
Duch. Pity ! 

With such a pity men preserve alive 
Pheasants and quails, when they are not 

fat enough 
To be eaten. 
Bos. These are your children ? 

Duch. Yes. 

Bos. Can they prattle? 

Duch. No : 

But I intend, since they were born ac- 

curs'd, 
Curses shall be their first language. 
Bos. Fie, madam! 
Forget this base, low fellow 

spun with whips. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



321 



Duck. Were I a man, 

I'd beat that counterfeit face -^ into thy 

other. 
Bos. One of no birth. 
Duck. Say that he was born mean, 

Man is most happy when 's own actions 
Be arguments and examples of his virtue. 
Bos. A barren, beg'garly virtue. 
Duch. I pritliee, who is greatest? Can 

you tein 
Sad tales belit my woe : I '11 tell you one. 
A salmon, as she swam unto the sea. 
Met with a dog-fish, who encounters her 
With this rough language: "Why art 

thou so bold 
To mix thyself with our high state of 

floods. 
Being no eminent courtier, but one 
That for the calmest and fresh time o' 

th' year 
Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thy- 
self 
With silly smelts and shrimps'? And 

darest thou 
Pass by our dog-ship without reverence?" 
"O," quoth the salmon, "sister, be at 

peace : 
Thank Jupiter we both have pass'd the 

net! 
Our value never can be truly known. 
Till in the fisher's basket we be shown : 
I' th' market then my price may be the 

higher. 
Even when I am nearest to the cook and 

fire." 
So to great men the moral may be 

stretched ; 
Men oft are valu'd high, when they 're 

most wretched. — 
But come, whither you please. I am 

arm'd 'gainst miseiy ; 
Bent to all sways of the oppressor's Avill. 
There 's no deep valley but near some 

great hill. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the Duch- 
ess's palace. 

Enter Ferdinand and Bosola. 

Ferd. How doth our sister duchess bear 
herself 
In her imprisonment? 
Bos. Nobly : I 'U describe her. 



She 's sad as one long us'd to 't, and she 

seems 
Rather to welcome the end of misery 
Than shun it ; a behavior so noble 
As gives a majesty to adversity: 
You may disceni the shape of loveliness 
More perfect in her tears than in her 

smiles : 
She will muse four hours together; and 

her silence, 
Methinks, expresseth more than if she 

spake. 
Ferd. Her melancholy seems to be forti- 
fied 
With a strange disdain. 
Bos. 'T is so ; and this restraint, 

Like English mastiffs that grow fierce 

with tying. 
Makes her too passionately apprehend 
Those pleasures she is kept from. 
Ferd. Curse upon her ! 

I will no longer study in the liook 
Of another's heart. Inform her what I 

told you. 

Exit. 
Enter Duchess and Attendants. 

Bos. All comfort to your grace ! 
Duch. I will have none. 

Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poi- 

son'd pills 
In gold and sugar? 
Bos. Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdi- 
nand, 
Is come to visit you, and sends you word, 
'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow 
Never to see you more, he comes i' th' 

night; 
And prays you gently neither torch nor 

taper 
Shine in your chamber. He will kiss 

your hand. 
And reconcile himself ; but for his vow 
He dares not see you. 
Duch. At his pleasure. — 

Take hence the lights. — He 's come. 

Exeunt Attendants with lights. 
Enter Ferdinand. 

Ferd. Where are you? 

Duch. Here, sir. 

Ferd. This darkness suits you Avell. 

Duch. I would ask you pardon, 

Ferd. You have it ; 

For I account it the honorabl'st revenge, 
Where I may kill, to pardon. — Where are 
your cubs? 

Duch. Whom? 



21 mask. 



322 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ferd. Call them your children; 

For though our national law distinguish 

bastards 
From true legitimate issue, compassion- 
ate nature 
Makes them all equal. 
Duch. Do you visit me for this 1 

You violate a sacrament o' th' church 
Shall make you howl in hell for 't. 
Ferd. It had been well 

Could you have liv'd thus always; for, 

indeed, 
You were too much i' th' light : — but no 

more; 
I come to seal my peace with you. 
Here 's a hand 

(Gives her a dead man's hand.) 
To which you have vow'd much love; the 

ring upon 't 
You gave. 
Duch. I affectionately kiss it. 

Ferd. Pray, do, and buiy the print of it in 
your heart. 
I will leave this ring with j^ou for a love- 
token ; 
And the hand as sure as the ring; and 

do not doubt 
But you shall have the heart too. When 

you need a friend, 
Send it to him that ow'd ^- it ; you shall see 
Whether he can aid you. 
Duch. You are very cold : 

I fear you are not weU after your 
travel. — * 

Ha ! lights ! 0, horrible ! 

Ferd. Let her have lights enough. 

Exit. 
Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, 
that he hath left 
A dead man's hand here*? 
(Here is discover'd, behind a traverse,^^ the 
artificial figures of Antonio and his chil- 
dren, a]2pearing as if they were dead.) 
Bos. Look you, here 's the piece from 
which 't was ta'en. 
He doth pi'esent you this sad spectacle, 
That, now you know directly they are 

dead, 
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
For that which cannot be recovered. 
Duch. There is not between heaven and 
earth one wish 
I stay for after this. It wastes me more 
Than were 't my picture,-* fashion 'd out 

of wax, 
Stuck with a magical needle, and then 
buried 



In some foul dung hill ; and yon 's an 

excellent property 
For a tyrant, which I would account 
mercy. 
Bos. What's that? 

Duch. If they Avould bind me to that life- 
less trunk, 
And let me freeze to death. 
Bos. Come, you must live. 

Duch. That 's the greatest torture souls 
feel in hell. 
In hell, that they must live, and cannot 

die. 
Portia,-^ I '11 new kindle thy coals again. 
And revive the rare and almost dead ex- 
ample 
Of a loving wife. 
Bos. 0, fie! despair"? Remember 

You are a Christian. 
Duch. The church enjoins fasting: 

I '11 starve myself to death. 
Bos. Leave this vain sorrow. 

Things being at the worst begin to mend : 

the bee, 
When he hath shot his sting into your 

hand. 
May then play Avith your eye-lid. 
Duch. Good comfortable fellow, 

Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the 

wheel 
To have all his bones new set; entreat 

him live 
To be executed again. "V^Hio must 

desiDateh mel 
I account this world a tedious theater. 
For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. 
Bos. Come, be of comfort; I will save 

your life. 
Duch. Indeed, I have not leisure to tend 

so small a business. 
Bos. Now, by my life, I pity you. 
Duch. Thou art a fool, then. 

To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched 
As cannot pity itself. I am full of dag- 
gers. 
Puff, let me blow these vipers from me. 

Enter Servant. 

What are you f 
Serv. One that wishes you long life. 

Duch. I would thou wert hang'd for the 
horrible curse 
Thou hast given me: I shall shortly 

gTow one 
Of tiie miracles of pity. I '11 go pray; — 

Exit Serv. 
No, I '11 go curse. 



22 owned. 24imaKe; ns the image melted, the life of the person upon whom the spell was laid 

23 curtain. ebbed away. 

2.". The wife of Brutus, who committed suicide by swallowing burning coals. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



323 



Bos. 0, fie ! 

Duch. I could enrse the stars — 

Bos. O, fearful ! 

Duch. And those three smiling seasons of 
the year 
Into a Russian Avinter; nay, the world 
To its first chaos. 
Bos. Look you, the stars shine still. 

Dxicli. 0, but you must 

Remember, my curse hath a great way to 

go.— 
Plagues, that make lanes through largest 

families. 
Consume them ! — 
Bos. Fie, lady ! 

DucTi. -Let them, like tyrants, 

Never be remembered but for the ill they 

have done ; 
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 
Churchmen forget them ! — 
Bos. O, uncharitable ! 

Duch. Let heaven a little while cease 
crowning martyrs, 
To punish them ! — 
Go, howl them this, and say, I long to 

bleed : 
It is some mercy when men kill with 
speed. 

Exit. 
Re-enter Ferdinand. 

Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ; she 's 

plagu'd in art.^*^ 
These presentations are but fram'd in 

wax 
By the curious master in that quality,-'^ 
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
For true substantial bodies. 
Bos. Why do you do this? 

Ferd. To bring her to despair. 
Bos. Faith, end here, 

And go no farther in your cruelty : 
Send her a penitential garment to put on 
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish 

her 
With beads and prayer-books. 
Ferd. Damn her ! that body of hers, 

W^hile that nij^ blood ran pure in 't, was 

more Avorth 
Than that which thou wouldst comfort, 

call'd a soul. 
I will send her masques of common cour- 
tesans. 
Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and 

ruffians. 
And, 'cause she '11 needs be mad, I am 

resolv'd 
To remove forth the common hospital 



26 by artifice. 



27 profession. 



All the mad-folk, and place them near 

her lodging; 
There let them practise together, sing 

and dance, 
And act their gambols to the full o' th' 

moon : 
If she can sleep the better for it, let her. 
Your work is almost ended. 
Bos. Must I see her again? 

Ferd. Yes. 
Bos. Never. 

Ferd. You must. 

Bos. Never in mine own shape ; 

That 's forfeited by my intelligence 
And this last cruel lie : when you send me 

next. 
The business shall be comfort. 
Ferd. Very likely, 

Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee. An- 
tonio 
Lurks about Milan : thou shalt shortly 

thither, 
To feed a fire as great as my revenge, 
Wliich ne'er will slack till it hath spent 

his -^ fuel : 
Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. Another room in the Duchess's 
palace. 

Enter Duchess and Cariola. 

Duch. What hideous noise was that? 
Cari. 'T is the wild consort -^ 

Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant 

brother 
Hath plac'd about your lodging. This 

tyranny, 
I think, was never practis'd till this hour. 
Duch. Indeed, I thank him. Nothing but 
noise and folly 
Can keep me in my right wits; whereas 

reason 
And silence make me stark mad. Sit 

down ; 
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 
Cari. 0, 't will increase your melancholy ! 
Duch. Thou art deceiv'd : 

To hear of greater gi'ief would lessen 

mine. 
This is a prison? 
Cari. Yes, but you shall live 

To shake this durance off. 
Duch. Thou art a fool: 

The robin-red-breast and the nightingale 
Never live long in cages. 

2S its. 29 company. 



324 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 



Cari. Pray, dry your eyes. 

What think you of, madam ? 
Duch. Of nothing; 

When I muse thus, I sleep. 
Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes 

open ? 
Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one 
another 
In th' other world ? 
Cari. Yes, out of question. 

Duch. 0, that it were possible we might 
But hold some two days' conference with 

the dead ! 
From them I should learn somewhat, I 

am sure, 
I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a 

miracle : 
I am not mad yet, to my cause of soitow : 
Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of 

molten brass, 
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am 

not mad. 
I am acquainted with sad miseiy 
As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; 
Necessity makes me suffer constantly, 
And custom makes it easy. Who do I 
look like now? 
Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery, 
A deal of life in show, but none in prac- 
tice ; 
Or rather like some reverend monument 
Whose ruins are even pitied. 
Duch. Verjr proper; 

And Fortune seems only to have her eye- 
sight 
To behold my tragedy. — How now ! 
What noise is thatf 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. I am come to tell you 

Your brother hath intended you some 
sport. 

A great physician, when the Pope was 
sick 

Of a deep melancholy, presented him 

With sevei'al soi'ts ^° of madmen, which 
wild object, 

Being full of change and sport, forc'd 
him to laugh, 

And so th' imposthume ^^ broke : the self- 
same cure 

The duke intends on you. 
Duch. ' Let them come in. 

Serv. There's a mad lawyer; and a secu- 
lar priest; 

A doctor that hath forfeited his wits 

By jealousy ; an astrologian 



That in his works said such a day o' th' 

month 
Should be the day of doom, and, failing 

oft, 
Ean mad; an English tailor craz'd i' th' 

brain 
With the study of new fashions; a gen- 

tleman-uslier 
Quite beside himself with care to keep 

in mind 
The number of his lady's salutations, 
Or "How do you," she emj)loy'd him in 

each morning; 
A farmer, too, an excellent knave in 

grain,^- 
Mad 'cause he was hind'red transporta- 
tion : ^^ 
And let one broker that 's mad loose to 

these. 
You 'd think the devil were among them. 
Duch. Sit, Cariola. — Let them loose when 

you please, 
For I am chain'd to endure all your 

tyranny. 

Enter Madmen. 

Here by a Madman this song is sung to a 
dismal kind of music. 

O, let us howl some heavy note, 

Some deadly dogged howl, 
Sounding as from the threat'ning throat 

Of beasts and fatal fowl! 
As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears, 

We 'II bell, and bawl our parts. 
Till irksome noise have cloy'd your ears 

And corrosiv'd your hearts. 
At last, when as our choir wants breath, 

Our bodies being blest, 
We '11 sing, like swans, to welcome death, 

And die in love and rest. 

1 Madman. Dooms-day not come yet! 
I '11 draw it nearer by a perspective,^* or 
make a glass that shall set all the world 
on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep ; 
my pillow is stuft with a litter of porcu- 
pines. 

2 Madman. Hell is a mere glass-house, 
where the devils are continually blowing 
up women's souls on hollow irons, and 
the fire never goes out. 

3 Madman. I will lie with eveiy woman 
in my parish the tenth night. I will 
tithe them over like hay-cocks. 

4 Madman. Shall my 'pothecary out-go 
me, because I am a cuckold? I have 



30 bands. 

31 abscess. 



32 a pun on grain- 
dye. 



33 from exporting his grain. 



34 telescope. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



325 



found out bis roguery : be makes alum of 
bis wife's urine, and sells it to Puritans 
tbat bave sore tbroats witb over-straining. 

1 Madman. I bave skill in beraldry. 

2 Madman. Hast? 

1 Madman. You do give for yoi;r crest a 
wood-coek's head witb tbe brains jjickt 
out on 't ; you are a veiy ancient gentle- 
man. 

3 Madman. Greek is turn'd Turk : we are 
only to be sav'd by the Helvetian trans- 
lation.^^ 

1 Madman. Come on, sir, I will lay the 
law to you. 

2 Madman. 0, rather lay a corrosive : tbe 
law will eat to the bone. 

3 Madman. He that drinks but to satisfy 
nature is damn'd. 

4 Madman. If I bad my glass here, I 
would show a sight should make all the 
women here call me mad doctor. 

1 Madman. What's he'? A rope-maker? 

2 Madman. No, no, no; a snuflling knave 
that while he shows tbe tombs, will have 
bis hand in a wench's placket.'*^ 

3 Madman. Woe to the caroche ^"^ that 
brought home my wife from tbe masque 
at three o'clock in the morning! It had 
a large feather-bed in it. 

4 Madman. I bave pared tbe devil's nails 
forty times, roasted them in raven's eggs, 
and cur'd agues with them. 

3 Madman. Get me three hundred milch- 
bats, to make possets ^^ to j^roeure sleep. 

4 Madman. All tbe college ^^ may throw 
their caps at me : I bave made a soap- 
boiler costive; it was my masterpiece. 

{Here the dance, consisting of Eight Mad- 
men, with music answerable thereunto; 
after which, Bosola, like an old man, 
enters.) 
Duch. Is be mad too? 
Serv. Pray, question him. I '11 leave you. 
Exeunt Servant and Madmen. 
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. 
Duch. Ha ! my tomb ! 

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death- 
bed. 
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive 
me sick? 
Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since 

tl\y sickness is insensible. 
Duch. Thou art not mad, sure: dost know 

me? 
Bos. Yes. 

Duch. Wlio am I ? 



Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best 
but a salvatory *^ of green nunnmy.^^ 
What's this flesh? A little crudded ■»- 
milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies 
are weaker than those paper-prisons boys 
use to keep flies in; more contemptible, 
since ours is to preserve earth-worms. 
Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? 
Such is the soul in the body : this world 
is like her little turf of grass, and the 
heaven o'er our beads, like her looking- 
glass, only gives us a miserable knowl- 
edge of tbe small compass of our prison. 

Duch. Am I not thy duchess? 

Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for 
riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad 
in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than 
on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleep'st 
worst than if a mouse should be forc'd 
to take up her lodging' in a cat's ear: a 
little infant tbat breeds its teeth, should 
it lie witb thee, would ciy out, as if thou 
wert tbe more unquiet bedfellow. 

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. 

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : 
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine 

bright, 
But, look'd to near, have neither beat nor 
light. 

Duch. Thou art very plain. 

Bos. My trade is to Hatter the dead, not 
the living; I am a tomb-maker. 

Duch. And thou com'st to make my tomb? 

Bos. Yes. 

Duch. Let me be a little merry : — of what 
stuff wilt thou make it? 

Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fash- 
ion ? 

Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our 
deathbed ? 
Do we affect fashion in the grave? 

Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images 
on their tombs do not lie, as they were 
wont, seeming- to pray up to heaven ; but 
with their hands under their cheeks, as if 
they died of the tootb-aebe. They are not 
carved with their eyes fix'd upon the stars, 
but as their minds were wholly bent upon 
the world, the self-same way they seem 
to turn their faces. 

Duch. Let me know fully therefore tbe 
effect 
Of this thy dismal preparation, 
This talk fit for a eharnel. 

Bos. Now I shall : — 



35 the Geneva 
Bible. 

36 petticoat. 



?.'! roach. 

38 hot milk curdled 
with liquor. 



39 College of Phy- 
sicians. 

40 repository. 



41 mummia, a pitchy 
substance sup- 

posedly derived 



from mummies, 
used as a medicine. 
42 curdled. 



326 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Enter Executioners, icith a cojfin, cords, 
and a hell. 

Here is a present from your princely 
brothers ; 

And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 

Last benefit, last sorrow. 
Buch. Let me see it : 

I have so much obedience in my blood, 

I wish it in their veins to do them good. 
Bos. This is your last presence-chamber. 
Cari. my sweet lady ! 
Buch. Peace ; it affrights not me. 

Bos. I am the common bellman 

That usually is sent to eondemn'd per- 
sons 

The night before they suffer. 
Buch. Even now thou said'st 

Thou wast a tomb-maker. 
Bos. 'T was to bring you 

By degrees to mortification. Listen. 

Hark, now everything is still, 

The screech-owl and the whistler shrill 

Call upon our dame aloud, 

And bid her quickly don her shroud! 

Much you had of land and rent ; 

Your length in clay 's now competent : 

A long war disturb'd your mind; 

Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 

Of what is 't fools make sucli vain keeping? 

Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 

Their life a general mist of error. 

Their death a hideous storm of terror. 

Istrew your hair with powders sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet, 

And (the foul fiend more to check) 

A crucifix let bless your neck. 

'T is now full tide 'tween night and day; 

End your groan, and come away. 

Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! 
Alas ! 
^^^lat win you do with my lady 1— Call 
for help ! 
Duch. To whom? To our next neighbors'? 

They are mad-folks. 
Bos. Remove that noise.*^ 
Buch. Farewell, Cariola. 

In my last will I have not much to give : 
A many hungry guests have fed upon 

me; 
Thine will be a poor reversion. 
Cari. I will die with her. 

Buch. I pray thee, look thou giv'st my lit- 
tle boy 
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl 
Say her prayers ere she sleep. 
{Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.) 



Now what you please : 
What death? 
Bos. Strangling; here are your execution- 
ers, 
Duch. I forgive them : 

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' 

lungs. 
Would do as much as they do. 
Bos. Doth not death fright you? 
Duch. Who would be afraid on 't, 

Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In th' other world? 
Bos. Yet, methinks. 

The manner of your death should much 

afflict you : 
This cord should terrify you. 
Buch. Not a whit : 

What would it pleasure me to have my 

throat cut 
With diamonds? or to be smothered 
With cassia? or to be shot to death with 

pearls ? 
I know death hath ten thousand several 

doors 
For men to take their exits ; and 't is 

found 
They go on such strange geometrical 

hinges, 
You may open them both ways : any way, 

for heaven-sake. 
So I were out of your whispering ! Tell 

my brothers 
That I perceive death, now I am well 

awake. 
Best gift is they can give or I can take, 
I would fain put off my last woman's- 

fault, 
I 'd not be tedious to you. 
1 Execut. We are ready. 

Buch. Dispose my breath how please you ; 
but my body 
Bestow upon my women, will you? 
1 Execut. Yes. 

Buch. Pull, and pull strongly, for j^our 
able strength 
Must pull down heaven upon me : — 
Yet stay ; heaven-gates are not so highly 

arch'd 
As princes' palaces; they that enter 

there 
Must go upon their knees (Kneels). — 

Come, violent death 
Serve for mandragora to make me 

sleep ! — 
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid 

out, 
They then may feed in quiet. 
(They strangle her.) 



43 i.e. Cariola. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



327 



Bos. Where 's the waitmg-woman ? 

Fetch her: some other strangle the chil- 
dren. 

Enter Cariola. 

Look you, there sleeps your mistress. 
Cari. 0, you are damn'd 

Perpetually for this ! My turn is next ; 
Is 't not so ordered ? 
Bos. Yes, and I am glad 

You are so well prepar'd for 't. 
Cari. You are deceiv'd, sir, 

I am not prepar'd for 't, I will not die ; 
I will first come to my answer,^* and 

know 
How I have offended. 
Bos. Come, despatch her. — 

You kejDt her counsel ; now you shall keep 
ours. 
Cari. I will not die, I must not ; I am con- 
tracted 
To a young gentleman. 
1 Execut. Here 's your wedding-ring. 

Cari. Let me but speak with the duke : I '11 
discover 
Treason to his person. 
Bos. Delays : — throttle her. 

1 Execut. She bites and sci'atches. 
Cari. If you kill me now, 

I am damn'd ; I have not been at con- 
fession 
This two years. 
Bos. [To Executioners.) TNTien ! 
Cari. I am quick with child. 

Bos. Why, then, 

Your credit 's saved. 

{They strangle Cariola.) 

Bear her into th' next room ; 
Let this ■*5 lie still. 

Exeunt Executioners witli body of 
Cariola. 

Enter Ferdinand. 

Ferd. Is she dead*? 

Bos. She is what 

You 'd have her. But here begin your 
pity : 
{Shows the Children strangled.) 
Alas, how have these offended? 
Ferd. The death 

Of young wolves is never to be pitied. 
Bos. Fix your eye here. 
Ferd. Constantly. 

Bos. Do you not weep"? 

Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks 
out. 

44 trial. 



The element of water moistens the earth, 
But blood flies upwards and bedews the 
heavens. 
Ferd. Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: 

she died young. 
Bos. I think not so; her infelicity 

Seem'd to have years too many. 
Ferd. She and I were twins; 

And should I die this instant, I had liv'd 
Her time to a minute. 
Bos. It seems she was born first : 

You have bloodily approv'd the ancient 

truth, 
That kindred commonly do >worse agree 
Than remote strangers. 
Ferd. Let me see lier face 

Again. Why didst thou not pity her"? 

What 
An excellent honest man niightst thou 

have been. 
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctu- 
ary ! 
Or, bold in a good cause, — oppos'd thy- 
self. 
With thy advanced sword above thy head. 
Between her innocence and my revenge ! 
I bade thee, when I was distracted of my 

wits. 
Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast 

done 't. 
For let me but examine well the cause : 
What was the meanness of her match to 

me? 
Only I must confess I had a hope. 
Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd 
An infinite mass of treasure by her death : 
And that was the main cause, — her mar- 
riage. 
That drew a stream of gall quite through 

my heart. 
For thee, as we observe in tragedies 
That a good actor many times is eurs'd 
For playing a villain's part, I hate thee 

for 't, 
And, for my sake, say thou hast done 
much ill well. 
Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I 
perceive 
You are falling into ingratitude : I chal- 
lenge 
The reward due to my service. 
Ferd. I '11 tell thee 

What I '11 give thee. 
Bos. " Do. 

Ferd. I '11 give thee a pardon 

For this murder. 
Bos. Ha ! 

Ferd. Yes, and 't is 

45 the Duchess's body 



328 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



The largest bounty I can study to do thee. 

By what authority didst thou execute 

This bloody sentence"? 
Bos. By yours. 

Ferd. Mine! Was I her judge? 

Did any ceremonial form of law 

Doom her to not-being? Did a complete 

Deliver her conviction up i' tli' court ? 
Where shalt thou find this judgment 

register'd, 
Unless in, hell? See, like a bloody fool, 
Thou 'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt 
die for 't. 
Bos. The office of justice is perverted 
quite 
When one thief hangs another. Who 

shall dare 
To reveal this? 
Ferd. 0, I'll tell thee; 

The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape 

it up, 
Not to devour the corpse, but to discover 
The horrid murder. 
Bos. You, not I, shall quake for 't. 

Ferd. Leave me. 

Bos. I will first receive my pension. 

Ferd. You are a villain. 
Bos. When your ingratitude 

Is judge, I am so. 
Ferd. horror, 

That not the fear of him which binds the 

devils 
Can prescribe man obedience ! — 
Never look upon me moi'e. 
Bos. Why, fare thee well. 

Your brother and yourself are worthy 

men ! 
You have a pair of hearts are hollow 

graves. 
Rotten, and rotting others; and your ven- 
geance. 
Like two chain'd-bullets, still goes arm in 

arm : 
You may be brothers; for treason, like 

the plague. 
Doth take much in a blood.**^ I stand 

like one 
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden 

dream : 
I am angry with myself now, that I wake. 
Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' 
the world, 
That I Yaa.y never see thee. 
Bos. Let me know 

Wlierefore I should be thus neglected. 

Sir, 
I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove 



To satisfy yourself than all the world : 
And though I loath'd the evil, yet I lov'd 
You that did counsel it; and rather 

sought 
To appear a true servant than an honest 

man. 
Ferd. I '11 go hunt the badger by owl- 
light : ' 
'T is a deed of darkness. 

Exit. 
Bos. He 's much distracted. Off, my 

painted honor! 
While with vain hopes our faculties we 

tire. 
We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in 

fire. 
What would I do, were this to do again? 
I would not change my peace of eon- 
science 
For all the wealth of Europe. — She 

stii's ; ■^^ here 's life : — 
Return, fair soul, fi'om darkness, and lead 

mine 
Out of this sensible hell ! — she 's warm, 

she breathes : — 
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart. 
To store them with fresh color. — Who's 

there? 
Some cordial drink ! — Alas ! I dare not 

call : 
So i^ity would destroy pity. — Her eye 

opes, 
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late 

was shut. 
To take me up to mercy. 
Duch. Antonio ! 

Bos. Yes, madam, he is living; 

The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd 

statues. 
He's reconcil'd to your brothers; the 

Pope hath wrought 
The atonement. 
Duch. Mercy ! 

{Dies.) 
Bos. 0, she 's gone again ! there the cords 

of life broke. 
sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps 
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty con- 
science 
Is a black i-egister wherein is writ 
All our good deeds and bad, a perspective 
That shows us hell ! That we cannot be 

suffer'd 
To do good when we have a mind to it ! 
This is manly sorrow; 
These tears, I am very certain, never grew 
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk 
Below the degree of fear : where were 



46 runs in a family. 



47 This revival of the Duchess is reminiscent of Desdeinona's. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



329 



These penitent fountains while she was 

living f 
O, they were frozen up ! Here is a sight 
As direful to my soul as is the sword 
Unto a wretch hath slain his father. 
Come, I '11 bear thee hence, 
And execute thy last will : that 's deliver 
Thy body to the reverend dispose 
Of some good women : that the cruel 

tyrant 
Shall not deny me. Then I '11 post to 

Milan, 
Where somewhat I will speedily enact 
Worth my dejection. 

Exit with the body. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. 3Iilan. A public place. 

Enter Antonio and Delia. 

Ant. What think you of my hope of re- 
concilement 
To the Arragonian brethren'? 
Delio. I misdoubt it ; 

For though they have sent their letters of 

safe-conduct 
For your repair to Milan, they appear 
But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of 

Pescara, 
Under whom you hold certain land in 

cheat,''8 
Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been 

mov'd 
To seize those lands; and some of his de- 
pendants 
Are at this instant making it their suit 
To be invested in your revenues. 
I cannot think they mean well to your 

life 
That do deprive you of your means of 

life, 
Your living. 
Ant. You are still an heretic 

To any safety I can shape myself. 
Delio. Here comes the marquis: I will 
make myself 
Petitioner for some part of your land. 
To know whither it is flying. 
Ant. I pray, do. 

Withdraws. 
Enter Pescara. 

Drlio. Sir, I have a suit to you. 
Pes. To me? 



Delio. An easy one : 

There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet, 
With some demesnes, of late in the pos- 
session 
Of Antonio Bologna, — please you bestow 
them on me. 
Pes. You are my friend; but this is such 
a suit, 
Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take. 
Delio. No, sir? 

Pes. I will give you ample reason for 't 
Soon in private : — here 's the cardinal's 
mistress. 

Enter Julia. 

Julia. My lord, I am grown your poor 
petitioner. 
And should be an ill beggar, had I not 
A great man's letter here, the cardinal's, 
To court you in my favor. 
Pes. He entreats for you 

The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that be- 

long'd 
To the banish'd Bologna. 
Julia. Yes. 

Pes. I could not have thought of a friend 
I could rather 
Pleasure with it : 't is yours. 
Julia. Sir, I thank you; 

And he shall know how doubly I am 

engag'd 
Both in your gift, and speediness of giv- 

Which makes your grant the greater. 

Exit. 
Ant. How they fortify 

Themselves with my ruin ! 
Delio. Sir, I am 

Little bound to you. 
Pes. Why ? 

Delio. Because you deni'd this suit to me, 
and gave 't 
To such a creature. 
Pes. Do you know what it was? 

It was Antonio's land ; not forfeited 
By course of law, but ravish'd from his 

throat 
By the cardinal's entreaty. It were not 

fit 
I should bestow so main a piece of wrong 
Upon my friend ; 't is a gratification 
Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice. 
Shall I sprinkle the pure blood of inno- 
cents 
To make those followers I call my friends 
Look ruddier upon me? I am glad 
This land, ta'en from the owner by such 
wrong, 



48 in escheat ; reverting to an overlord in the absence of heirs to the possessor. 



330 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Returns again unto so foul an use 

As salaiy for bis lust. Learn, good 

Delio, 
To ask noble tbings of me, and you sball 

find 
I '11 be a noble giver. 
Delio. You instruct me well. 

Ant. Wby, bere 's a man now would f rigiit 
impudence 
From sauciest beggars. 
Pes. Prince Ferdinand 's come to Milan, 
Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy; 
But some say 't is a frenzy : I am going 
To visit him. 

Exit. 
Ant. 'T is a noble old fellow. 

Delio. Wbat course do you mean to take, 

Antonio ? 
Ant. Tbis night I mean to venture all my 
fortune, 
Which is no more than a poor lingering 

life, 
To the cardinal's Avorst of malice. I have 

got 
Private access to his chamber; and intend 
To visit him about the mid of night. 
As once bis brother did our noble duchess. 
It may be that the sudden apprehension 
Of danger, — for I '11 go in mine own 

shape, — 
When he shall see it fraught with love 

and duty. 
May draw the poison out of him, and 

work 
A friendly reconcilement. If it fail. 
Yet it shall rid me of this infamous call- 
ing; 
For better fall once than be ever falling. 
Delio. I'll second you in all danger; and, 
howe'er, 
My life keeps rank with yours. 
Ant. You are still my lov'd and best 
friend. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. A gallery in the Cardinal's 
palace. 

Enter Pescara and Doctor. 

Pes. Now, doctor, may I visit your pa- 
tient? 
Doc. If 't please your lordship ; but he 's 
instantly 
To take the air here in the gallery 
By my direction. 
Pes. Pray thee, what 's his disease? 



Doc. A very pestilent disease, my lord, 

They call lycanthropia. 
Pes. What's that? 

I need a dictionary to 't. 
Doc. I '11 tell you. 

In those that are possess'd with 't there 
o'erilows 

Such melancholy humor they imagine 

Themselves to be transformed into 
wolves ; 

Steal forth to church-yards in the dead 
of night, 

And dig dead bodies up : as two nights 
since 

One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane 

Behind Saint Mark's church, with the leg 
of a man 

Upon his shoulder; and he howl'd fear- 
. fully; 

Said he was a wolf, only the difference 

Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the out- 
side, 

His on the inside; bade them take their 
swords, 

Rip up his flesh, and try. Straight I was 
sent for. 

And, having minister'd to him, found his 
grace 

Very well recovered. 
Pes. I am glad on 't. 
Doc. Yet not without some fear 

Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again, 

I '11 go a nearer way to Avork with him 

Than ever Paracelsus *^ dream'd of ; if 

They '11 give me leave, I '11 buffet his mad- 
ness out of him. 

Stand aside; he comes. 

Enter Ferdinand, Cardinal, Malateste, and 
. Bosola. 

Ferd. Leave me. 

Mai, Why doth your lordship love this 
solitariness? 

Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone : they are 
crows, daws, and starlings that flock to- 
gether. Look, what 's that follows me? 

Mai. Nothing, my lord. 

Ferd. Yes. 

Mai. 'T is your shadow. 

Ferd. Stay it ; let it not haunt me. 

Mai. Impossible, if you move, and the sun 
shine. 

Ferd. I will throttle it. 

(Throtvs himself doion on his shadow.) 

Mai. O, my lord, you are angiy with noth- 
ing. 

Ferd. You are a fool : bow is 't possible I 
should catch my shadow, unless I fall 



49 a famous physician and alchemist of the sixteenth century. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



331 



upon't? When I go to bell, I mean to 
carry a bribe ; for, look you, good gifts 
evermore make way for the worst per- 
sons. 

Pes. Rise, good my lord. 

Ferd. I am studying the art of patience. 

Pes. 'T is a noble virtue. 

Ferd. To drive six snails before me from 
this town to Moscow; neither use goad 
nor whip to them, but let them take their 
own time; — the patient'st man i' th' 
world match me for an experiment: — an 
I '11 crawl after like a sheep-biter.^° 

Card. Force him up. 

{They raise him.) 

Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What 
I have done, I have done : I '11 confess 
nothing. 

Doc. Now let me come to him. — Are you 
mad, my lord*? 
Are you out of your princely wits'? 

Ferd. What's he <? 

Pes. Your doctor. 

Ferd. Let me have his beard saw'd oE, and 
his eye-brows hl'd more civil. 

Doc. i must do mad tricks with him, for 
that 's the only way on 't. — I have 
brought your grace a salamander's skin to 
keep you from sunburning. 

Ferd. I have cruel sore eyes. 

Doc. The white of a cockatrix's ^^ egg is 
present ^~ remedy. 

Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were 
best. Hide me from him : physicians are 
like kings, — They brook no contradiction. 

Doc. Now he begins to fear me : now let 
me alone with him. 

Card. How now ! put off your gown ! 

Doc. Let me have some forty urinals filled 
with rose-water : he and I '11 go pelt one 
another with them. — Now he begins to 
fear me. — Can you fetch a frisk,^^ sir"? 
— Let him go, let him go, upon my peril : 
I find by his eye he stands in awe of me; 
I '11 make him as tame as a dormouse. 

Ferd. Can you fetch your frisks, sir! — I 
will stamp him into a cuUis,^* flay off his 
skin to cover one of the anatomies ^^ this 
rogue hath set i' th' cold yonder in Bar- 
ber-Chirurgeon's-hall.^'^ — Hence, hence ! 
you are all of you like beasts for sacri- 
fice. {Throws the Doctor down and beats 
him.) There's nothing left of you but 
tongue and belly, flattery and lechery. 

Exit. 

Pes. Doctor, he did not fear you thor- 
ouohly. 



Doc. True ; I was somewhat too forward. 
Bos. Mercy upon me, what a fatal judg- 
ment 
Hath f all'n upon this Ferdinand ! 
Pes. Knows your grace 

\Vhat accident hath brought unto the 

prince 
This strange distraction*? 
Card. {Aside.) I must feign somewhat. — 

Thus they say it grew. 
You have heard it rumor'd, for these 

many years 
None of our family dies but there is seen 
The shape of an old woman, which is 

given 
By tradition to us to have been murder'd 
By her nephews for her riches. Such a 

figure 
One night, as the prince sat up late at 's 

book, 
Appear'd to him ; when crying out for 

heli3. 
The gentleman of 's chamber found his 

grace 
All on a cold sweat, alter'd much in face 
And language: since which apparition, 
He hath grown worse and worse, and I 

much fear 
He cannot live. 
Bos. Sir, I would speak Avith you. 

Pes. We '11 leave your grace, 

Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord, 
All health of mind and body. 
Card. You are most welcome. 

Exeunt Pescara, Malateste, and Doctor. 
Are you come? so. — (Aside.) This fel- 
low nuist not know 
By any means I had intelligence 
In our duchess' death; for, though I 

counsel'd it. 
The full of all th' engagement seem'd to 

grow 
From Ferdinand. — Now, sir, how fares 

our sister? 
I do not think but sorrow makes her look 
Like to an oft-dy'd garment: she shall 

now 
Take comfort from me. Why do you 

look so wildly ? 
0, the fortune of your master here, the 

prince. 
Dejects you ; but be you of happy com- 
fort": 
If you '11 do one thing for me I '11 entreat, 
Though he had a cold tomb-stone o'er his 

bones, 
I 'd make you what you would be. 



50 a sheep-worrying 
dog. 

51 a fabled serpent, 



whose glance, like 
the basilisk's, was 
deadly. 



52 immediate. 

53 cut a caper. 

54 broth. 



55 skeletons. 

56 Guild hall of the 
Barber - Surgeons 



(a London local 
allusion). 



332 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Bos. Any thing; 

Give it me in a breath, and let nie fly to 't. 
They that think long- small expedition 

win, 
For musing much o' th' end cannot begin. 

Enter Julia. 

Julia. Sir, will you come in to supper? 
Card. I am busy ; leave me. 

Julia. (Aside.) What an excellent shape 
hath that fellow ! 

Exit. 
Card. 'T is thus. Antonio lurks here in 
Milan : 
Inquire him out, and kill him. While he 

lives, 
Our sister cannot marry; and I have 

thought 
Of an excellent match for her. Do this, 

and style me 
Thy advancement. 
Bos. But by what means shall I find him 

out? 
Card. There is a gentleman call'd Delio 
Here in the camp, that hath been long ap- 

prov'd 
His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fel- 
low; 
Follow him to mass ; may be Antonio, 
Although he do account religion 
But a school-name, for fashion of the 

world 
May accompany him; or else go inquire 

out 
Delio's confessor, and see if you can bvibr 
Him to reveal it. There are a thousand 

ways 
A man might find to trace him; as to 

know 
What fellows haunt the Jews for taking 

Great sums of money, for sure he s in 

want ; 
Or else to go to th' laieture-makers, and 

learn 
Who bought her picture lately: some of 

these 
Happily may take. 
Bos. Well, I '11 not freeze i' th' business : 
I would see that wretched thing, Antonio, 
Above all sights i' th' world. 
Card. Do, and be happy. 

Exit. 
Bos. This fellow doth breed basilisks in 's 
eyes, 
He's nothing else but murderer; yet he 
seems 

57 perfumed candies for the breath. 



Not to have notice of the duchess' death. 
'T is his cunning: I must follow his ex- 
ample ; 
There cannot be a surer way to trace 
Than that of an old fox. 

Re-enter Julia, with a pistol. 

Julia. So, sir, you are well met. 
Bos. How now ! 

Julia. Nay, the doors are fast enough : 
Now, sir, I will make you confess your 
treachery. 
Bos. Treachery! 

Julia. Yes, confess to me 

Which of my women 't was you hir'd to 

put 
Love-powder into my drink? 
Bos. Love powder! 

Julia. Yes, when I was at Malfi. 

Why should I fall in love with such a 

face else? 
I have already suffer'd for thee so much 

pain. 
The only remedy to do me good 
Is to kill my longing. 
Bos. Sure, your pistol holds 

Nothing but perfumes or kissing-com- 

fits." Excellent lady! 
You have a pretty way on 't to discover 
Your longing. Come, come, I '11 disarm 

you, 
And arm you thus: yet this is wondrous 
strange. 
Julia. ComiDare thy form and my eyes to- 
gether. 
You '11 find my love no such great mir- 
acle. 

Now you '11 say 
I am wanton : this nice modesty in ladies 
Is but a troublesome familiar 
That haunts them. 
Bos. Know you me, I am a blunt soldier. 
Julia. The better: 

Sure, there wants fire where there are no 

lively sparks 
Of roughness. 
Bos. And I want ^^ compliment. 
Julia. Why, ignorance 

In courtship cannot make you do amiss. 
If you have a heart to do well. 
Bos. You are very fair.- 

Julia. Nay, if you lay beauty to my 
charge, 
I must i^lead unguilty. 
Bos. Your bright eyes 

Carry a quiver of darts in them, sharper 
Than sun-beams. 

58 lack. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



333 



Julia. You will mar me with 

commendation, 
Put yourself to the charge of courting 

me, 
Whereas now I woo you. 
Bos. {Aside.) I have it, I will work upon 

this creature. — 
Let us grow most amorously familiar: 
If the great cardinal now should see me 

thus, 
Would he not count me a villain? 
Julia. No; he might count me a wanton, 
Not lay a scruple of offense on you ; 
For if I see and steal a diamond, 
The fault is not i' th' stone, but in me the 

thief 
That purloins it. I am sudden with you. 
We that are great women of pleasure use 

to cut off 
These uncertain wishes and unquiet long- 

And in an instant join the sweet delight 
And the pretty excuse together. Had 

you been i' th' street. 
Under my chamber-window, even there 
I should have courted you. 
Bos. 0, you are an excellent lady ! 
Julia. Bid me do somewhat for you pres- 
ently 
To express I love you. 
Bos. I will ; and if you love me. 

Fail not to effect it. 

The cardinal is grown wondrous melan- 
choly ; 
Demand the cause, let him not put you 

off 
With feign'd excuse; discover the main 
ground on 't. 
Julia. Why would you know this? 
Bos. I have depended on him. 

And I hear that he is fall'n in some dis- 
grace 
With the emperor: if he be, like the 

mice 
That forsake falling houses, I would shift 
To other dependance. 
Julia. You shall not need 

Follow the wars: I'll be your mainte- 
nance. 
i Bos. And I your loyal servant : but I can- 
I not 

Leave my calling. 
Julia. Not leave an ungrateful 

General for the love of a sweet lady ! 
You are like some cannot sleep in feath- 
er-beds, 
But must have blocks for their pillows. 
Bos. Will you do this"? 

Julia. Cunningly. 



Bos. To-morrow I '11 expect th' intelli- 
gence. 
Julia. To-morrow ! Get you into my cabi- 
net; 

You shall have it with you. Do not de- 
lay me. 

No more than I do you : I am like one 

That is condemn'd; I have my pardon 
promis'd. 

But I would see it seal'd. Go, get you 
in: 

You shall see me wind my tongue about 
his heart 

Like a skein of silk. 

Exit Bosola. 
Re-enter Cardinal. 

Card. Where are you? 

Enter Servants. 

Servants. Here. 

Card. Let none, upon your lives, have con- 
ference 
With the Prince Ferdinand, unless I 
know it. — 
(Aside.) In this distraction he may reveal 
The murder. 

Exeunt Servants. 
Yond 's mj' lingering consumption : 
I am weary of her, and by any means 
Would be quit of. 
Julia. How now, my lord! what ails you? 
Card. Nothing. 

Julia. 0, you are much alter'd: 

Come, I must be your secretary, and re- 
move 
This lead from off your bosom : what 's 
the matter? 
Card. I may not tell you. 
Julia. Are you so far in love with sorrow 
You cannot part with part of it? Or 

think you 
I cannot love your grace when you are 

sad 
As well as merry ? Or do you suspect 
I, that have been a secret to your heart 
These many winters, cannot be the same 
Unto your tongue? 
Card. Satisfy thy longing, — 

The only way to make thee keep my 

counsel 
Is, not to tell thee. 
Julia. Tell your echo this, 

Or flatterers, that like echoes still report 
What they hear, though most imperfect, 

and not me; 
For if that you be ti'ue unto yourself, 
I '11 know. 



334 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Card. Will you rack ^^ me"? 
Julia. No, judgment shall 

Draw it from you : it is an equal fault, 
To tell one's secrets unto all or none. 
Card. The first argues folly, 
Julia. But the last tyranny. 
Card. Very well: why, imagine I have 
committed 
Some secret deed which I desire the world 
May never hear of. 
Julia. Therefore may not I know if? 

You have conceal'd for me as gTeat a 

sin 
As adultery. Sir, never was occasion 
For perfect trial of my constancy 

Till now; sir, I beseech you 

Card. You '11 repent it. 

Julia. Never. 

Card. It hurries thee to ruin : I '11 not tell 
thee. 
Be well advis'd, and think what danger 

'tis 
To receive a prince's secrets. They that 

do, 
Had need have their breasts hoop'd with 

adamant 
To contain them. I pray thee, yet be 

satisfi'd ; 
Examine thine own frailty ; 't is more 

easy 
To tie knots than unloose them. 'T is a 

secret 
That, like a ling^'ring poison, may chance 

lie 
Spread in thy veins, and kill thee seven 
year hence. 
Julia. Now you dally with me. 
Card. No more; thou shall know it. 

By my appointment, the great Duchess of 

Malfi 
And two of her young children, four 

nights since. 
Were strangled. 
Julia. heaven! sir, what have you 

done! 
'Card. How now? How settles this"? 
Think you your bosom 
Will be a grave dark and obscure enough 
For such a secret*? 
Julia. You have undone yourself, sir. 

Card. Why 9 

Julia. It lies not in me to conceal it. 

Card. No"? 

Come, I will swear you to 't upon this 
book. 
Julia. Most religiously. 
Card. Kiss it. 

{She kisses the hook.) 



Now you shall never utter it; thy curios- 
ity 

Hath undone thee ; thou 'rt poison'd with 
that book. 

Because I knew thou couldst not keep my 
counsel, 

I have bound thee to 't by death. 

Re-enter Bosola. 

Bos. For pity sake, hold ! 
Card. Ha, Bosola ! 

Julia. I forgive you 

This equal piece of justice you have 

done ; 
For I betray'd your counsel to that fel- 
low. 
He over-heard it; that was the cause I 

said 
It lay not in me to conceal it. 
Bos. foolish woman, 

Couldst not thou have poison'd himf 
Julia. 'T is weakness 

Too much to think what should have been 

done. I go, 
I know not whither. 

{Dies.) 
Card. Wherefore com'st thou hither'? 

Bos. That I might find a great man like 
yourself. 
Not out of his wits, as the Lord Ferdi- 
nand, 
To remember my service. 
Card. I '11 have thee hew'd in pieces. 
Bos. Make not yourself such a promise of 
that life 
Wliieh is not yours to dispose of. 
Card. Who plac'd thee here*? 

Bos. Her lust, as she intended. 
Card. Very well : 

Now you know me for your fellow-mur- 
derer. 
Bos. And wherefore should you lay fair 
marble colors 
Upon your rotten purposes to me? 
Unless you imitate some that do plot great 

treasons, 
And when they have done, go hide them- 
selves i' til' graves 
Of those were actors in 'f? 
Card. No more; there is 

A fortune attends thee. 
Bos. Shall I go sue to Fortune any longer"? 

'T is the fool's pilgrimage. 
Card. I have honors in store for thee. 
Bos. There are a many ways that conduct 
to seeming 
Honor, and some of them very dirty ones. 



5y torture me on the rack to reveal it. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



335 



Card. Throw to the devil 

Thy melancholy. The fire burns well; 
What need we keep a stirring of 't, and 

make 
A greater smother'? ^° Thou wilt kill 
Antonio ? 
Bos. Yes. 

Card. Take up that body. 
Bos. I think I shall 

Shortly grow the common bier for church- 
yards. 
Card. I will allow thee some dozen of at- 
tendants 
To aid thee in the murder. 
Bos. 0, by no means. Physicians that ap- 
ply horse-leeches to any rank swelling 
use to cut off their tails, that the blood 
may run through them the faster: let me 
have no train when I go to shed blood, 
less it make me have a greater when I 
ride to the gallows. 
Card. Come to me after midnight, to help 
to remove 
That body to her own lodging. I '11 give 

out 
She died o' th' plague ; 't will breed the 

less inquiry 
After her death. 
Bos. Where's Castruceio her husband f 
Card. He 's rode to Naples, to take posses- 
sion 
Of Antonio's citadel. 
Bos. Believe me, you have done a very 

happy turn. 
Card. Fail not to come. There is the mas- 
ter key 
Of our lodgings; and by that you may 

conceive 
Wliat trust I plant in you. 
Bos. You shall find me ready. 

Exit Cardinal. 
poor Antonio, though nothing be so 

needful 
To thy estate as pity, yet I find 
Nothing so dangerous ! I must look to 

my footing: 
In such slippery ice-pavements men had 

neeH 
To be frost-nail'd well, they may break 

their necks else ; 
The precedent 's here afore me. How 

this man 
Bears up in blood ! seems fearless ! Why, 

't is well : 
Securitv some men call the suburbs of 

hell. 
Only a dead wall between. Well, good 
Antonio, 



I'll seek thee out; and all my care shall 

be 
To put thee into safety from the reach 
Of these most cruel biters that have got 
Some of thy blood already. It may be, 
I '11 join with thee in a most just revenge. 
The weakest arm is strong enough that 

strikes 
With the sword of justice. Still me- 

thinks the duchess 
Haunts me: there, there! — 'T is nothing 

but my melancholy. 
Penitence, let me truly taste thy cup. 
That throws men down only to raise them 

up! 

Exit. 



Scene 3. Milan. A fortification. 

Enter Antonio and Delio. Echo from tlie 
Duchess's Grave. 

Delio. Yond 's the cardinal's window. 
This fortification 
Grew" from the ruins of an ancient abbey ; 
And to yond side o' th' river lies a wall, 
Piece of a cloister, which in my o]iiuion 
Gives the best echo that you ever heard, 
So hollow and so dismal, and withal 
So plain in the distinction of our words, 
That many have suppos'd it is a spirit 
That answers. 

Ant. I do love these ancient ruins. 

We never tread upon them but we set 
Our foot upon some reverend history; 
And, questionless, here in this open court. 
Which now lies naked to the injuries 
Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd 
Lov'd the church so well, and gave so 

largely to 't. 
They thought it should have canopied 

their bones 
Till dooms-day. But all things have their 

end; 
Churches and cities, which have diseases 

like to men, 
Must have like death that we have. 

Echo. Like death that ive have. 

Delio. Now the echo hath caught you. 

Ant. It groan'd raethought, and gave 
A very deadly accent. 

Echo. Deadh/ accent. 

Delio. I told you 't was a pretty one. 
You may make it 
A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician. 
Or a thing of sorrow. 

Echo. A thing of sorrow. 



60 smoke. 



336 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ant. Aye, sui-e, that suits it best. 
Echo. That suits it best. 

Ant. 'T is very like my wife's voice. 
Echo. -^y^) wife's voice. 

Delio. Come, let us walk further from 't. 
I would not have you go to the cardinal's 

to-night : 
Do not. 
Echo. Do not. 

Delio. Wisdom doth not more moderate 
wasting sorrow 
Than time. Take time for 't ; be mindful 
of thy safety. 
Echo. Be mindful of tJii/ safety. 
Ant. Necessity compels me. 

Make scrutiny throughout the passages 
Of your own life, you '11 find it impossible 
To fly your fate. 
Echo. 0, fly your fate! 

Delio. Hark ! the dead stones seem to have 
pity on you. 
And give you good counsel. 
Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, 

For thou art a dead thing. 
Echo. Thou art a dead thing. 

Ant. My duchess is asleep now, 

And her little ones, I hope sweetly. 

heaven, 
Shall I never see her more 1 
Echo. Never see her more. 

Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the 
echo 
But that ; and on the sudden a clear light 
Presented me a face folded in sorrow. 
Delio. Your fancy merely. 
Ant. Come, I '11 be out of this ague. 

For to live thus is not indeed to live : 
It is a mockery and abuse of life. 
I will not henceforth save myself by 

halves ; 
Lose all, or nothing. 
Delio. Your own virtue save you ! 

I '11 fetch your eldest son, and second you. 
It may be that the sight of his own blood 
Spread in so sweet a figure may beget 
The more compassion. However, fare 

you well. 
Though in our miseries Fortune have a 

part, 
Yet in our noble sufif'rings she hath none. 
Contempt of pain, that we may call our 
own. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. A room in the Cardinal's palace. 

Enter Cardinal, Pescara, Malateste, 
RoderigOy and Grisolan. 



Card. You shall not watch to-night by the 
sick prince; 
His grace is very well recover'd. 
Mai. Good my lord, suffer us. 
Card. 0, by no means; 

The noise, and change of object in his 

eye. 
Doth more distract him. I pray, all to 

bed; 
And though you hear him in his violent 

fit. 
Do not rise, I entreat you. 
Pes. So, sir; we shall not. 
Card. Nay, I must have you promise 

Upon your honors, for I was enjoin'd 

to't 
By himself; and he seem'd to urge it sen- 
sibly. 
Pes. Let our honors bind this trifle. 
Card. Nor any of your followers. 
Mai. Neither. 

Card. It may be, to make trial of your 
promise, 
When he 's asleep, myself will rise and 

feign 
Some of his mad tricks, and cry out for 

help. 
And feign myself in danger. 
Mai. If your throat were cutting, 

I 'd not come at you, now I have pro- 
tested against it. 
Card. Why, I thank you. 
Oris. 'T was a foul storm to-night. 

Rod. The Lord Ferdinand's chamber shook 

like an osier. 
Mai. 'T was nothing but pure kindness in 
the devil 
To rock his own child. 

Exeunt all except the Cardinal. 

Card. The reason why I would not suffer 

these 

About my brother, is, because at midnight 

I may with better privacy convey 

Julia's body to her own lodging. 0, my 

conscience ! 
I would pray now; but the devil takes 

away my heart 
For having any confidence in prayer. 
About this hour I appointed Bosola 
To fetch the body. When he hath serv'd 

my turn. 
He dies. 

Exit. 
Enter Bosola. 

Bos. Ha! 'twas the cardinal's voice; I 
heard him name Bosola and my death. 
Listen; I hear one's footing. 

Enter Ferdinand. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



33/ 



Ferd. Strangling 's a veiy death. 

Bos. {Aside.) Nay, then, I see I must 

stand upon my guard. 

Ferd. What say to thaf? Whisper softly: 

do you agree to 't *? So ; it uuist be done 

i' th' dark; the cardinal would not for a 

thousand pounds the doctor should see it. 

Exit. 
Bos. My death is plotted ; here 's the con- 
sequence of murder. 
We value not desert nor Christian breath, 
When we know black deeds must be cur'd 
with death. 

Enter Antonio and Servant. 

Serv. Here stay, sir, and be confident, I 
pray ; 
I '11 fetch you a dark lantern. 

Exit. 
Ant. Could I take him at his prayers. 

There were hope of pardon. 
Bos. Fall right, my sword ! — 
{Stabs him.) 
I '11 not give thee so much leisure as to 
pray. 
Ant. 0, I am gone ! Thou hast ended a 
long suit 
In a minute. 
Bos. What art thou? 

Ant. A most wretched thing. 

That only have thy benefit in death. 
To appear myself. 

Re-enter Servant with a lantern. 

Serv. Where are you, sir? 
Ant. Very near my home. — Bosola ! 
Serv. 0, misfortune ! 

Bos. Smother thy pity, thou art dead else. 
— Antonio ! 
The man I would have sav'd 'bove mine 

own life ! 
We are merely the stars' tennis-balls, 

struck and bandied 
Which way please them. — good An- 
tonio, 
I '11 whisper one thing in thy dying ear 
Shall make thy heai't break quickly ! 
Thy fair duchess 

And two sweet children 

Ant. Their very names 

Kindle a little life in me. 
Bos. Are murder'd. 

Ant. Some men have wish'd to die 

At the hearing of sad tidings ; I am glad 
That I shall do 't in sadness. ''^ I would 

not now 
Wish my wounds balm'd nor heal'd, for I 
have no use 



To put my life to. In all our quest of 

greatness, 
Like wanton boys whose pastime is their 

care, 
We follow after bubbles blown in th' air. 
Pleasure of life, what is't? Only the 

good hours 
Of an ague; merely a preparative to rest. 
To endure vexation. I do not ask 
The process of my death ; only commend 

me 
To Delio. 
Bos. Break, heart! 

Ant. And let my son fly the courts of 

princes. 

{Dies.) 
Bos. Thou seem'st to have lov'd Antonio. 
Serv. I brought him hither. 

To have reconcil'd him to the cardinal. 
Bos. I do not ask thee that. 

Take him up, if thou tender thine own 

life. 
And bear him where the lady Julia 
Was wont to lodge. — 0, my fate moves 

swift ! 
I have this cardinal in the forge already; 
Now I '11 bring him to th' hannner. 

direful misprision ! *'- 
I will not imitate things glorious. 
No more than base; I'll be mine own 

example. — 
On, on, and look thou represent, for si- 
lence, 
The thing thou bear'st.*'^ 

Exeunt. 

Scene 5. Another room in the palace, 
nith a galleiij. 

Enter Cardinal, with a hook. 

Card. I am puzzl'd in a question about 

hell ; 
He says, -in hell there's one material fire. 
And yet it shall not burn all men alike. 
Lay him by. How tedious is a guilty 

conscience ! 
When I look into the fish-ponds in my 

garden, 
Methinks I see a thing arm'd with a rake, 
That seems to strike at me. 

Enter Bosola, and Servant hearing 
Antonio's hodij. 

Now, art thou come*? 
Thou look'st ghastly; 
There sits in thy face some great determi- 
nation 
Mix'd with some fear. 



61 reality. 



62 mistake. 



63 i.e. the dead body. 



338 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Bos. Thus it lightens into action : 

I am come to kill thee. 
Card. Ha ! — Help ! our guard ! 

Bos. Thou art deeeiv'd; they are out of 

thy howling. 
Card. Hold; and I will faithfully divide 

Revenues with thee. 
Bos. Thy prayers and proffers 

Are both unseasonable. 
Card. Raise the watch! 

We are betray'd ! 
Bos. I have confin'd your flight : 

I '11 suffer your retreat to Julia's cham- 
ber, 

But no further. 
Card. Help ! we are betray'd ! 

Enter, above, Pescara, Malateste, Ro- 
derigo, and Grisolan. 

Mai. Listen. 

Card. My dukedom for rescue! 
Rod. Fie uj^on his counterfeiting! 
Mai. Why, 'tis not the cardinal. 
Rod. Yes, yes, 't is he : 

But I '11 see him hang'd ere I '11 go down 
to him. 
Card. Here's a plot upon me; I am as- 
saulted ! I am lost, 
Unless some rescue ! 
Oris. He doth this pretty well ; 

But it will not serve to laugh me out of 
mine honor. 
Card. The sword 's at my throat ! 
Rod. You would not bawl so loud then. 

Mai. Come, come, let 's go to bed : he told 

us this much aforehand. 
Pes. He wish'd you should not come at 
him ; but, believe 't, 
The accent of the voice sounds not in 

jest. 
I '11 down to him, howsoever, and with 

engines 
Force ope the doors. 

Exit above. 

Rod. Let 's follow him aloof, 

And note how the cardinal will laugh at 

him. Exeunt above. 

Bos. There 's for you first, 

'Cause you shall not unbarricade the door 
To let in rescue. 

{Kills the Servant.) 
Card. What cause hast thou to pur- 

sue my life? 
Bos. Look there. 

Card. Antonio ! 

Bos. Slain by my hand unwittingly. 

Pray, and be sudden. When thou 
kill'd'st thy sister, 



Thou took'st from Justice her most equal 

balance. 
And left her naught but her sword. 
Card. 0, mercy ! 

Bos. Now it seems thy greatness was only 
outward ; 
For thou fall'st faster of thyself than 

calamity 
Can drive thee. I '11 not waste longer 
time ; there ! 

(Stabs him.) 
Card. Thou hast hurt me. 
Bos. Again ! 

Card. Shall I die like a leveret, 

Without any resistance"? — Help, help, 

help ! 
I am slain ! 

Enter Ferdinand. 

Ferd. Th' alarum! Give me a fresh 

horse ; 
Rally the vaunt-guard, or the day is lost, 
Yield, yield ! I give you the honor of 

arms 
Shake my sword over you; will you 
yield'? 
Card. Help me; I am your brother! 
Ferd. The devil! 

My brother fight upon the adverse party ! 
(He wounds the Cardinal, and, in the scuf- 
fle, gives Bosola his death-wound.) 
There flies your ransom. 
Card. justice ! 

I suffer now for what hath former been : 
Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin. 
Ferd. Now you 're brave fellows. Caesar's 
fortune • was harder than Pompey's ; 
Ca3sar died in the arms of prosperity, 
Pompey at the feet of disgrace. You 
both died in the field. The pain 's noth- 
ing ; pain many times is taken away with 
the apprehension of greater, as the tooth- 
ache with the sight of a barber that 
comes to pull it out. There 's philosophy 
for you. 
Bos. Now my revenge is perfect. — Sink, 
thou main cause 

(Kills Ferdinand.) 
Of mv undoing! — The last part of my 

life 
Hath done me best service. 
Ferd. Give me some wet hay; I am 
broken-winded. 
I do accovmt tliis world but a dog-ken- 
nel : 
I will vault credit ®* and affect high 

pleasures 
Beyond death. 



64 overleap belief. 



THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 



339 



Bos. He seems to come to himself, 

Now he 's so near the bottom. • 
Ferd. My sister, my sister ! there 's the 
cause on 't. 
Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or 

lust, 
Like diamonds, we are cut with our own 
dust. 

(Dies.) 
Card. Thou hast thy payment too. 
Bos. . Yes, I hold my weary soul in my 
teeth ; 
'T is ready to part from me. I do glory 
That thou, which stood'st like a huge 

pyramid 
Begun upon a large and ample base, 
Shalt end in a little point, a kind of 
nothing. 

Enter, heloio, Pescara, Malateste, Roderigo, 
and Grisolan. 

Pes. How now, my lord! 
Blal. sad disaster! 

Rod. How comes thisf 

Bos. Revenge for the Duchess of Malfi 
murdered 
By th' Arragonian brethren ; for Antonio 
Slain by this hand; for lustful Julia 
Poison'd by this man ; and lastly for my- 
self. 
That was an actor in the main of all 
Much 'gainst mine own good nature, yet 

i' th' end 
Neglected. 
Pes. How now, my lord ! 

Card. Look to my brother : 

He gave us these large wounds, as we 

were struggling 
Here i' th' rushes.®^ And now, I pray, 

let me 
Be laid by and never thought of, 
(Dies.) 
Pes. How fatally, it seems, he did with- 
stand 
His own rescue ! 
Mai. Thou wretched thing of blood, 

How came Antonio by his death? 
Bos. In a mist; I know not how; 
Such a mistake as I have often seen 



In a play. 0, I am gone! 

We are only like dead walls or vaulted 
graves. 

That, ruin'd, yields no echo. Fare you 
well! 

It may be pain, but no harm, to me to 
die 

In so good a quarrel. 0, this gloomy 
world ! 

In what a shadow, or deep pit of dark- 
ness. 

Doth womanish and fearful mankind 
live ! 

Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in dis- 
trust 

To suffer death or shame for what is 
just : 

Mine is another voyage. 
{Dies^.) 
Pes. The noble Delio, as I came to th' 
palace, 

Told me of Antonio's being hei'e, and 
show'd me 

A pretty gentleman, his son and heir. 

Enter Delio, and Antonio's Son. 

Mai. 0, sir, you come too late ! 
Delio. I heard so, and 

Was arm'd for 't, ere I came. , Let us 

make noble use 
Of this great ruin; and join all our force 
To establish this young hopeful gentle- 
man 
In 's mother's right. These wretched 

eminent things 
Leave no more fame behind 'em, than 

should one 
Fall in a frost, and leave his print in 

snow ; 
As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts. 
Both form and matter. I have ever 

thought 
Nature doth nothing so great for great 

men 
As when she's pleas'd to make them 

lords of truth : 
Integrity of life is fame's best friend, 
Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown 

the end. 

Exeunt. 



65 used as floor-coverings. 



JOHN FLETCHER 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



/ 



The pursuit of the reluctant male by the 
predatory female suggested itself as a tit 
theme for comedy long before it was dignitied 
in Man and tiiiperman as an exhibition of the 
Life Force. As Shaw reminds us in his jjref- 
ace, several of Shakesi^eare's heroines take 
the offensive in vigorous campaigns to ob- 
tain the men of their choice. The wonder 
tliat we feel in such instances is not at the 
spectacle of the heroine flying in the face of 
tradition, for this she does with disarming 
grace, but that she should be at such pains 
to secure a husband so obviously her inferior 
in brains, as is Bassanio to Portia, in ca- 
pacity for love, as Proteus to Julia, in every- 
thing but birth, as ]>ertram to Helena. A 
somewliat similar attitude is conceivable to- 
yward Oriana, the heroine of Fletcher's ^Yild^ 
>(/ Goose Chase. We might cavil, "The VVild- 
Goose wasn't worth chasing"; Fletcher's re- 
ply would be, " That 's not the question — 
wasn't the chase amusing?" Without con- 
doning a freedom of speech and insinuation 
impossible to modern taste, we may avoid the 
error of judging too severely Fletcher's light- 
hearted representation of the triple man- 
hunt. To apply the test of morality to this 
play is to break a butterlly on a wheel. It is 
a perfect specimen of light comedy as prac- 
tised by the wittiest and cleverest writer of 
it in the Elizabethan period. Comedy of 
manners in any strict sense The Wild-Cloose 
(Jkase is not. Fletcher makes no effort to 
hold the mirror up to nature; and sliow 
" the very age and body of the time his form 
and pressure." There is here little observa- 
tion of English life, and no particular at- 
tempt to portray manners exactly. In others 
of his comedies, in Monsieur Thomas and Wit 
tvithout Money, for example, Fletcher ap- 
proaclies reality more closely. Nor is the 
play liigh comedy, as the term is sometimes 
applied to the Shakespearean romantic 
comedy like Much Ado, for that involves an 
idealization and a depth of characterization 
wanting here. It is only necessary to re- 
llect upon the different impressions which 
Oriana and Viola or Rosalind make on us to 
perceive the difference; the situations are 
not dissimilar, but the glamour, the bloom 
of romance, the ideal reality, so to speak, of 
the Shakespearean work are altogether lack- 
ing. Although the influence of tlie Jon- 
sonian liumor comedy is evident in a figiu'e 
like Belleur, comedy of humors presupposes 
a satirist's point of view, which Fletcher has 



340 



not. Comedy of intrigue it might be called, 
tliough the name is too inclusive to be of 
much help in attemjiting a definition. The 
sole i)urpose of this play is to entertain, and 
light comedy is perhaps as good a name as 
can be found to describe it. 
/ As in Philaster, the main interest of the 
play is in plot rather than in the characters. 
The plot is much slighter, but there is the 
same ingenuity of complication, the same use 
of surprise and sus})ense, the same develop- 
ment of episode at the expense of character, 
as for instance when Oriana reveals herself 
at the end of act IV. That part of the action, 
indeed, in whicli Oriana feigns madness in 
order to move Mirabel's heart to pity, the 
soft prelude to love, is strongly reminiscent 
)of the method of tragicomedy. Neither the 
other cliaracters nor the audience are let into 
Oriana's secret: she confesses that none set 
her on, " nor any knew or even dreamed " 
what she meant. Her adlierents and sympa- 
thizers are as thoroughly deceived as Mira- 
bel, and Fletcher plays on their emotions, 
and ours, to beguile us into a false sympathy 
which he exploits to its utmost before laugh- 
ing it away. In this respect, the situation 
differs from the rest of the series of tricks 
composing the plot, for in all tlie others we 
are forewarned and are thus in a position to 
get the full comic flavor of the play of cross- 
purposes. The general criticism might be 
made of the plot tluit tlie scheming is rather 
too obvious. It is credible that Mirabel 
should have been deceived once, even twice, 
but that he should for a third time be hood- 
winked passes belief. The devices employed 
by each side, moreover, are so much of one 
kind that the artificiality of structure is as 
apparent as in the case of Mother Bombie. 
The Wild-Goose is finally caught by the same 
sort of disguise that he liad once before un- 
masked, and that he had himself unsuccess- 
fully tried when he tricked out his English 
courtesan as a fine lady to advance Pinac in 
Lillia Bianca's esteem. It is, however, un- 
reasonable to demand that work so obviously 
intended merely for diversion should stand, 
close inspection, and the action moves for- 
ward so clearly througli its plots and counter- 
plots, the pace is so brisk and the interest so 
unflagging, that we are willing for the " two 
hours' traffic of the stage " to accept the 
story at its face value. 

Dryden in a well-known passage in the Es- 
say of Dramatic I'ocsy says of Beaumont and 



JOHN FLETCHER 



341 



FluU-lier: "They understood and imitated 
the conversation of gentlemen much better 
[than ShalvespeareJ ; whose wild debaucheries 
and 4uici<ness of wit in repartees, no poet 
before tliem could paint as they have done. 
... I am apt to believe the English language 
in them arrived to its highest perfection." 
The Witd-Goose Chase might well serve as a 
text for Dryden's conunent. It was perfectly 
adapted to the audience before which it was 
produced in 1G21, the gay, witty, cynical 
group of the Jacobean court. In its ac- 
curate reflection of the tone of the court it 
resembles the comedy of manners more closely 
than in its presentation of the manners them- 
selves. It is not a play which a Puritan could 
see without abhorrence, nor which a modern 
Puritan can read with pleasure. Truly, tliese 
fine ladies and gentlemen of Fletcher's have 
little of the reticence in speech which we as- 
sociate with breeding. The men are rakes 

w' by habit, and the women rakes at heart; 
Rosalura and Lillia Bianca are " honest " in 
the Elizabethan sense, and all too honest, we 
should say to-day, in the freedom Avitli which 
they express their desires. " Why should we 
be ashamed to speak what we think? " queries 
Lillia. But the sprightly gaiety of dialogue 
and the smooth rapidity of the verse can de- 
light us as they delighted Fletcher's auditors 
and as they delighted Dryden. The action 
moves fast from ont amusing situation to the 
next, and the verse keeps pace with it. Tiiere 
are few speeches of any considerable length 
(only seven of more than fifteen lines) ; the 
dialogue consists mainly of thrust and parry, 

f two or three lines to a speech. No pause, no 
time for reflection, simply a mitraiUeuse gun- 
fire of wit, with no quarter asked or given. 
For work of this sort Fletcher's light, easy- 
running verse is admirably suited. What 
in other writers is a device occasionally intro- 
duced for variety, the use of lines of eleven 
(or more) syllables, is with him a habit, a 
conscious artifice intended to baiiisli rhetori- 
cal formality and to replace it with a flexi- 



bility giving the eflect of colloquial prose, 
'the proportion of lines running over the 
ten-syllable norm is so extraordinarily large 
that it is no exaggeration to call the verse 
hendecasyllabic. The familiar ease of such 
a style is enhanced by a limpid clearness of 
expression, a simplicity of vocabulary and ab- 
sence of poetic adornment, meriting Dryden's 
praise of the language. No blank-verse dia- 
logue but Fletcher's resembles more the 
matchless prose of Congreve and Sheridan. 

The mention of Congreve recalls the im- 
portance of Fletcher's work as pointing the 
way for Restoration comedy. The Wild- 
(loose Chase was one of the first plays revived 
on the reopening of the theaters in KiOO and 
its gay abandon pleased the audience of those 
days immensely. ( Pepj's, who saw it Janu- 
ary 11, 1667, calls it a very famous play, but 
was disappointed in it.) We need not under- 
rate the influence of Moliere on Restoration 
comedy in order to appreciate what it owes to 
Fletcher. Tlie atmosphere — frivolous, cyn- 
ical, sophisticated, frankly immoral — is 
closer to that of Fletcher than it is to 
Aloliere's. The characters of this play are 
precisely those of the later period — fine 
ladies and gentlemen, sure of themselves, 
witty, and free of speech. The action, where 
the whole business of life is centered in 
amorous intrigue, foreshadows that of half 
a hundred Restoration plays. Mirabel in 
name and nonchalance prefigures his more 
famous namesake of The Way of the World, 
and his capitulation is as wittily contrived 
and his promised reformation as little con- 
vincing as those of the typical Restoration 
hero. The slightness of plot, the emphasis 
on dialogue, the repartee, the brilliance of 
style, received from the Restoration drama- 
tists the sincerest flattery of imitation, Far- 
quhar, indeed, remade this play as The Incon- 
stant, not improving upon the original in the 
process. Through the Restoration writers 
and Sheridan, Fletcher's influence is yet alive 
in society comedy. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
By JOHN FLETCHER 

NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



De Gakd, a noble staid Gentleman, that, be- 
ing newly lighted from his travels, assists 
his sister Oriana in her chase of Mirabel 
the Wild-Goose. 

La Castre, the indulgent father to Mirabel. 

Mirabel the Wild-(loose, a traveled Mon- 
sieur, and great defier of all ladies in the 
tcay of marriage, othericise their much 
loose servant, at last caught by the despised 
Oriana. 

PiNAC, his fellow-traveler, of a lively spirit, 
and servant to the no less sprightly Lillia 
Bianca. 

Belleur, Companion to both, of a stout blunt 
humor, in love with Rosahira. 

Nantolet, father to Rosalura and Lillia 
Bianca. 



LUGiER, the rough and confident tutor to the 
ladies, and chief engine to entrap the Wild- 
Goose. 

A Young Man disguised as a Factor. 

Gentlemen, Foot-Boy, Singing-Boy, Two Men 
disguised as Merchants, Priest, Servants. 

Oriana, the fair betrothed of Mirabel, and 

witty follower of the chase. 
Rosalura, \the airy daughters 

Lillia Bianca, }of 'Nantolet. 
Petella, their servant. 
Mariana, an English Courtesan, 
Four Women. 

Scene. — Paris 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. A hall in the house of La Castre. 

Enter Monsieur De Gard and a Foot-hoy. 

De Gard. Sirrah, you know I have rid 
hard; stir my horse well, 
And let him want no litter. 
F. Boy. I am sure I have run hard ; 
Would somebody would walk me, and see 

me litter'd, 
For I think my fellow-horse cannot in 

reason 
Desire more rest, nor take up his cham- 
ber before me : 
But we are the beasts now, and the beasts 
are our masters. 
De Gard. When you have done, step to 

the ten-crown ordinary 

F. Boy. With all my heart, sir; for I have 

a twenty-crown stomach. 
De Gard. And there bespeak a dinner. 
F. Boy. (Going.) Yes, sir, presently.^ 
De Gard. For whom, I beseech you, sir? 
F. Boy. For myself, I take it, sir. 

De Gard. In truth, you shall not take it ; 
't is not meant for you. 
There's for your provender. (Gives 
money.) Bespeak a dinner 



For Monsieur Mirabel and his compan- 
ions; 
They '11 be in town within this hour. 

When you have done, sirrah, 
Make ready all things at my lodging for 

me, 
And wait me there. 
F. Boy. The ten-crown ordinary'? 

De Gard. Yes, sir, if you have not forgot 

it. 
F. Boy. I '11 forget my feet first : 
'T is the best part of a footman's faith. 

Exit. 

De Gard. These youths. 

For all they have been in Italy to learn 

thrift. 
And seem to wonder at men's lavish ways, 
Yet they cannot rub off old friends, their 

French itches; 
They must meet sometimes to disport 

their bodies 
With good wine and good women, and 

good store too. 
Let 'em be what they will, they are arm'd 

at all points. 
And then hang saving, let the sea grow 

high ! 
This ordinary can fit 'em of all sizes. 
They must salute their country with oM 

customs. 



342 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



343 



Enter La Castre and Oriana. 

Ori. Brother! 

De Gard. My dearest sister! 

Ori. Welcome, welcome ! 

Indeed, ye are welcome home, most wel- 
come! 
De Gard. Thank ye. 

You are grown a handsome woman, Ori- 
ana; 
Blush at your faults. I am wondrous 

glad to see ye. — 
Monsieur La Castre, let not my affec- 
tion 
To my fair sister make me be held un- 
mannerly. 
I am glad to see ye well, to see ye lusty. 
Good health about ye, and in fair com- 
pany; 

Believe me, I am proud 

La Cast. Fair sir, I thank ye. 

Monsieur De Gard, you are welcome from 

your journey; 
Good men have still good welcome; give 

me your hand, sir. 
Once more, you are welcome home. You 
look still younger. 
De Gard. Time has no leisure to look after 
us; 
We wander every where; age cannot find 
us. 
La Cast. And how does all? 
De Gard. All well, sir, and all lusty. 

La Cast. I hope my son be so. I doubt 
not, sir, 
But you have often seen him in your 

journeys. 
And bring me some fair news. 
De Gard. Your son is well, sir, 

And grown a proper gentleman ; he is 

well and lusty. 
Within this eight hours I took leave of 

him, 
And over-hied him, having some slight 

business 
That fore'd me out o' th' way. I can as- 
sure you, 
He will be here to-night. 
La Cast. Ye make me glad, sir. 

For, o' my faith, I almost long to see 
him. 

Methinks, he has been away 

De Gard. 'T is but your tenderness. 

What are three years? A love-sick 

wench will allow it. 
His friends that went out with him are 
come back too, 

2 moulted, gotten rid of. 



Belleur and young Pinac. He bid me 

say little, 
Because he means to be his own glad 
messenger. 
La Cast. I thank ye for this news, sir. 
He shall be welcome, 
And his friends too; indeed, I thank you 

heartily. 
And how (for I dare say you will not 

flatter him) 
Has Italy wrought on him? Has he 

mew'd - yet 
His wild fantastic toys? They say that 

climate 
Is a great purger of those humorous 

fluxes. 
How is he improved, I pray ye ? 
De Gard. No doubt, sir, well ; 

H'as borne himself a full and noble gen- 
tleman : 
To speak him farther is beyond my char- 
ter. 
La Cast. 1 am glad to hear so much good. 
Come, I see 
You long to enjoy your sister; yet I must 

entreat ye. 
Before I go, to sup with me to-night, 
And nuist not be deni'd. 
De Gard. I am your servant. 

La Cast. Where you shall meet fair, 
merry, and noble company: 
My neighbor Nantolet and his two fair 
daughters. 
De Gard. Your supper's season'd well, 

sir; I shall wait ui:)on ye. 
La Cast. Till then I'll leave ye; and y' 
are once more welcome. 

Exit. 
De Gard. I thank ye, noble sir! Now, 
Oriana, 
How have ye done since I went? Have 

ye had your health well? 
And your mnid free ? 
Ori. You see, I am not bated; ^ 

Merry, and eat my meat. 
De Gard. A good i^i'eservative. 

And how have you been us'd? You 

know, Oriana, 
Upon my going out. at j'our request, 
I left your portion in La Castre's hands. 
The main means you must stick to. For 

that reason. 
And 't is no little one, I ask ye, sis- 
ter, 
With what humanity he entertains ye, 
And how ye find his courtesy? 
Ori. Most ready. 

3 reduced. 



344 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I can assure you, sir, I am us'd most 
nobly. 
De Gard. I am iilad to hear it; but, I 
prithee, tell me. 

And tell me true, what end had you, 
Oriana, 

In trustinsji: your money here"? He is no 
kinsman. 

Nor any tie upon him of a ijfuardian; 

Nor dare I think ye dt)ubt my prodigal- 
ity- 
Ori. No, certain, sir; none of all this pro- 

vok'd ■* me ; 
Another private reason. 
De Gard. 'T is not private. 

Nor carried so ; 't is connnon, my fair 

sister : 
Your love to Mirabel; your blushes tell it. 
'T is too much known, and spoken of too 

laro-ely; 
And with no little shame 1 wonder at it. 
Ori. Is it a shame to love? 
De Gard. To love undiscreetly : 

A virgin should be tender of her honor, 
Close, and secure. 
Ori. I am as close as can be, 

And stand upon as strong and honest 

guards too ; 
Unless this warlike age need a portcul- 
lis: 
Yet I confess, I love him. 
De Gard. Hear the people. 

Ori. Now, I say, hang the people! He 

that dares 
Believe what they say dares be mad, and 

give 
His mother, nay, his own wife, up to 

rumor. 
All grounds of truth they build on is a 

tavern, 
And their best censure 's sack, sack in 

abundance ; 
For, as they drink, they thiidc : they ne'er 

speak modestly. 
Unless the wine be poor, or they want 

money. 
Believe them! Believe Amadis de Gaul, 
The Knight o' the Sun, or Palmerin of 

England; ^ 
For these, to them, are modest and true 

stories. 
Pray, understand me ; if their tongues be 

truth, 
And if in vino Veritas be an oracle, 
What woman is, or has been ever, honest "? 
Give 'em but ten round cups, they '11 

swear Lucretia 



Died not for want of power to resist 
Tar(]uin, 

But want of jjleasure, that he stay'd no 
longer ; 

And Portia," that was famous for her 
piety 

To her lov'd loid, they '11 face ye out, 
died o' th' ]K)x. 
De Gard. Well, tliere is something, sister. 
Ori. If there be, brother, 

'T is none of their things; 'tis not yet 
so monstrous : 

My thing is marriage; and, at his return, 

I hope to put their squint eyes right 
again. 
De Gard. Marriage'? 'T is true his father 
is a rich man. 

Rich both in land and money ; he his heir, 

A young and handsome man, I must con- 
fess, too; 

But of such qualities, and such wild 
flings, 

Such admirable ^ imperfections, sister, 

(For all his travel and bought experi- 
ence,) 

I should be loth to own him for my 
brother. 

Methinks, a rich mind in a state indiffer- 
ent 

Would prove the better fortune. 
Ori. If he be wild, 

The reclaiming him to good and honest, 
brother, 

Will make much for my honor; which, if 
I prosper, 

Shall be the study of my love, and life 
too. 
De Gard. Ye say well ; would he thought 
as well, and loved too! 

He marry ! He 'II be hanged first. He 
knows no more 

What the conditions and the ties of love 
are, 

The honest purposes and grounds of mar- 
riage, 

Nor will know, nor be ever brought t' 
endeavor, 

Than I do how to build a church. He 
was ever 

A loose and strong defier of all order; 

His loves are wanderers, they knock at 
each door, 

And taste each dish, but are no residents. 

Or say, he may be brought to think of 
marriage, 

(As 'twill be no small labor), thy hopes 
are strangers. 



4 induced. 



' extravagant romantic tales. 



c Brutus's wife. 



7 remarkable. 



TliE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



345 



I know there is a labor'd match now 
foUow'd, 

Now at this time, for whicli he was sent 
for home too. 

Be not abus'd : ^ Nantolet has two fair 
daughters, 

And he must take his choice. 
Ori. Let him take freely. 

For all this I despair not; my mind tells 
me 

That I, and only I, must make him per- 
fect; 

And in that hope I rest. 
De Gard. Since y' are so confident, 

Prosjoer your hope ! I '11 be no adver- 
sary ; 

Keep yourself fair and right, he shall 
not wrong' ye. 
Ori. When I forget my virtue, no man 
know me ! 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. A street before the same house. 

Enter Mirabel, Pinuc, Belleur, and 

Servants. 

Mir. Welcome to Paris, once more, gentle- 
men ! 

We have had a merry and a lusty ordi- 
nary,'* 

And wine, and good meat, and a bouncing 
reckoning; 

And let it go for once; 'tis a good 
physic. 

Only the wenches are not for my diet; 

They " are too lean and thin, their em- 
braces brawn-fallen.^** 

Give me the plump Venetian, fat and 
lusty, 

That meets me soft and supple; smiles 
upon me, 

As if a cup of full wine leap'd to kiss 
me, 

These slight things I affect not. 
Pin. They are ill-built ; 

Pin-buttocked^^^ like your dainty Bar- 
baries,^- 

And weak i' the pasterns; they'll endure 
no hardness. 
Mir. There 's nothing good or handsome 
bred amongst us; 

Till we ai'e travel'd, and live abroad, we 
are coxcombs. 

Ye talk of France — a slight unseason'd 
country, 



Abundance of gi-oss food, which makes 

us blockheads. 
We are fair set out indeed, and so are 

fore-horses : — 
Men say, we are great courtiers, — men 

abuse us ; 
We are wise, and valiant too, — non credo, 

signor; 
Our women the best linguists, — they are 

parrots ; 
0' this side the Aljis they are nothing but 

mere drolleries.^ ^ 
ITa ! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money! 
Their i)olicies, their customs, their fru- 
galities. 
Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv'd 

too. 
As, when you think y' are known best, ye 

are a stranger. 
Their very pick-teeth '^* speak more man 

than we do. 
And season of more salt. 
Pin. 'T is a brave country; 

Not pester'd with your stubborn precise 

pupjDies, 
That turn all useful and allow'd content- 
ments 
To scabs and scruples — hang 'em, cajion- 

worshipers. 
Bel. I like that freedom well, and like 

their women too. 
And would fain do as others do; but I am 

so bashful, 
So naturally an ass ! Look ye, I can look 

upon 'em, 
And very willingly I go to see 'em, 
(There's no man willinger), and I can 

kiss 'em, 

And make a shift 

Mir. But, if they chance to flout ye, 

Or say, "Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, re- 
member ! 

I pray, sit farther off " 

Bel. 'T is true — I am humbled, 

I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am 

silenced ; 
The spirit of amber '^^ cannot force me 

answer. 

Pin. Then would I sing and dance 

Bel. You have wherewithal, sir. 

Pin. And charge her up again. 
Bel. I can be hang-'d first: 

Yet, where I fasten well, I am a tyrant. 
3Iir. Why, thou dar'st fight? 
Bel. Yes, certainly, I dare fight, 

And fight with any man at any weapon. 



^i deceived. 
'■I fare. 



I n weak. 

II with narrow buttocks. 



12 Barbary horses. 



13 dolls. 

14 tooth picks. 



15 a provocative. 



34G 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Would th' other were no more! But, a 
pox on 't ! 

When I am sometimes in my height of 
hope, 

And reasonable valiant that way, my 
heart liarden'd, 

Some scornful jest or other chops be- 
tween me 

And my desire. W^hat would ye have me 
to do, then, gentlemen f 
Mir. Belleur, you must be bolder. Travel 
three years. 

And bring home such a baby to betray 

ye 

As bashfulness! A great fellow, and a 

soldier ! 
BeL You have the gift of impudence; be 

thankful. 
Every man has not the like talent. I 

will study, 

And, if it may be reveal'd to me 

Mir. Learn of me. 

And of Pinac. No doubt, you'll find 

employment ; 
Ladies will look for courtship. 
Pin. 'T is but fleshing,^*^ 

But standing one good brunt or two. 

Hast thou any mind to marriage? 
We'll provide thee some soft-natur'd 

wench, that 's dumb too. 
Mir. Or an old woman that cannot refuse 

thee in charity. 
Bel. A dumb woman, or an old woman, 

that were eager. 
And car'd not for discourse, I were ex- 
cellent at, 
Mir. You must now put on boldness, 

there 's no avoiding it. 
And stand all hazards, fiy at all games 

bravely ; 
They '11 say, you went out like an ox, and 

return'd like an ass, else. 
Bel. I shall make danger,^^ sure. 
Mir. I am sent for home now; 

I know it is to marry; but my father 

shall pardon me : 
Although it be a weighty ceremony, 
And may concern me hereafter in my 

gravity, 
I will not lose the freedom of a trav- 
eler. 
A new strong lusty bark cannot ride at 

one anchor. 
Shall I make divers suits to show to the 

same eyes'? 
'T is dull and homespun; — study several 

pleasures, 

16 satisfying desire. 



And want employments for 'em? I'll 
be hang'd first. 

Tie me to one smock? Make my travels 
fruitless? 

I '11 none of that ; for every fresh be- 
havior. 

By your leave, father, I must have a 
fresh mistress. 

And a fresh favor ^^ too. 
Bel. ' I like that passingly ; 

As many as you will, so they be willing. 

Willing, and gentle, gentle. 
Pin. There 's no reason 

A gentleman, and a traveler, should be 
clapt up, 

(For 'tis a kind of bilbues ^" to be mar- 
ried), 

Before he manifest to the world his good 
parts ; 

Tug ever, like a rascal, at one oar? 

Give me the Italian liberty ! 
Mir. That I study. 

And that I will enjoy. Come, go in, 
gentlemen ; 

There mark how I behave myself, and 
follow. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. Boom in the house of La Castre. 

Enter La Castre^ Nantolet, Lugier, Bosa- 
lura, and Lillia Bianca. 

La Cast. You and your beauteous daugh- 
ters are most welcome. 
Beshrew my blood, they are fair ones ! — 

Welcome, beauties. 
Welcome, sweet birds. 
Nant. They are bound much to your 

courtesies. 
La Cast. I hope we shall be nearer ac- 
quainted. 
Nant. That 's my hope too : 

For, certain, sir, I much desire your alli- 
ance. 
You see 'em; they are no gypsies. For 

their breeding. 
It has not been so coarse but they are 

able 
To rank themselves with women of fair 

fashion ; 
Indeed, tliey have been trained well. 
Lug. Thank me. 

Nant. Fit for the heirs of that state I 
shall leave 'em : 



17 make trial. 



18 face. 



10 shackles sliding on an iron bur. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



347 



To say more, is to sell 'em. They say 
your son, 

Now he has travel'd, must be wondrous 
curious 

And choice in what he takes; these are 
no coarse ones. 

Sir, here 's a meriy wench — let him look 
to himself — 

All heart, i' faith — may chance to startle 
him ; 

For all his care, and travel'd caution, 

May creep into his eye. If he love 
g-ravity, 

Affect a solemn face, there's one will fit 
him. 
La Cast. So younq' and so demure? 
Nant. She is my daughter, 

Else I would tell you, sir, she is a mis- 
tress 

Both of those manners and that modesty 

You would wonder at. She is no often- 
speaker. 

But, when she does, she speaks well ; nor 
no reveler. 

Yet she can dance, and has studied the 
court elements, 

And sings, as some say, handsomely; if 
a woman. 

With the decency of her sex, may be a 
scholar, 

I can assure ye, sir, she understands too. 
La Cast. These are fit garments, sir. 
Lug. Thank them that cut 'em. 

Yes, they are handsome women ; they 
have handsome parts too, 

Pretty becoming parts. 
La Cast. 'T is like they have, sir. 

Lug. Yes, yes, and handsome education 
they have had too, 

Had it abundantly; they need not blush 
at it. 

I taught it, I '11 avouch it. 
La Cast. Ye say well, sir. 

Lug. I know what I say, sir, and I say 
but right, sir. 

I am no trumpet of their commenda- 
tions 

Before their father; else I should say 
farther. 
La Cast. Pray ye, what's this gentleman'? 
Nant. One that lives with me, sir; 

A man well bred and learn'd, but blunt 
and bitter; 

Yet it offends no wise man ; I take pleas- 
ure in 't. 

Many fair g^ifts he has, in some of which. 

That lie most easy to their understand- 
ings, 



H'as handsomely bred up my girls, I 
thank him. 
Lug. 1 have put it to 'em, that 's my part, 
I haveau-g'd it. 
It seems, they are of years now to take 
hold on 't. 
Nant. He 's wondrous blunt. 
La Cast. By my faith, I was afraid of 
him. 
Does he not fall out with the gentle- 
women sometimes? 
Nant. No, no; he's that way moderate 

and discreet, sir. 
Bos. If he did, we should be too hard for 

him. 
Lug. Well said, sulphur! 

Too hard for thy husband's head, if he 
wear not armor. 

Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Belleur, Be Card, 
and Oriana. 

Nant. Many of these bickerings, sir. 
La Cast. 1 am glad they are no oracles. 
Sure as I live, he beats them, he 's so 
puissant. 

Ori. Well, if ye do forget 

Mir. Prithee, hold thy peace. 

I know thou art a pretty wench; I know 

thou lov'st me ; 
Preserve it till we have a fit time to dis- 
course on 't, 
And a fit place. I'll ease thy heart, I 

warrant thee. 
Thou seest I have much to do now. 
Ori. I am answer'd, sir: 

With me ye shall have nothing on these 
conditions. 
De Card. Your father and your friends. 
La Cast. You are welcome home, sir; 

Bless ye, ye are very welcome! Pray, 

know this gentleman. 
And these fair ladies. 
Nant. Monsieur Mirabel, 

I am much affected with your fair return, 

sir; 
You bring a general joy. 
Mir. I bring you service, 

And these bright beauties, sir. 
Nant. Welcome home, gentlemen. 

Welcome with all my heart ! 
Bel. and Pin. We thank ye, sir. 

La Cast. Your friends will have their 

share too. 
Bel. Sir, we hope 

They '11 look upon us, though we show 
like strangers. 
Nant. Monsieur De Gard, I must salute 
you also. 



348 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



And this fair gentlewoman ; you are wel- 
come from your travel too. 

All welcome, all. 
De Gard. We render ye our loves, sir. 

The best wealth we bring home. — By 
your favors, beauties. — 

{Aside to Ori.) One of these two: you 
know my meaning. 
Ori. Well, sir; 

They are fair and handsome, I must 
needs confess it. 

And, let it prove the worst, I shall live 
after it. 

Whilst I have meat and drink, love can- 
not starve me ; 

For, if I die o' th' first fit, I am unhappy, 

And worthy to be buried with my heels 
upward. 
Mir. To marry, sir? 
La Cast. You know I am an old man. 

And every hour declining to my grave. 

One foot already in; more sons I have 
not, 

Nor more I dare not seek whilst you are 
worthy. 

In you lies all my hope, and all my name, 

The making good or wretched of my 
memoiy. 

The safety of my state. 
Mir. And you have provided, 

Out of this tenderness, these handsome 
gentlewomen, 

Daughters to this rich man, to take my 
choice of? 
La Cast. I have, dear son. 
Mir. 'T is true, ye are old and feebled ; 

Would ye were young again, and in full 



vigor 



I love a bounteous father's life, a long 

one; 
I am none of those that, when they shoot 

to ripeness. 
Do what they can to break the boughs 

they grew on. 
I wish ye many years and many riches. 
And pleasures to enjoy 'em; but, for 

marriage, 
I neither yet believe in 't, nor affect -° it ; 
Nor think it fit. 
La Cast. You will render me your rea- 

sons'? 
Mir. Yes, sir, both short and pithy, and 
these they are : — 
You would have me marry a maid"? 
La Cast. A maid! what else? 

Mir. Yes, there be things called widows, 
dead men's wills, 

2'> like. 



I never lov'd to prove those; nor never 

long'd yet 
To be buried alive in another man's cold 

monument. 
And there be maids appearing, and maids 

being; 
The appearing are fantastic thing-s, mere 

shadows ; 
And, if you mark 'em well, they want 

their heads, too ; 
Only the world, to cozen -^ misty eyes, 
Has clapt 'em on new faces : the maids 

being 
A man may venture on, if he be so mad 

to marry. 
If he have neither fear before his eyes, 

nor fortune ; 
And let him take heed how he gather 

these too; 
For, look ye, father, they are just like 

melons, 
Musk-melons are the emblems of these 

maids ; 
Now they are ripe, now cut 'em, they 

taste pleasantly, 
And are a dainty fruit, digested easily; 
Neglect this pi'esent time, and come to- 
morrow. 
They are so ripe they are rotten gone, 

their sweetness 
Run into humor, aiul their taste to sur- 
feit. 
La Cast. Wliy, these are now ripe, son. 
Mir. I '11 try them presently. 

And, if I like their taste 

La Cast. 'Pray ye, please yourself, sii'. 

Mir. That liberty is my due, and I '11 

maintain it. — 
Lady, what think you of a handsome man 

now ? 
Eos. A wholesome too, sir"? 
Mir. That 's as you make your bar- 
gain. 
A handsome, wholesome man, then, and a 

kind man. 
To cheer your heart up, to rejoice you, 

lady? 
Ros. Yes, sir, I love rejoicing. 
Mir. To lie close to you? 

Close as a cockle? Keep the cold nights 

from ye? 
Ros. That will be look'd for too; our 

bodies ask it. 
Mir. And get two boys at every birth ? 
Ros. " * That''s nothing? 

I have known a cobbler do it, a poor thin 

cobbler, 

21 cheat. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



349 



A cobbler out of moldy cheese perforin 
it, 

Cabbage, and coarse black bread. Me- 
Ihinks, a gentleman 

Should take foul scorn to have an awl 
outname — him. 

Two at a birth ! Why, every house-dove 
has it. 

That man that feeds well, promises as 
well too, 

I should expect indeed something of 
worth from. 

You talk of two ! 
Mir. (Aside.) She would have me get 

two dozen, 

Like buttons, at a birth. 
Eos. You love to brag, sir. 

If you proclaim these offers at your mar- 
riage, 

(You are a pretty-timber'd man, take 
heed, ) 

They may be taken hold of, and expected. 

Yes, if not hoped for at a higher rale 
too. 
3Iir. I will take heed, and thank ye for 
your counsel. 

Father, what think you? 
La Cast. 'T is a merry gentlewoman ; 

Will make, no doubt, a good wife. 
Mir. Not for me. 

I marry her, and, happily,-^ get nothing; 

In what a state am I then, father? I 
shall suffer. 

For any thing I hear to the contrary, 
more majorum; 

I were as sure to be a cuckold, father, 

A gentleman of antler 

La Cast. Away, away, fool ! 

Mir. As I am sure to fail her expectation. 

I had rather get the i^ox than get her 
babies. 
La Cast. Ye are much to blame. If this 
do not affect -^ ye, 

Pray, try the other; she's of a more de- 
mure way. 
Bel. (Aside.) That I had but the audac- 
ity to talk thus ! 

I love that plain-spoken gentlewoman ad- 
mirably ; 

And, certain, I could go as near to please 
her. 

If down-right doing — she has a per'lous 
countenance — 

If I could meet one that would believe 
me, 

And take my honest meaning without 
circumstance 



Mir. You shall have your will, sir; I will 

try the other; 
But 'twill be to small use. — I hope, fair 

lady, 
(For, methinks, in your eyes I see more 

mercy,) 
You will enjoin your lover a less penance ; 
And though I '11 promise much, as men 

are liberal. 
And vow an ample sacrifice of service, 
Yet your discretion, and your tenderness. 
And Ihriftiness in love, good huswife's 

carefulness 

To keep the stock entire 

Lil. Good sir, speak louder, 

That these may witness, too, you talk of 

nothing. 
I should be loth alone to bear the bur- 
den 
Of so much indiscretion. 
Mir. Hark ye, hark ye ! 

'Ods-bobs, you arc angry, lady. 
Lit. Angi-y ! no, sir; 

I never own'd an anger to lose poorly. 
Mir. But you can love, for all this; and 

delight too, 
For all your set austerity to hear 
Of a good husband, lady? 
Lil. You say true, sir; 

For, by my troth, I have heard of none 

these ten years. 
They are so rare ; and there are so many, 

sir. 
So many longing women on their knees 

too. 
That pray the dropping-down of these 

good husbands — 
The dropping-down from heaven; for 

they are not bred here — 
That you may guess at all my hope, but 

hearing 

Mir. Why may not I be one? 
Lil. You were near 'em once, sir. 

When ye came o'er the Alps; those are 

near heaven. 
But since ye niiss'd that hapi^iness, 

there 's no hope of ye, 
Mir. Can ye love a man? 
Lil. Yes, if the man be lovely. 

That is, be honest, modest. I would have 

him valiant. 
His anger slow, but certain for his honor; 
Travel'd he should be, but through him- 
self exactly. 
For 't is fairer to know manners well 

than countries. 
He must be no vain talker, nor no lover 



22 exceed. 



23 haply. 



24 please. 



350 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



To hear himself talk; they are brags of 
a wanderer, 

Of one finds no retreat for fair behavior. 

Would ye learn more? 
3£ir. Yes. 

Lil. Learn to hold your peace, then : 

Fond -^ girls are got with tongues, 
women with tempers. 
Mir. Women, with I know what; but let 
that vanish. 

Go thy way, good-wife Bias ! '° Sure, 
thy husband 

Must have a strong philosopher's stone, 
he will ne'er please thee else. — 

Here 's a stareh'd piece of austerity ! — 
Do you hear, father f 

Do you hear this moral lecture'? 
La Cast. Yes, and like it. 

Idir. Why, there's your judgment now; 
there 's an old bolt shot ! 

This thing must have the strangest ob- 
servation,-^ 

(Do you mark me, father?) when she is 
married once, 

The strangest custom too of admiration 

On all she does and speaks, 't will be past 
sufferance. 

I must not lie with her in common lan- 
guage. 

Nor cry, "Have at thee, Kate !" — I shall 
be hiss'd then ; 

Nor eat my meat without the sauce of 
sentences,-^ 

Your powder'd -^ beef and problems, a 
rare diet ! 

My first son. Monsieur Aristotle, I know 
it. 

Great master of the metaphysics, or so ; 

The second, Solon, and the best law-set- 
ter; 

And I must look ^'^ Egyptian god-fathers, 

Which will be no small trouble; mj' eld- 
est daughter, 

Sapijho, or such a fiddling kind of 
poetess, 

And brought up, invita Minerva,^^ at her 
needle ! 

My dogs must look their names too, and 
all Spartan, 

Lelaps, Melampus; no more Fox and 
Bawdy-face. 

I married to a sullen set of sentences ! 

To one that weighs her words and her 
behaviors 

In the gold-weights ^- of discretion ! T 'U 
be hang'd fii'st. 



La Cast. Prithee, reclaim thyself. 
Mir. Pray ye, give me time, then. 

If they can set me any thing to play at, 
That seems fit for a gamester, have at 

the fairest, 
Till I see more, and try more ! 
La Cast. Take your time, then; 

I '11 bar ye no fair liberty. — Come, gen- 
tlemen ; 
And ladies, come; to all, once more, a 

welcome ! 
And, now let 's in to supper. 
Exeunt La Castre, Nantolet, Lugier, Rosa- 

lura, and Lillia Bianca. 
Mir. How dost like 'emf 
Pin. They are fair enough, but of so 

strange behaviors — 
Mir. Too strange for me. I must have 
those have mettle, 
And mettle to my mind. Come, let 's be 
merry. 
Bel. Bless me from this woman ! I would 
stand the cannon, 
Before ten words of hers. 

Exeunt Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 
De Card. Do you find him nowf 

Do you think he will be ever firm ? 
Ori. I fear not. 

Exeunt. 



ACT IL 

Scene 1. A garden belonging to the house 
of La Castre. 

Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 

Mir. Ne'er tell me of this happiness ; 't is 

nothing ; 
The state ^^ they bring with being 

sought-to, scurvy: 
I had rather make mine own play, and I 

will do. 
My happiness is in mine own content, 
And the despising of such glorious ^* 

trifles. 
As I have done a thousand more. For 

my humor. 
Give me a good free fellow, that sticks to 

me, 
A jovial fair companion ; there 's a 

beauty ! 
For women, I can have too many of them ; 
Good Avomen too, as the age reckons 'em, 
More than I have employment for. 



25 foolish. 

26 One of the 
"Seven Sages" of 



ancient Greece. 

27 devoted attention. 

28 maxims. 



20 salted. 

30 look for. 

ai against her will. 



32 most 3xact bal- 
ances. 

33 estate. 



34 vain-glorious. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



351 



Pin. You ai'e happy. 

Blir. My only fear is, that I must be 
forced, 

Against my nature, to conceal myself : 

Health and an able body are two jewels. 
Pin. If either of these two women were 
offered to me now, 

I would think otherwise, and do accord- 
ingly; 

Yes, and recant my heresies ; I would, sir ; 

And be more tender of opinion. 

And put a little of my travel'd liberty 

Out of the way, and look upon 'em seri- 
ously. 

Methinks, this grave-carried wench — 
Bel. Methinks, the other, 

The home-spoken gentlewoman, that de- 
sires to be fruitful, 

That treats of the full manage of the 
matter, 

(For there lies all my aim), that wench, 
methinks, 

If I were but well set on, for she is 
affable, 

If I were but hounded ^^ right, and one 
to teach me — 

She speaks to th' matter, and comes home 
to th' point — 

Now do I know I have such a body to 
please her 

As all the kingdom cannot fit her with, I 
am sure on 't, 

If I could but talk myself into her favor. 
Mir. That 's easily done. 
Bel. That 's easily said ; would 't were 
done ! 

You should see then how I would lay 
about me. 

If I were virtuous, it would never grieve 
me. 

Or any thing that might justify my mod- 
esty ; 

But when my nature is prone to do a 
chaiity, 

And my calf's tongue will not help me — 
Mir. Will ye go to 'em ? 

They cannot but take it courteously. 
Pin. I '11 do my part. 

Though I am sui-e 't will be the hardest I 
e'er play'd yet, 

A way I never tried too, which \vill stag- 
ger me ; 

And, if it do not shame me, I am happy. 
Mir. Win 'em, and wear 'em ; I give up 

my interest. 
Pin. What say you, Monsieur Eelleur'? 
Bel. Would I could say, 

35 set on. 



Or sing, or any thing that were but hand- 
some ! 
I would be with her presently ! 
Pin. Yours is no venture; 

A merry ready wench. 
Bel. A vengeance squibber ; ^^ 

She '11 fleer me out of faith too. 
Mir. 1 '11 be near thee ; 

Pluck ui? thy heart ; I '11 second thee at 

all brunts. 
Be angry, if she abuse thee, and beat her 

a little; 
Some women are won that way, 
Bel. Pray, be quiet. 

And let me think : I am resolv'd to go on ; 
But how I shall get off again — 
Mir. 1 am persuaded 

Thou wilt so please her, she will go n^ar 
to ravish thee. 
Bel. I would 't were come to that once ! 

Let me pi^Y a little. 
Mir. Now, for thine honor, Pinac, board 
me this modesty; 
Warm but this frozen snow-ball, 't will be 

a ctmquest 
(Although I know thou art a fortunate 

wencher, 
And hast done rarely in thy days) above 
all thy ventures. 
Bel. You will be ever near"? 
Mir. At all necessities; 

And take thee off, and set thee on again, 

boy, 
And cherish thee, and stroke thee. 
Bel. Help me out too; 

For I know I shall stick i' th' mire. If 

you see us close once, 
Be gone, and leave me to my fortune, sud- 
denly. 
For I am then determin'd to do won- 
ders. 
Farewell, and fling an old shoe. How 

my heart throbs! 
Would I were drunk! Farewell, Pinac; 

Heaven send us 
A joyful and a merry meeting, man ! 
Pin. Farewell, 

And cheer thy heart up; and remember, 

Belleur, 
They are but women. 
Bel. I had rather they were lions. 

Mir. About it ; I '11 be with you in- 
stantly. — 

Exeunt Belleur and Pinac. 
Enter Oriana. 

Shall I ne'er be at rest? No peace of 
conscience'? 

36 sarcastic jester. 



352 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



No quiet for these creatures'? Am I or- 
daiu'd 

To be devour'd quick ^' by these she- 
cannibals? 

Here's another they call handsome; I 
care not for her, 

I ne'er look after her. When I am half- 
tippled, 

It may be I should turn her, and peruse 
her; 

Or, in my want of women, I might call 
for her; 

But to be haunted wlien I have no fancy, 

No maw to th' matter — Now, why do you 
follow me? 
OrL I hope, sir, 't is no blemish to my 
virtue ; 

Nor need you, out of scruple, ask that 
question. 

If you remember ye, before your travel, 

The contract you tied to me. 'T is my 
love, sir. 

That makes me seek ye, to confirm your 
memory ; 

And, that being fair and good, I cannot 
suffer. 

I come to give ye thanks, too. 
Mir. For what, prithee"? 

Ori. For that fair piece of honesty you 
show'd sir, 

That constant nobleness. 
Mir. How? for I am short -headed.^^ 

Ori. I '11 tell you then ; for refusing that 
free offer 

Of Monsieur Nantolet's, those handsome 
beauties, 

Those two prime ladies, that might well 
have press'd ye 

If not to have broken, yet to have bow'd 
your promise. 

I know it was for my sake, for your faith- 
sake. 

You slipt 'em off ; your honesty compell'd 

ye; 

And let me tell ye, sir, it show'd most 
handsomely. 
Mir. And let me tell thee, there was no 
such matter; 

Nothing intended that way, of that na- 
ture. 

I have more to do with my honesty than 
to fool it, 

Or venture it in such leak barks as 
women. 

I put 'em off because I lov'd 'em not, 

Because they are too queasy^" for my 
temper, 

37 alive. 3" critical. 

38 short of memory. 



And not for thy sake, nor the contract- 
sake, 

Nor vows, nor oaths; I have made a thou- 
sand of 'em; 

They are things indifferent, whether kept 
or broken ; 

Mere venial slips, that grow not near the 
conscience ; 

Nothing concerns those tender parts; they 
are trifles ; 

For, as I think, there was never man yet 
hop'd for 

Either constancy or secrecy from a 
woman, 

Unless it were an ass ordain'd for suf- 
ferance; 

Nor to contract with such can be a tie-all. 

So let them know again ; for 't is a justice 

And a main point of civil policy, 

'\^^iate'er we say or swear, they being 
reprobates. 

Out of the state of faith, we are clear of 
all sides,4o 

And 't is a curious blindness to believe us. 
Ori. You do not mean this, sure? 
Mir. Yes, sure, and certain; 

And hold it positively, as a principle. 

As ye are strange things, and made of 
strange tires and fluxes, 

So we are allow'd as strange ways to ob- 
tain ye. 

But not to hold ; we are all created errant. 
Ori. You told me other tales. 
3Iir. I not deny it ; 

I have tales of all sorts for all sorts of 
women. 

And protestations likewise of all sizes. 

As they have vanities to make us cox- 
combs. 

If I obtain a good turn, so it is, 

I am thankful for it ; if I be made an ass. 

The 'mends are in mine own hands, or the 
surgeon's, 

And there 's an end on 't. 
Ori. Do not you love me, then? 

Mir. As I love others ; heartily I love thee ; 

When I am high and lusty, I love thee 
cruelly. 

After I have made a plenteous meal, and 
satisfied 

My senses with all delicates, come to me. 

And tbou shalt see how I love thee. 
Ori. Will not you marry me? 
Mir. No, certain, no, for any thing I know 
yet. 

I must not lose my liberty, dear lady, 

■10 An oath made to an unbeliever need not be kept. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



353 



And, like a wanton slave, cry for more 

shackles. 
What should I marry for? Do I want 

any thing? 
Am I an inch the farther from my plea- 
sure ? 
Why should I be at charge to keep a wife 

of mine own, 
When other honest married men will ease 

me, 
And thank me too, and be beholding to 

me? 
Thou think'st I am mad for a maiden- 
head ; thou art cozen'd : 
Or, if I were addicted to that diet. 
Can you tell me where I should have one? 

Thou art eighteen now, 
And, if thou hast thy maidenhead yet 

extant, 
Sure, 'tis as big as cods-head; and those 

grave dishes 
I never love to deal withal. Dost thou 

see this book here? 
Look over all these ranks; all these are 

women, 
Maids, and pretenders to maidenheads; 

these are my conquests; 
All these I swore to marry, as I swore to 

thee. 
With the same reservation, and most 

righteously : 
Which I need not have done neither; for, 

alas, they made no scruple, 
And I enjoy'd 'em at my will, and left 

'em. 
Some of 'em are married since, and were 

as pure maids again. 
Nay, o' my conscience, better than they 

were bred for; 
The rest, fine sober Avomen. 
Ori. Are ye not ashamed, sir? 

Mir. No, by my troth, sir;'*i there's no 

shame belongs to it ; 
I hold it as commendable to be wealthy in 

pleasure, 
As others do in rotten sheep and pasture. 



Enter De Gard. 



Is 



Ori. Are all my hopes come to this 
there no faith. 
No troth, nor modesty, in men? (Weeps.) 
Be Gard. How now, sister? 

Why weeping thus? Did I not proph- 

"esy? 
Come, tell me why — 

41 formerly addressed to women also. 

42 boastfully. 



Ori. I am not well; pray ye pardon me. 

Exit. 

De Gard. Now, Monsieur Mirabel, what 

ails my sister? 

You have been playing the wag with her. 

Mir. As I take it, 

She is crying for a cod-piece. Is she 

gone ? 
Lord, what an age is this ! I was calling 

for ye ; 
For, as I live, I thought she would have 
ravish'd me. 
De Gard. Ye are meriy, sir. 
Mir. Thou know'st this book, De Gard, 

this inventory? 
De Gard. The debt-book of your mis- 
tresses ; I remember it. 
Mir. Why, this was it that anger'd her; 
she was stark mad 
She found not her name here ; and cried 

downright 
Because I would not pity her immediately, 
And put her in my list. 
De Gard. Sure, she had more modesty. 

Mir. Their modesty is anger to be over- 
done ; 
They '11 quarrel sooner for precedence 

here. 
And take it in more dudgeon to be 

slighted. 
Than they will in public meetings ; 't is 

their natures : 
And, alas, I have so many to despatch 

yet, 

And to provide myself for my affairs 

too. 
That, in good faith — 
De Gard. Be not too glorious '^^ foolish; 
Sum not your travels up with vanities; 
It ill becomes your expectation.*^ 
Temper your speech, sir: whether your 

loose story 
Be true or false (for you are so free, I 

fear" it), _ 
Name not my sister in 't; I must not 

hear it. 
Upon your danger, name her not! I 

hold her 
A gentlewoman of those happy parts and 

carriage, 
A good man's tongue may be right proud 

to speak her. 
Mir. Your sister, sir ! D' ye blench at 

that? D'ye cavil? 
Do you hold her such a piece she may not 

be play'd withal? 



43 our expectation of you. 



44 suspect. 



354 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I have had an hundred handsomer and 
nobler 

Have su'd to me, too, for such a courtesy ; 

Your sister comes i' the rear. Since ye 
are so angry. 

And hold your sister such a strong re- 
cusant,'*^ 

I tell ye, I may do it ; and, it may be, will 
too; 

It may be, have too ; there 's my free con- 
fession; 

Work upon that now ! 
Be Gard. If I thought ye 

had, I would work. 

And work such stubborn work should 
make your heart ache : 

But I believe ye, as I ever knew ye, 

A glorious talker, and a legend-maker 

Of idle tales and trilles; a depraver 

Of your own truth : their honors fly about 
ye! 

And so, I take my leave; but with this 
caution, 

Your sword be surer than your tongue; 
you '11 smart else. 
31ir. I laugh at thee, so little I respect 
thee; 

And I'll talk louder, and despise thy sis- 
ter; 

Set up a chamber-maid that shall outshine 
her. 

And carry her in my coach too, and that 
will kill her. 

Go, get thy rents up, go ! 
De Gard. Ye are a fine gentleman ! 

Exit. 
Mir. Now, have at my two youths ! I '11 
see how they do, 

How they behave themselves; and then 
I '11 study 

What wench shall love me next, and when 
I '11 lose her. 

Exit. 



Scene 2. A hall in Nantolet's house. 

Enter Pinac and Servant. 

Pin. Art thou her servant, sayest thou? 
Serv. Her poor creature ; 

But servant to her horse, sir. 
Pin. Canst thou show me 

The way to her chamber, or where I may 
conveniently 

See her, or come to talk to her? 



Serv. That I can, sir; 

But the question is, whether I will or no. 

Pin. Why, I '11 content thee. 

Serv. Why, I '11 content thee, then ; now 

ye come to me. 
Pin. There 's for your diligence. 

{Gives money.) 
Serv. There 's her chamber, sir, 

And this way she comes out ; stand ye but 

here, sir. 
You have her at your prospect or your 
pleasure. 
Pin. Is she not very angry? 
Serv. You '11 tind that quickly. 

May be she '11 call ye saucy, scurvy fel- 
low. 
Or some such familiar name; may be she 

knows ye 
And will fling a piss-pot at ye, or a 

pantofle,^*^ 
According as ye are in acquaintance. If 

she like ye, 
May be she '11 look upon ye ; may be no ; 
And two months hence call for ye. 
Pin. This is fine. 

She is monstrous proud, then ? 
Serv. She is a little haughty ; 

Of a small body, she has a mind well 

mounted. 
Can ye speak Greek? 
Pin. No, certain. 

Serv. Get ye gone, then ! — 

And talk of stars, and firmaments, and 

fire-drakes ? 
Do you remember who was Adam's 

schoolmaster. 
And who taught Eve to spin? She 

knows all these. 
And will run ye over the beginning o' tli' 

world 
As familiar as a fiddler. 
Can ye sit seven hours together, and say 

nothing? 
Which she will do, and, when she speaks, 

speak oracles, 
SjDeak things that no man understands, 
nor herself neither. 
Pin. Thou mak'st me wonder. 
Serv. Can ye smile? 

Pin. Yes, willingly; 

For naturally I bear a mirth about me. 
Serv. She '11 ne'er endure ye, then ; she is 
never merr>'; 
If she see one laugh, she '11 swound past 

aqua vitae. 
Never come near her, sir; if ye chance to 
venture, 



45 rebel. 



46 slipper. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



355 



And talk nut like a doctor, you are 

damn'd too. 
I have told ye enough for your crown, 

and so, good speed ye ! 

Exit. 
Pin. I have a pretty task, if she be thus 

curious,'* '^ 
As, sure, it seems she is! If I fall off 

now, 
I shall be laugh'd at fearfully; if I go 

forward, 
I can but be abus'd, and that I look for; 
And yet I may hit right, but 'tis un- 
likely. 
Stay: in what mood and fig:ure shall T 

attempt her? 
A careless way? No, no, that will not 

waken her: 
Besides, her gravity will give me line still, 
And let me lose myself: yet this way 

often 
Has hit, and handsomely. A wanton 

method? 
Aye, if she give it leave to sink into her 

consideration : 
But there 's the doubt : if it but stir her 

blood once, 
And creep into the crannies of her fancy. 
Set her a-g:og"; — but, if she chance to 

slight it. 
And by the power of her modesty tling it 

back, 
I shall api>ear the arrant'st rascal to her, 
The most licentious knave, for I shall talk 

lewdly. 
To bear myself austerely? Rate"* my 

words? 
And fling a general gravity about me. 
As if I meant to give laws? But this I 

cannot do. 
This is a way above my understanding; 
Or, if I could, 't is odds she Ml think I 

mock her; 
For serious and sad things are ever still 

suspicious. 
Well, I '11 say something : 
But learning I have none, and less good 

manners, 
Especially for ladies. Well, I '11 set my 

best face. 

Enter Lillia Bianca and Petella. 

I hear some coming. This is the first 

woman 
I ever fear'd yet, the first face that 

shakes me. 

(Retires.) 

47 captious. 



Lil. Give me my hat, Petella; take this 
veil off. 
This sullen cloud; it darkens my delights. 
Come, wench, be free, and let the music 

warble : — 
Play me some lusty measure. 
{Music within, to which presently Lillia 

dances. ) 
Pin. (Aside.) This is she, sure, 

The very same I saw, the very woman, 
The gravity I wonder'd at. Stay, stay; 
Let me be sure. Ne'er trust me, but she 

danceth ! 
Summer is in her face now, and she skijD- 

peth ! 
I 'II go a little nearer. 
Lil. Quicker lime, fellows! 

Enter Mirabel, and remains at the side of 
the stage. 

I cannot find my legs yet — Now, Petella ! 
Pin. (Aside.) I am amaz'd ; I am found- 

er'd in my fancy ! 
Mir. (Aside.) Ha! say you so? Is this 
your gravity? 

This the austerity you put upon you? 

I '11 see more o' this sport. 
Lil. A song now ! 

Call in for a merry and a light song; 

And sing it with a liberal spirit. 

Enter a Man. 

Man. Yes, madam. 

Lil. And be not amaz'd, sirrah, but take 
us for your own company. — 
(^-1 song by the Man, and exit.) 
Let's walk ourselves; come, wench. 
Would we had a man or two ! 
Pin. (Aside.) Sure, she has spied me, 
and Avill abuse me dreadfully. 
She has put on this for the purpose : yet 
I will try her. — 

(Advances.) 
Madam, I would be loth my rude intru- 
sion. 
Which I must crave a pardon for — 
Lil. Oh, ye are welcome, 

Ye are very welcome, sir! We want such 

a one. 
Strike up again! — I dare presume ye 

dance well: 
Quick, quick, sir, quick! the time steals 
on. 
Pin. I would talk with you. 

LiL Talk as ye dance. 

(They dance.) 

48 weigh, 



356 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mir. 



She '11 beat him 



I am lesson'd. 
Give roe 



(Aside.) 
off his leg's first. 
This is the finest masque ! 
Lil. Now, how do ye, sir? 

Pin. You have given me a shrewd lieat. 
Lil. I '11 give ye a hundred. 

Come, sing now, sing : for I know ye sing 

well; 
I see ye have a singing face. 
Pin. (Aside.) A fine modesty! 

If I could, she 'd never give me breath. — 

Madam, would 
I might sit and recover! 
Lil. Sit here, and sing now ; 

Let 's do things quickly, sir, and hand- 
somely. — 
Sit close, wench, close. — Begin, begin. 
Pin. 

(A song.) 
Lil. 'T is very pretty, i' faith. 

some wine now. 
Pin. I would fain speak to you. 
Lil. You shall drink first, believe me. 

Here 's to ye a lusty health. 
(They drink.) 
Pin. I thank ye, lady. — 

(Aside.) Would I were off: again! I 

smell my misery; 
I was never put to this rack: I shall be 
drunk too. 
Blir. (Aside.) If thou be'st not a right 
one, I have lost muie aim much : 
I thank Heaven that I have scap'd thee. 

To her, Pinac ! 
For thou art as sure to have her, and to 

groan for her. — 
I '11 see how my other youth does ; this 

speeds trimly. 
A fine grave gentlewoman, and worth 
much honor! 

Exit. 
Lil. Now, how do ye like me, sir "? 
Pin. I like ye rarely. 

Lil. Ye see, sir, though sometimes we are 
grave and silent. 
And put on sadder dispositions, 
Yet Ave are compounded of free parts, 

and sometimes too 
Our lighter, aiiy, and our fiery mettles 
Break out, and show themselves: and 
what think you of that, sir? 
Pin. Good lady, sit (for I am vei-y weary), 

And then I '11 tell ye. 
Lil. Fie ! a young man idle ! 

Up, and walk ; be still in action ; 
The motions of the body are fair beau- 
ties; 



'Ods 



sir, let 's 



Besides, 't is cold. 

walk faster! 
What think ye now of the Lady Felicia'? 
And Bellafronte, the duke's fair daugh- 
ter? ha! 
Are they not handsome things? There is 

Duarta, 
And brown Olivia — 
Pin. I know none of 'em. 

Lil. But brown must not be cast away, sir. 
If young Lelia 
Had kept herself till this day from a hus- 
band. 
Why, what a beauty, sir! You know 

Is men a. 
The fair gem of Saint-Germains? 
Pin. By my troth, I do not. 

Lil. And, then, I know, you must hear of 
Brisac, 
How unlike a gentleman — 
Pin. As I live, I have heard nothing, 

Lil. Strike me another galliard ! *^ , 
Pin. By this light, I cannot ! 

In troth, I have sprain'd my leg, madam. 
Lil. Now sit ye down, sir. 

And tell me why ye came hither? Why 

ye chose me out ? 
What is your business? Your errand? 

Desjoatch, despatch. 
Maybe, you are some gentleman's man, 

and I mistook ye. 
That have brought me a letter, or a 

haunch of venison. 
Sent me from some friend of mine. 
Pin. Do I look like a carrier? 

You might allow me, what I am, a gen- 
tleman. 
Lil. Ciy ye mercy, sir! I saw ye yester- 
day; 
You are new-come out of travel; I mis- 
took ye. 
And how do all our impudent friends in 
Italy? 
Pin. Madam, I came with duty, and fair 
courtesy. 
Service, and honor to ye. 
Lil. Ye came to jeer me. 

Ye see I am merry, sir; I have chang'd 

my copy ; 
None of the sages now : and, pray ye, pro- 
claim it. 
Fling on me what aspersion you shall 

please, sir, 
Of wantonness or wUdness ; I look for it ; 
And tell the world I am an hypocrite, 
Mask in a forc'd and borrow'd shape; I 
expect it; 



49 a lively dance. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



357 



But not to have you believ'd: for, mark 

ye, sir, 
I have won a nobler estimation, 
A stronger tie, by my discretion. 
Upon opinion (howe'er you think I fore'd 

itj 
Than either tongue or art of yours can 

slubber; ^° 
And, when I please, I will be what I 

please, sir, 
So I exceed not mean;^^ and none shall 

brand it. 
Either with sconi or shame, but shall be 

slighted. 
Pin. Lady, I come to love ye. 
Lil. Love yourself, sir; 

And, when I want observers,^- I '11 send 

for ye. 
Heig"h-ho ! my tit 's almost off ; for we do 

all by fits, sir. 
If ye be weary, sit till I come again to ye. 
Exit tcitJi Petella. 
Pin. This is a wench of a dainty spirit ; 

but 
Hang me, if I know yet either what to 

think 
Or make of her. She had her will of me. 
And baited me abundantly, 1 thank her ; 
And, I confess, I never was so blurted, ^^ 
Nor never so abus'd. I must bear mine 

own sins. 
Ye talk of travels ; here 's a curious coun- 
try! 
Yet I will find her out, or forswear my 

faculty. 

Exit. 



Scene 3. A garden belonging to the house 
of Nantolet, with a summer-house in the 
hack-ground. 

Enter Rosalura, Oriana, and a Maid. 

Ros. Ne'er vex yourself, nor grieve; ye are 

a fool, then. 
Ori. I am sure I am made so: yet, before 
I suffer 
Thus like a girl, and give him leave to tri- 
umph — 
Ros. You say right; for, as long as he 
perceives ye 
Sink under his proud scornings, he '11 

laugh at ye. 
For me, secure yourself; and, for my 
sister, 



I partly know her mind too: howsoever. 

To obey my father, we have made a 
tender 

Of our poor beauties to the travel'd mon- 
sieur; 

Yet two words to a bargain. He slights 
us 

As skittish things, and we shun him as 
curious. 

May be, my free behavior turns his stom- 
ach. 

And makes him seem to doubt a loose 
opinion.''^ 

I must be so sometimes, though all the 
world saw it. 
Ori. Why should not ye"? Are our minds 
only ineasur'd? 

As long as here ye stand secure — 
Ros. Ye say true; 

As long as mine own conscience makes no 
question. 

What care I for report? That woman 's 
miserable. 

That 's good or bad for their tongues* 
sake. Come, let 's retire. 

And get my veil, wench. (Exit Maid.) 
By my troth, your sorrow. 

And the consideration of men's humorous 
maddings. 

Have put me into a serious contempla- 
tion. 

Enter Mirabel and Belleur, on one side. 

Ori. Come, faith, let 's sit and think. 

Ros. That 's all my business. 

Mir. Why stand'st thou peeping here? 

Thou great slug, forward ! 
Bel. She is there; peace! 
Mir. Why stand'st thou here, then, 

Sneaking and peeking as thou wouldst 
steal linen? 

Hast thou not place and time? 
Bel. I had a rare speech 

Studied, and almost ready; and your 
violence 

Has beat it out of my brains. 
Mir. Hang your rare speeches! 

Go me on like a man. 
Bel. Let me set my beard up. 

How has Pinae performed? 
Mir. He has won already; 

He stands not thrumming of ^^ caps thus. 
Bel. Lord, what should I ail ! 

What a cold I have over my stomach! 
Would I had some hum ! ^^ 



50 soil. 

51 moderation. 



52 admirers at a dis- 
tance. 



53 flouted. 

54 reputation. 



65 fiddling with. 



56 unusually strong 
ale. 



358 



THE ELIZABETHAl^ PERIOD 



Certain I have a great mind to be at her, 
A mighty mind. 
Mir. On, fool! 

Bel. Good words, I beseech ye ; 

For I will not be abus'd by both. 
Mir. Adieu, then 

(I will not trouble you; I see you are 

valiant) ; 
And work your own way. 
Bel. Hist, hist ! I will be rul'd ; 

I will, i' faith ; I will go presently. 
Will ye forsake me now, and leave me i' 

th' suds'? 
You know I am false-hearted this way, 

I beseech ye. 
Good sweet Mirabel — I '11 cut your throat, 

if ye leave me, 
Indeed I will — sweet-heart — 
Mir. I will be ready, 

Still at thine elbow. Take a man's heart 

to thee. 
And speak thy mind ; the ]ilainer still the 

better. 
She is a woman of that free behavior. 
Indeed, that common courtesy, she cannot 

deny thee. 
Go bravely on. 
Bel. Madam — keep close about me, 

Still at my back — Madam, sweet 
madam — 
Ros. Ha ! 

What noise is that"? What saucy sound 
to trouble me"? 
Mir, What said she^ 
Bel. I am saucy. 

Mir. 'T is the better. 

Bel. She comes; must I be saucy still '? 
Mir. More saucy. 

Ros. Still troubled with these vanities'? 
Heaven bless us ! 
What are we born to"? — Would you speak 

with any of my people f 
Go in, sir; I am busy. 
Bel. This is not she, sure : 

Is this two children at a birth "? I '11 be 

hang'd, then : 
Mine was a merry gentlewoman, talk'd 

daintily, 
Talk'd of those matters that befitted 

women ; 
This is a parcel prayer-book.^^ I 'm 

serv'd sweetly! 
And now I am to look to; I was prepar'd 
for th' other way. 
Ros. Do you know that man"? 
Ori. Sure, I have seen him, lady. 

57 partly a prayer-book. 



Ros. Methinks 't is a pity such a lusty fel- 
low 
Should wander up and down, and want 
employment. 
Bel. She takes me for a rogue ! — You may 
do well, madam, 
To stay this wanderei', and set him 

a-work, forsooth ; 
He can do something that may ]ilease 

your ladyship. 
I have heard of women that desire good 

breedings. 
Two at a birth, or so. 
Ros. The fellow 's impudent. 

Ori. Sure, he is craz'd. 
Ros. I have heard of men too that have 
had good manners. 
Sure, this is want of grace : indeed, 't is 

great pity 
The young man has been bred so ill; but 

this lewd age 
Is full of such examples. 
Bel. I am founder'd. 

And some shall rue the setting of me on. 
Mir. Ha! so bookish, lady"? Is it pos- 
sible"? 
Tnrn'd holy at the heart too? I'll be 

hang'd then : 
Why, this is such a feat, such an activity, 
Such fast and loose ! ^** A veil too for 
your knavei-y'? 

Enter Maid with veil. 

Bio, Bio! 
Ros. What do you take me for, sir'? 
Mir. An hypocrite, a wanton, a dissembler, 

Howe'er ye seem ; and thus ye are to be 

handled ! — 
Mark me, Belleur; — and this you love, I 
know it. 
Ros. Stand off, bold sir! 
Mir. You wear good clothes to this end, 

Jewels; love feasts and masques. 
Ros. Ye are monstrous saucy. 

Mir. All this to draw on fools : and thus, 
thus, lady, 

{Attempts to remove the veil.) 
You are to be lull'd. 
Bel. Let her alone, I '11 swinge ye else, 

1 will, i' faith ! for, though I cannot skill 
o' this matter 

Myself, I will not see another do it be- 
fore me, 
And do it worse. 
Ros. Away ! ye are a vain thing. 

58 Fiist and loose was an old cheating game; hence shiftiness. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



359 



You have travel'd far, sir, to return 

again 
A windy and poor bladder. You talk of 

women, 
That are not worth the favor of a com- 
mon one, 
The grace of her grew in an hospital ! 
Against a thousand such blown ^^ fool- 
eries 
I am able to maintain good women's 

honors, 

Their freedoms, and their fames, and I 

will do it. — 

Mir. She has almost struck me dumb too. 

Ros. And declaim 

Against your base malicious tongues, 

your noises, 
For they are nothing else. You teach be- 
haviors ! 
Or touch us for our freedoms ! Teach 

yourselves manners, 
Truth and sobriety, and live so clearly 
That our lives may shine in ye; and then 

task*'" us. 
It seems ye are hot; the suburbs '^^ will 

su])ply ye : 
Good women scorn such gamesters. So, 

I '11 leave ye. 
I am sorry to see this: faith, sir, live 
fairly. 

Exit with Oriana. 
Mir. This woman, if she hold on, may be 
virtuous ; 
'T is almost possible : we '11 have a new 
day. 
Bel. Ye brought me on, ye forc'd me to 
this foolery, 
I am sham'd, I am scom'd, I am 

flurted ; ^"^ yes, I am so ; 
Though I cannot talk to a woman like 

your worship, 
And use my phrases and my learned 

figures, 
Yet I can fight with any man. 
Mir. Fie ! 

Bel. I can, sir; 

And I will fight. 
Mir. With whom f 

Bel. With you; with any man; 

For all men now will laugh at me. 
Mir. Prithee, be moderate. 

Bel. And I '11 beat all men. Come. 
Mir. I love thee dearly. 

Bel. I will beat all that love ; love has un- 
done me. 
Never tell me ; I will not be a history. 



Mir. Thou art not. 

Bel. 'Sfoot, I will not! Give me room. 
And let me see the proudest of ye jeer 

me ; 
And I '11 begin with you first. 
Mir. Prithee, Belleur — 

If I do not satisfy thee — 
Bel. Well, look ye do. 

But, now I think on 't better, 't is im- 
possible ; 
I must beat somebody. I am maul'd my- 
self. 
And I ought in justice — 
Mir. No, no, no; ye are cozen'd: 

But walk, and let me talk to thee. 
Bel. Talk wisely, 

And see that no man laugh, upon no oc- 
casion ; 
For I shall think then 't is at me. 
Mir. I waiTant thee. 

Bel. Nor no more talk of this. 
Mir. Dost think I am maddish? 

Bel. I must needs fight yet, for I find it 
concerns me; 
A pox on 't, I must fight. 
Mir. V faith, thou shalt not. 

Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. A public walk. 

Enter De Garcl and Lugier. 

Be Gard. I know ye are a scholar, and can 

do wonders. 
Lug. There 's no great scholarship belongs 
to this, sir; 

What I am, I am. I pity your poor sis- 
ter, 

And heartily I hate these travelers, 

These gim-cracks, made of mops •'^ and 
motions. 

There 's nothing in their houses here but 
hummings ; 

A bee has more brains. I grieve and vex 
too 

The insolent licentious carriage 

Of this out-facing fellow Mirabel; 

And I am mad to see him prick his 
plumes up. 
De Gard. His wrongs ^* you partly know. 
Lug. Do not you stir, sir; 

Since he has begun with wit, let wit re- 
venge it : 



Ti!) empty. 

00 take to task. 



6t Many of the 
London suburbs 



were notorious 
for their houses 



of ill fame. 
G2 flouted. 



63 grimaces. 
G4 insults. 



360 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD' 



Keep your sword close ; we 'U cut bis 

throat a new way. 
I am asham'd the gentlewoman should 

suffer 
Such base lewd wrongs. 
Be Gard. I will be rul'd; he shall live, 

And left to your revenge. 
Lug. Aye, aye, I '11 fit him. 

He makes a common scorn of handsome 

women ; 
Modesty and good manners are his May- 
games ; 
He takes up maidenheads with a new 

commission, — 
The church-warrant 's out of date. Fol- 
low my counsel. 
For I am zealous in the cause. 
Be Gard. I will, sir. 

And will be still directed; for the truth 

is, 
My sword will make my sister seem more 

monstrous. 
Besides, there is no honor won on repro- 
bates. 
Lug. You are i' th' right. The slight he 
has show'd my pupils 
Sets me a-fire too. Go ; I '11 prepare your 

sister, 
And as I told ye. 
Be Gard. Yes ; all shall be fit, sir. 

Lug. And seriously, and handsomely. 
Be Gard. I warrant ye. 

Lug. A little counsel more. 
{Whispers.) 
Be Gard. 'T is well. 

Lug. Most stately! 

See that observ'd ; and then — 
Be Gard. I have ye every way. 

Lug. Away, then, and be ready. 
Be Gard. With all speed, sir. 

Exit. 
Enter Lillia Bianca, Rosalura, and 
Oriana. 

Lug. We '11 learn to travel too, may be, be- 
yond him. — 
Good day, fair beauties! 
Lil. You have beautified us, 

We thank ye, sir; ye have set us off most 

gallantly 
With your grave precepts. 
Ros. We expected husbands 

Out of your documents ^^ and taught be- 
haviors. 
Excellent husbands; thought men would 

run stark mad on us, 
Men of all ages and all states; we ex- 
pected 



An inundation of desires and offers, 

A torrent of trim suitors; all we did, 

Or said, or purpos'd, to be spells about 
us. 

Spells to jDrovoke. 
Lil. Ye have provok'd us finely! 

We follow'd your directions, we did 
rarely, 

We were stately, coy, demure, careless, 
light, giddy. 

And play'd at all points : this, you swore, 
would cany. 
Ros. We made love, and eontemn'd love; 
now seem'd holy. 

With such a reverent put-on reserva- 
tion "^ 

Which could not miss, according to your 
principles; 

Now gave more hope again; now close,*''^ 
now public. 

Still up and down we beat it like a bil- 
low; 

And ever those behaviors you read to us. 

Subtle and new : but all this will not 
help us. 
Lil. They help to hinder us of all ac- 
quaintance. 

They have frighted off all friends. What 
am I better, 

For all my learning, if I love a dunce, 

A handsome dunce? To what use serves 
my reading *? 

You should have taught me what belongs 
to horses. 

Dogs, dice, hawks, banquets, masques, 
free and fair meetings, 

To have studied gowns and dressings. 
Lug. Ye are not mad, sure ! 

Ros. We shall be, if we follow your en- 
couragements. 

I '11 take mine own way now. 
Lil. And I my fortune ; 

We may live maids else till the moon drop 
mill-stones. 

I see, your modest women are taken for 
monsters; 

A dowry of good breeding is worth noth- 
ing. 
Lug. Since ye take it so to th' heart, pray 
ye, give me leave yet, 

And ye shall see how I '11 convert this 
heretic. 

Mark how this Mirabel — 
Lil. Name him no more; 

For, though I long for a husband, I hate 
him. 

And would be married sooner to a mon- 
key, 



65 lessons. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



361 



Or to a Jack of Straw, than such a jug- 
gler. 
Ros. I am of that mind too. He is too 
nimble, 
And plays at fast and loose too learnedly, 
For a plain-meaning woman; that's the 

truth on 't. 
Here 's one too, that we love well, would 
be angry; 

[Pointing to Oriana.) 
And reason why. — No, no, we will not 

trouble ye. 
Nor him at this time : may he make you 

happy! 
We '11 turn ourselves loose now to our 

fair fortunes; 
And the downright way — 
Lil. The winning way we'll follow; 

We '11 bait that men may bite fair, and 

not be frighted. 
Yet we '11 not be carried so cheap neither ; 

we '11 have some sport, 
Some mad-morris or other for oar money, 
tutor. 
Lug. 'T is like enough : j^rosper your own 
devices ! 
Ye are old enough to choose. But, for 

this gentlewoman. 
So jDlease her give me leave — 
Ori. I shall be glad, sir, 

To find a friend whose pity may direct 
me. 
Lug. I '11 do my best, and faithfully deal 
for ye ; 
But then ye must be rul'd. 
Ori. In all, I vow to ye. 

Ros. Do, do : he has a lucky hand some- 
times, I assure ye. 
And hunts the recovery of a lost lover 
deadly. 
Lug. You must away straight. 
Ori. Yes. 

Lug. And I '11 instruct ye : 

Here ye can know no more. 
Ori. By your leave, sweet ladies; 

And all our fortunes arrive at our own 
wishes ! 
Lil. Amen, amen! 

Lug. I must borrow your man. 

Lil. Pray? take him ; 

He is within. To do her good, take any 

thing. 
Take us and all. 
Lug. No doubt, ye may find takers ; 

And so, we '11 leave ye to your own dis- 
poses. 

Exeunt Lugier and Oriana. 



Lil. Now, which way, wench? 
Ros. We '11 go a brave way, fear not ; 

A safe and sure way too; and yet a by- 
way. 
I must confess I^have a great mind to be 
married. 
Lil. So have I too a grudging*'® of good- 
will that way. 
And would as fain be despatch'd. But 
this Monsieur Quicksilver — 
Ros. No, no ; we '11 bar him, bye and 
main.*'" Let him trample ; 
There is no safety in his surquedi-y.'^*' 
An army-royal of women are too few for 

him; 
He keeps a journal of his gentleness, 
And will go near to print his fair des- 
patches. 
And call it his ''TriumiDh over time and 

women." 
Let him pass out of memory! What 

think you 
Of his two companions'? 
Lil. Pinac, methinks, is reasonable; 

A little modesty he has brought home 

with him, 
And might be taught, in time, some hand- 
some duty. 
Ros. They say he is a wencher too. 
Lil. I like him better; 

A free light touch or two becomes a gen- 
tleman, 
And sets him seemly otf : so he exceed not, 
But keep his compass ^^ clear, he may be 

lookt at. 
I would not many a man that must be 

taught, 
And eonjur'd up with kisses; the best 

game 
Is play'd still by the best gamesters. 
Ros. Fie upon thee ! 

What talk hast thou ! 
Lil. Are not we alone, and merry? 

Why should we be ashamed to speak what 

we think? Thy gentleman, 
The tall fat fellow, he that came to see 
thee — 
Ros. Is 't not a goodly man? 
Lil. A wondrous goodly ! 

H' as weight enough, I warrant thee. 

Mercy upon me. 
What, a serpent wilt thou seem under 
such a St. George ! 
Ros. Thou art a fool ! Give me a man 
brings mettle. 
Brings substance with him, needs no 
broths to lare '^- him. 



68 inclination. 



69 completely ; a 
gambling phrase. 



"0 presumption. 
71 ijounds. 



72 Possibly, as other 
editors suggest, a 



misprint for lard 
=fatten. 



362 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



These little fellows shew like fleas in 

boxes, 
Hop up and down, and keep a stir to vex 

us. 
Give me the jDuissant pike; take you the 

small shot. 
Lil. Of a great thing, I have not seen a 

duller; 
Therefore, methinks, sweet sister — 
Bos. Peace, he 's modest ; 

A bashf ulness ; which is a point of grace, 

wench : 
But, when these fellows come to mould- 
ing, sister. 
To heat, and handling — as I live, I like 

him ; 

Enter Mirabel. 

And, methinks, I could form him. 
Lil. Peace ; the fire-drake. 

Mir. Bless ye, sweet beauties, sweet incom- 
parable ladies, 
Sweet wits, sweet humors! Bless you, 

learned lady ! 
And you, most holy nun, bless your de- 
votions ! 
Lil. And bless your brains, sir, your most 
pregnant brains, sir! 
They are in travail; may they be de- 
livered 
Of a most hopeful wild-goose ! 
Ros. Bless your manhood ! 

They say ye are a gentleman of action, 
A fair accomplish'd man, and a rare en- 
gineer. 
You have a trick to blow up maidenheads, 
A subtle trick, they say abroad. 
Mir. I have, lady. 

Ros. And often glory in their ruins. 
Mir. Yes, forsooth; 

I have a speedy trick, please you to try 

My engine will despatch ye instantly. 
Ros. I would I were a woman, sir, tit for 

ye! 
As there be such, no doubt, may engine 

you too; 
May, with a counter-mine, blow up your 

valor : 
But in good faith, sir, we are both too 

honest ; 
And, the plague is, we cannot be per- 
suaded ; 
For, look you, if we thought it were a 

glory 
To be the last of all your lovely ladies — 
Mir. Come, come, leave prating: this has 

spoil'd your market! 

73 fierce dogs. 



This pride and puft-up heart will make 

ye fast, ladies, 
Fast when ye are hungry too. 
Ros. The more our pain, sir. 

Lil. The more our health, I hope too. 
Mir. Your behaviors 

Have made men stand amaz'd; those men 

that lov'd ye, 
Men of fair states and parts. Your 

strange conversions 
. Into I know not what, nor how, nor 

wherefore ; 
Your scorns of those that came to visit 

ye; 
Your studied whim-whams and your fine 

set faces — 
What have these got ye*? Proud and 

harsh oi)inions. 
A travel'd monsieur was the strangest 

creature. 
The wildest monster to be wond'red at; 
His person made a public scoff, his 

knowledge 
(As if he had been bred 'mongst bears or 

ban-dogs ^^ ) 
Shunn'd and avoided; his conversation 

snuff'd '* at ;— 
AVhat harvest brings all this? 
Ros. I pray you, pi'oceed, sir. 

Mir. Now ye shall see in what esteem a 

traveler. 
An understanding gentleman, and a mon- 
sieur. 
Is to be held; and, to your griefs, con- 
fess it. 
Both to your griefs and galls. 
Lil. In what, I pray ye, sir? 

We would be glad to understand your 

excellence. 
Mir. Go on, sweet ladies; it becomes ye 

rarely ! 
For me, I have blest me fi'om ye;. scoff on 

seriously. 
And note the man ye mock'd. You, Lady 

Learning, 
Note the poor traveler that came to visit 

you. 

That flat unfuiiiisli'd fellow; note him 
throughly; 

You may chance to see him anon. 
Lil. 'T is very likely. 

3Iir. And see him courted by a travel'd 
lady. 

Held dear and honor'd by a virtuous vir- 
gin ; 

May be, a beauty not far short of yours 
neither ; 

It may be, clearer. 

74 sniffed. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



363 



Not unlikely. 



Lil. 

Mir. ' Younger. 

As killing- eyes as yours, a wit as poign- 
ant; 
May be, a state, too, that may top your 

fortune. 
Inquire how she thinks of him, how she 

holds him; 
His good parts, in what precious price al- 
ready ; 
Being: a stranger to him, how she courts 

him ; 
A stranger to his nation too, how she 

dotes on him. 
Inquire of this; be sick to know; curse, 

lady, 
And keep your chamber; cry, and curse; 

a sweet one, 
A thousand in yearly land, well bred, M-ell 

friended, 
Travel'd, and highly followed for her 
fashions. 
Lil. Bless his good fortune, sir! 
^iir. This scurvy fellow, 

I think they call his name Pinac, this 

serving'-man 
That brought ye venison, as I take it, 

madam. 
Note but this scab: 't is strange that this 

coarse creature, 
That has no more set-off ^=^ but his jug- 

glings, 
His travel'd tricks — 
1-il- Good sir, I grieve not at him, 

Nor envy not his fortune : yet 1 wonder. 
He's handsome; yet I see no such per- 
fection. 
Mir. Would I had his fortune ! For 't is 
a woman 
Of that sweet-temper'd nature, and that 

judgment, 
Besides her state, that care, clear under- 
standing, 
And such a wife to bless him — 
I^os. • Pray you, whence is she? 

Mir. Of England, and a most aceomplish'd 
lady; 
So modest that men's eyes are frighted at 

her. 
And such a noble carriage — 

Enter a Boy. 

How now, sirrah? 
Boy. Sir, the great English lady — 
^ir- What of her, sir? 

Boy. Has newly left her coach, and com- 
ing this way. 



Where you may see her plain : Monsieur 

Pinac 
The only man that leads her. 

Enter Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants. 

^^if"- He is much honored ; 

Would I had such a favor! Now vex, 
ladies. 

Envy, and vex, and rail ! 
-Rtis- You are short of us,'^'^ sir. 

Mir. Bless your fair fortune, sir ! 
Pi'^- I nobly thank ye. 

Mir. Is she married, friend ? 
Pi^- No, no. 

^^ir. A goodly lady; 

A sweet and delicate aspect! — Mark, 
mark, and wonder! — 

Hast thou any hope of her? 
Pin. A little. 

^^ir- Follow close, then ; 

Lose not that hoj^e. 
Pin. To you, sir. 

{Mariana courtesies to Mirabel.) 
^^"'- Gentle lady ! 

Ros. She is fair, indeed. 

^'^•^ I have seen a fairer; yet 

She is well. 
Bos. Her clothes sit handsome too. 

-^'^- She dresses prettily. 

Bos. And, by my faith, she is rich; she 
h)oks still sweeter. 
A Avell-bred woman, I warrant her. 
^i^- Do you hear, sir? 

May I crave this gentlewonian's name? 
Pi^' Mariana, lady. 

Lil. I will not say I owe ye a quarrel, 
monsieur. 
For making mo your stale : " a noble 

gentleman 
Would have had more courtesy, at least 

more faith, 
Than to turn off his mistress at first trial. 
You know not what respect I might have 

show'd ye; 
I find ye have worth. 
Pin^ I cannot stay to answer ye; 

Ye see my charge. I am beholding to ye 
For all your merry tricks ye put upon 

me. 
Your bobs,^s and base accounts. I came 

to love ye, 
To woo ye, and to serve ye; I am much 

indebted to ye 
For dancing me off my legs, and then for 

walking me ; 
For telling me strange tales I never 
heard of, 



75 attractiveness. 



70 fail to do us justice. 



77 decoy. 



78 sneers. 



364 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



More to abuse me; for mistaking me, 
When you both knew I was a gentleman, 
And one deserv'd as rich a match as you 
are. 
Lil. Be not so bitter, sir. 
Pin. You see this lady: 

She is young enough and fair enough to 

please me; 
A woman of a loving mind, a quiet, 
And one that weighs the wortli of him 

that loves her: 
I am content with this, and bless ray 
fortune. 

Your curious wits, and beauties 

Lil. Faith, see me once more. 

Pin. I dare not trouble ye. 
Lil. May I speak to your ladyl 

Pin. I pray ye, content yourself. I know 
ye are bitter. 
And, in your bitterness, ye may abuse 

her; 
Which if she comes to know (for she un- 
derstands ye not). 
It may breed such a quarrel to your kin- 
dred. 
And such an indiscretion fling on you 
too 

(For she is nobly friended) 

Lil. (Aside.) I could eat her. 

Pin. Rest as ye are, a modest noble gen- 
tlewoman. 
And afford your honest neighbors some 

of your prayers. 
Exeunt Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants. 
Mir. Wliat think you now"? 
Lil. Faith, she's a pretty whiting;'''^ 

She has got a pretty catch too. 
Mir. You are angry, 

Monstrous angi-y now, gTievously angry ; 
And the pretty heart does swell now. 
Lil. No, in troth, sir. 

Mir. And it will cry anon, "A pox upon 
it !" 
And it Avill curse itself, and eat no meat, 

lady; 
And it will sigh. 
Lil. Indeed, you are mistaken ; 

It will be very merry. 
Bos. Why, sir, do you think 

There are no more men living, nor no 

handsomer, 
Than he or you? By this light, there be 

ten thousand, 
Ten thousand thousand ! Comfort your- 
self, dear monsieur ; 
Faces, and bodies, wits, and all abili- 

ments ^^ — 
There are so many we regard 'em not. 



Bel. 
Mir. 
Bel. 

Mir. 



Enter Belleur and two Gentlemen. 

Mir. That such a noble lady — I could 
burst now ! — 

So far above such trifles 

Bel. You did laugh at me ; 

And I know why ye laughed. 

1 Gent. I pray ye, be satisfied : 
If we did laugh, we had some private 

reason. 
And not at you. 

2 Gent. Alas, we know you not, sir I 
Bel. I '11 make you know me. Set your 

faces soberly; 
Stand this way, and look sad ; I '11 be no 

May-game ; 
Sadder, demurer yet. 
Bos. What is the matter"? 

What ails this gentleman'? 
Bel. Go off now backward, that I may be- 
hold ye; 
And not a simper, on your lives ! 
Exeunt Gentlemen, walking backwards. 
Lil. He 's mad, sure. 

Do you observe me tool 

I may look on ye. 
Why do you grin? I know your 
mind. 

You do not. 
You are strangely humorous. Is there 

no mirth nor pleasure 
But you must be the object ? 
Bel. Mark, and observe me. Wherever I 
am nam'd, 
The very word shall raise a general sad- 
ness. 
For the disgrace this scurvy woman did 

me, 
This proud pert thing. Take heed ye 

laugh not at me, 
Provoke me not; take heed. 
Bos. I would fain please ye; 

Do any thing to keep ye quiet. 
Bel. Hear me. 

Till I receive a satisfaction 
Equal to the disgrace and scorn ye gave 

me. 
Ye are a wretched woman ; till thou 

woo'st me, 
And I scorn thee as much, as seriously 
Jeer and abuse thee; ask what gill ^^ 

thou art. 
Or any baser name ; I will proclaim thee, 
I will so sing thy virtue, so be-paint 

thee 

Bos. Nay, good sir, be more modest. 
Bel. Do you laugh again? — 

Because ye are a woman, ye are lawless. 



79 a term of endearment. 



80 faculties. 



81 common woman. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



365 



And out of compass of an honest anger. 
Ros. Good sir, have a better belief of me. 
Lil. Away, dear sister ! 

Exit with Bosalura. 
Mir. Is not this better now, this seeming 
madness. 
Than falling out with your friends'? 
Bel. Have I not frighted her? 

Mir. Into her right wits, I warrant thee. 
Follow this humor, 
And thou shalt see how prosperously 
't will guide thee. 
Bel. I am glad I have found a way to woo 
yet; I was afraid once 
I never should have made a civil suitor. 
Well, I '11 about it still. 

Exit. 

Mir. Do, do, and prosper. 

What sport do I make with these fools ! 

What pleasure 
Feeds me, and fats my sides at their poor 
innocence ! 

Enter Lugier, disguised. 

Wooing and wiving — hang it! Give me 
mii'th, 

Witty and dainty mirth ! I shall gTow 
in love, sure. 

With mine own happy head. Who 's 
this?— To me, sir?— 

{Aside.) What youth is this? 
Lug. Yes, sir, I would speak with you. 

If your name be Monsieur Mirabel. 
Mir. You have hit it : 

Your business, I beseech you? 
Lug. This it is, sir: 

There is a gentlewoman hath long time 
affected ye. 

And lov'd ye dearly. 
Mir. Turn over, and end that story ; 

'T is long enough : I have no faith in 
women, sir. 
Lug. It seems so, sir. I do not come to 
woo for her, 

Or sing her praises, though she well de- 
serve 'em ; 

I come to tell ye, ye have been cruel to 
her. 

Unkind and cruel, falser of faith, and 
careless. 

Taking more pleasure in abusing her, 

Wresting her honor to your wild dis- 
poses. 

Than noble in requiting her affection : 

Which, as you are a man, I must desire 

ye 

(A gentleman of rank) not to persist in, 



No more to load her fair name with your 
injuries. 
Mir. Why, I beseech you, sir? 
Lug. Good sir, I '11 tell ye. 

And I '11 be short; I'll tell ye because I 
love ye. 

Because I would have you shim the 
shame may follow. 

There is a nobleman, new come to town, 
sir, 

A noble and a great man, that affects her, 

(A countryman of mine, a brave Sa- 
voyan. 

Nephew to th' duke) and so much honors 
her, 

That 't will be dangerous to pursue your 
old way. 

To touch at any thing concerns her 
honor, 

Believe, most dangerous. Her name is 
Oriana, 

And this great man will marry her. 
Take heed, sir; 

For howsoe'er her brother, a staid gen- 
tleman, 

Lets things pass upon better hopes, this 
lord, sir. 

Is of that tieiy and that poignant metal, 

(Especially provok'd on by affection) 

That 't will be hard — but you are wise. 
Mir. A lord, sir? 

Lug. Yes, and a noble lord. 

Mir. Send her good fortune ! 

This will not stir her lord. A baroness ! 

Say ye so? Say ye so? By 'r lady, a 
brave title ! 

Top and top-gallant now! Save her 
great ladyship ! 

I was a poor servant of hers, I must con- 
fess, sir. 

And in those days I thought I might be 
jovy,8- 

And make a little bold to call in to her; 

But, basta; ^^ now I know my rules and 
distance ; 

Yet, if she want an usher, such an imple- 
ment, 

One that is throughly pac'd, a clean- 
made gentleman. 

Can hold a hanging ^* up with approba- 
tion, 

Plant his hat formally, and wait with 
patience, 

I do beseech you, sir 

Lug. Sir, leave your scoffing. 

And, as ye are a gentleman, deal fairly. 

I have given ye a friend's counsel; so, 
I '11 leave ye. 



82 jovial. 



83 Ital. "enough." 



84 portiere. 



366 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mir. But, hark ye, hark ye, sir ; is 't pos- 
sible 

I may believe what you say? 
Lug. You may choose, sir. 

Mir. No baits, no fish-hooks, sir? No 
ginsi no nooses'? 

No pitfalls to catch puppies'? 
Lug. I tell ye certain : 

You may believe; if not, stand to the 
danger ! 

Exit. 
Mir. A lord of Savoy, says he? The 
duke's nephew? 

A man so mighty ? By lady, a fair mar- 
riage ! 

By my faith, a handsome fortune ! I 
must leave prating: 

For, to confess the truth, I have abus'd 
her, 

For which I should be sorry, but that 
will seem scurvy. 

I must confess she was, ever since I knew 
her. 

As modest as she was fair; I am sure 
she lov'd me ; 

Her means good, and her breeding excel- 
lent ; 

And for my sake she has refus'd fair 
matches. 

I may play the fool finely. — Stay: who 
are these? 

Re-enter Be Gard, disguised, Oriana, and 
Attendants. 

{Aside.) 'Tis she, I am sure; and that 

the lord, it should seem. 
He carries a fair port, is a handsome 

man too. 
I do begin to feel I am a coxcomb.^^ 
Ori. Good my loi'd, choose a nobler; for I 

know 
I am so far below your rank and honor, 
That what ye can say this way I must 

credit 
But spoken to beget yourself sport. 

Alas, sir, 
I am so far off from deserving you. 
My beauty so unfit for your affection, 
That I am grown the scorn of common 

railers, 
Of such injurious things that, when they 

cannot 
Reach at my person, lie with my repu- 
tation ! 
I am poor, besides. 
Be Gard. Ye are all wealth and goodness ; 
And none but such as are the scum of 

men, 

85 fool. 



The ulcers of an honest state, spite- 
weavers, 
That live on poison only, like swoln 

spiders, 
Dare once profane such excellence, such 
sweetness. 
Mir. This man speaks loud indeed. 
Be Gard. Name but the men, lady; 

Let me but know these poor and base de- 
pravers. 
Lay but to my revenge their persons 

open. 
And you shall see how suddenly', how 

fully, 
For your most beauteous sake, how dire- 

fuUy, 
I'll handle their despites. Is this thing 
one? 

Be what he will 

Mir. Sir? 

Be Gard. Dare your malicious tongue, 

sir 

Mir. I know you not, nor what you mean. 

Ori. Good my lord 

Be Gard. If he, or any he 

Ori. I beseech your honor — 

This gentleman 's a stranger to my 

knowledge ; 
And, no doubt, sir, a worthy man. 
Be Gard. Your mercy! — 

But, had he been a tainter of your honor, 
A blaster of those beauties reign within 



ye- 



Dear 



But we shall find a fitter time. 

lady. 
As soon as I have freed ye from your 

guardian, 
And done some honor'd offices unto ye, 
I '11 take ye with those faults the world 

flings on ye. 
And dearer than the whole world I '11 

esteem ye! 

Exit with Oriana and Attendants. 
Mir. This is a thund'ring lord : I am glad 

I scap'd him. 
How lovingly the wench disclaim'd my 

villainy ! 
I am vex'd now heartily that he shall 

have her; 
Not that I care to marry, or to lose her, 
But that this bilbo-lord ^^ shall reap that 

■ maidenhead 
That was my due; that he shall rig and 

top her: 
I 'd give a thousand crowns now, he 

might miss her. 

Enter a Servant. 

80 swaprgerer. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



367 



Serv. Nay, if I bear your blows, and keep 
your counsel. 
You have good luck, sir : I '11 teach ye 
to strike lighter. 
Mir. Come hither, honest fellow : canst 
thou tell me 
Where this great lord lies, this Savoy 

lord"? Thou mett'st him; 
He now went by thee, certain. 
Serv. Yes, he did, sir; 

I know him, and I know you are fooFd. 

Mir. Come hither: 

Here 's all this, give me truth. 

{Gives money.) 

Serv. Not for your money, 

(And yet that may do much) but I have 

been beaten, 
And by the worshipful contrivers beaten, 

and I '11 tell ye : 
This is no lord, no Savoy lord. 
Mir. Go forward. 

Serv. This is a trick, and put upon you 
grossly 
By one Lugier. The lord is Monsieur 

De Gard, sir. 
An honest gentleman, and a neighbor 

hei'e ; 
Their ends you understand better than I, 
sure. 
Mir. Now I know him ; know him now 

plain. 
Serv. I have diseharg'd my colors,^'^ so 
God b'y ye, sir ! 

Exit. 
Mir. What a purblind puppy was I. Now 
I remember him ; 
All the whole cast on 's face, though it 

were umber'd,**^ 
And mask'd with patches. What a dnn- 

derwhelp,*^ 
To let him domineer thus ! How he 

strutted, 
And what a load of lord he clapt upon 

him ! 
Would I had him here again ! I would 

so bounce him, 
I would so thank his lordship for his 

lewd 00 plot ! 
Do they think to carry it away, with a 

great band made of bird-pots,^^ 
And a pair of pin-buttock'd breeches'? — 

Ha ! 't is he again ; 
He comes, he comes, he comes ! have at 
him ! 

Re-enter De Gard, Oriana, and 
Attendants. 



My Savoy lord, why dost thou frown on 

me? 
And will that favor never sweeter be? 
Wilt thou, I say, for ever play the fool? 
De Gard, be wise, and. Savoy, go to 

school ! 
My lord De Gard, I thank you for your 

antic ; 
My Lidy bright, that will be sometimes 

frantic ; 
You worthy train, that wait upon this 

pair, 

Send you more wit, and them a bouncing 
hair? 02 

And so I take my humble leave of your 
honors ! 

Exit. 
De Gard. We are discover'd ; there 's no 
I'emedy. 
Lillia Bianca's man, upon my life, 
In stubbornness, because Lugier corrected 

him — 
A shameless slave ! Plague on him for a 
rascal ! 
Ori. I was in a perfect hope. The bane 
on 't is now, 
He will make mirth on mirth, to perse- 
cute us. 
De Gard. We must be patient ; I am vex'd 
to the proof too. 
I '11 try once more; then, if I fail, here 's 
one speaks. 

{Puts his hand on his sivord.) 
Ori. Let me be lost and scorn'd first! 
De Gard. Well, we '11 consider. 

Away, and let me shift ; I shall be hooted 
else. 

Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Scene 1. A street before the lodging of 
Pinac. 

Enter Lugier, Lillia Bianca, and Servant 
carrying a willow garland. 

Lug. Faint not, but do as I direct ye : 
trust me; 
Believe me too; for what I have told ye, 

As true as you are Lillia, is authentic ; 

I know it, I have found it : 't is a poor 
courage 

Flies off for one repulse. These travel- 
ers 



S7 Exact meaning 
not known ; ap- 
parently equiva- 



lent to "I have ss stained brown, 
fulfilled my obli- so blockhead, 
gations." 90 vile. 



ill apparently some 
extravagance of 



dress. (Neilson.) 
92 bairn, child. 



368 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Shall find, before we have done, a home- 
spun wit, 
A plam French understanding, may cope 

with 'em. 
They have had the better yet, thank your 

sweet squire here ! 
And let 'em brag. You would be re- 
veng'd ? 
Lil. Yes, surely. 

Lug. And married too? 
Lil. I think so. 

Lug. Then be eounsel'd ; 

You know how to proceed. I have other 

irons 
Heatmg as well as yours, and I will 

strike 
Three blows with one stone home. Be 

rul'd, and happy; 
And so, I leave ye. Now is the time. 
Lil. I am ready. 

If he do come to do ^^ me. 

Exit Lugier. 

Serv. Will ye stand here, 

And let the people think ye are God 

knows what, mistress*? 
Let boys and prentices presume upon ye*? 
Lil. Prithee, hold thy peace. 

Serv. Stand at his door that hates ye*? 
Lil. Prithee, leave prating. 

Serv. Pray ye, go to the tavern : I '11 give 
ye a pint of wine there. 
If any of the mad-cap gentlemen should 

come by. 
That take up women upon special war- 
rant. 
You were in a wise case now. 
Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Mariana, Priest, 
and Attendants. 

Lil. Give me the garland; 

And wait you here. 

{Takes the garland from Servant, who 

retires.) 

Mir. She is here to seek thee, sirrah. 

I told thee what would follow; she is 

mad for thee. 
Show, and advance. — So early stirring, 

lady? 
It shows a busy mind, a fancy troubled. 
A willow garland too ? Is 't possible "I 
'T is pity so much beauty should lie 

musty ; 
But 't is not to be help'd now. 
Lil. The more 's my misery. — 

Good fortune to ye, lady ! you deserve it ; 
To me, too-late repentance ! I have 
sought it. 



I do not envy, though I grieve a little, 

You are mistress of that happiness, those 
joys, 

That might have been, had I been wise — 
but fortune — 
Pin. She understands ye not; pray ye, do 
not trouble her : 

And do not cross me like ■ a hare thus ; 
't is as ominous.^* 
Lil. I come not to upbraid your levity 

(Though ye made show of love, and 
though I lik'd ye). 

To claim an interest (we are yet both 
strangers ; 

But what we might have been, had you 
persever'd, sir ! ) 

To be an eye-sore to your loving lady : 

This garland shows I give ^^ myself for- 
saken 

(Yet, she must pardon me, 'tis most un- 
willingly) ; 

And all the power and interest I had in 

ye 

(As, I persuade myself, somewhat ye 

lov'd me) 
Thus patiently I render up, I offer 
To her that must enjoy ye, and so bless 

ye; 

Only, I heartily desire this courtesy. 
And would not be denied, to wait upon 

This day, to see ye tied, then no more 
trouble ye. 
Pin. It needs not, lady. 
Lil. Good sir, grant me so much. 

Pin. 'T is private, and we make no invi- 
tation. 
Lil. My presence, sir, shall not proclaim it 

public. 
Pin. May be, 't is not in town. 
Lil. I have a coach, sir. 

And a most ready will to do you service. 
Mir. {Aside to Pinac.) Strike now or 
never ; make it sure : I tell thee. 
She will hang herself, if she have thee 
not. 
Pin. Pray ye, sir, 

Entertain my noble mistress : only a word 

or two 
With this importunate woman, and I '11 

relieve ye. — 
Now ye see what your flings are, and 

your fancies. 
Your states, and your wild stubbornness; 

now ye find 
What 't is to gird ^^ and kick at men's 
fair services. 



93 Sympson sug- 

gests dor— raock. 



94 It was consid 
ered bad luck to 



have a hare cross 
in front of one. 



95 grant. 



96 jeer. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



369 



To raise your pride to such a pitch and 

glory 
That goodness shows hke gnats, scorn'd 

under ye. 
'T is ugly, naught ; a self-will in a 

woman, 
Chain'd to an overweening thought, is 

pestilent, 
Murders fair fortune first, then fair 

opinion. 
There stands a pattern, a true patient 

pattern. 
Humble and sweet. 
Lil. I can but grieve my ignorance. 

Repentance, some say too, is the best sac- 
rifice ; 
For, sure, sir, if my chance had been so 

happy 
(As I confess I was mine own destroyer) 
As to have arriv'd at you, I will not 

prophesy. 
But certain, as I think, I should have 

pleas'd ye; 
Have made ye as much wonder at my 

courtesy, 
My love, and duty, as I have disheart- 

en'd ye. 
Some hours we have of youth, and some 

of folly; 
And being free-born maids, we take a 

liberty, 
And, to maintain that, sometimes we 

strain highly. 
Pin. Now you talk reason. 
Lil. But, being yok'd and goveni'd, 

Married, and those light vanities purg'd 

from us. 
How fair we grow, how gentle, and how 

tender ! 
We twine about those loves that shoot up 

with us ! 
A sullen woman fear, that talks not to 

ye; 

She has a sad and darken'd soul, loves 
dully. 

A merry and a free wench, give her 
liberty, 

Believe her, in the lightest form she ap- 
pears to ye. 

Believe her excellent, though she despise 

ye; 

Let but those fits and flashes pass, she 

will show to ye 
As jeAvels rubb'd from dust, or gold new 

burnish'd: 
Such had I been, had you believ'd. 
Pin. Is 't possible ? 

Lil. And to your happiness, I dare as- 
sure ye, 



If true love be accounted so : your pleas- 
ure. 

Your will, and your command, had tied 
my motions : 

But that hope 's gone. I know you are 
young and giddy. 

And, till you have a wife can govern 
with ye, 

You sail upon this world's sea light and 
empty, 

Your bark in danger daily. 'T is not the 
name neither 

Of wife can steer you, but the noble na- 
ture. 

The diligence, the care, the love, the pa- 
tience : 

She makes the pilot, and preserves the 
husband. 

That knows and reckons every rib he is 
built on. 

But this I tell ye to my shame. 
Pin. I admire ye; 

And now am sorry that I aim beyond ye. 
Mir. {Aside.) So, so, so : fair and softly ! 
She is thine own, boy; 

She eomes now without lure. 
Pin. But that it must needs 

Be reckoned to me as a wantonness. 

Or worse, a madness, to forsake a bless- 
ing, 

A blessing of that hope 

Lil. I dare not urge ye; 

And yet, dear sir 

Pin. 'T is most certain, I had rather. 

If 't were in mine own choice — for you 
are my country-woman, 

A neighbor here, bom by me; she a 
stranger, 

And who knows how her friends 

Lil. Do as you please, sir; 

If ye be fast, not all the world — I love 

ye. 

It is most true, and clear I would per- 
suade ye; 
And I shall love you still. 
Pin. Go, get before me — 

So much you have won upon me — do it 

presently. 
Here 's a priest ready — I '11 have you. 
Lil. Not now, sir; 

No, you shall pardon me. Advance your 

lady ; 
I dare not hinder your most high prefer- 
ment : 
'T is honor enough for me I have un- 
mask'd you. 
Pin. How's that? 

Lil. I have caught ye, sir. Alas, I am 
no stateswoman. 



370 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Nor no great traveler, yet I have found 

ye; 

I have found your lady too, your beaute- 
ous lady; 

I have found her birth and breeding too, 
her discipline. 

Who brought her over, and who kept 
your lady. 

And, when he laid her by, what virtuous 
nunnery 

Receiv'd her in: I have found all these. 
Are ye blank now? 

Methinks, such travel'd wisdoms should 
not fool thus, — 

Such excellent indiscretions ! 
Mir. How could she know tins'? 

Lil. 'T is true she 's English-born ; but 
most part French now, 

And so I hope you '11 find her to your 
comfort. 

Alas, I am ignorant of what she cost ye ! 

The price of these hired clotlies I do not 
know, gentlemen ! 

Those jewels are the broker's, how ye 
stand bound for 'em ! 
Pin. Will you make this good? 
Lil. Yes, yes ; and to her face, sir, 

That she is an English whore, a kind of 
fling-dust. 

One of your London light-o'-loves, a 
right one; 

Came over in thin pumps and half a pet- 
ticoat. 

One faith, and one smock, with a broken 
haberdasher — 

I know all this without a conjurer. 

Her name is Jumping Joan, an ancient 
sin-weaver ; 

She was first a lady's chambermaid, there 
slipp'd. 

And broke her leg above the knee; de- 
parted. 

And set up shop herself; stood the fierce 
conflicts 

Of many a furious term ; there lost her 
colors. 

And last shipp'd over hither. 
Mir. We are betray'd ! 

Lil. Do you come to fright me with this 
mystery ? 

To stir me with a stink none can endure, 
sir? 

I pray ye, proceed; the wedding will be- 
come ye : 

Wlio gives the lady? You? An excel- 
lent father! 

A careful man, and one that knows a 
beauty ! 

!>" take those clothes off. 



Send ye fair shipping, sir ! and so, I '11 

leave ye. 
Be wise and manly; then I may chance 
to love ye! 

Exit with Servant. 
Mir. As I live, I am asham'd this wench 
has reach'd me. 
Monstrous asham'd; but there's no rem- 
edy. 

This skew'd-ey'd carrion 

Pin. This I suspected ever. — 

Come, come, unease ; ^'^ we have no more 

use of ye; 
Your clothes must back again. 
Mari. Sir, you shall pardon me; 

'T is not our English use to be degraded. 
If you will visit me, and take your ven- 
ture. 
You shall have pleasure for your prop- 
erties. 

And so, sweetheart 

Exit. 

Mir. Let her go, and the devil go with her ! 

We have never better luck with these pre- 

ludiums. 
Come, be not daunted; think she is but a 

woman. 
And, let _ her have the devil's wit, we '11 
reach her! 

Exeunt. 



Scene 2. A jouhlic walk. 

Enter Rosalura and Lugicr. 

Bos. You have now redeem'd my good 
opinion, tutor, 
And ye stand fair again. 
Lug. I can but labor. 

And sweat in your affairs. I am sure 

Belleur 
Will be here instantly, and use his anger. 
His wonted hai'shness. 
Bos. I hope he will not beat me. 

Lug. No, sure, he has more manners. Be 

you ready. 
Bos. Yes, yes, I am; and am resolv'd to 
fit him, 
With patience to outdo all he can offer. 
But how does Oriana? 
Lug. Worse and worse still; 

Tiiere is a sad house for her;^^ she is 

now, 
Poor lady, utterly distracted. 
Bos. " Pity, 

Infinite pity! 'tis a handsome lady: 

98 her household is sad about her. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



371 



That Mirabel 's a beast, worse than a 

monster, 
If this affliction work not. 

Enter Lillia Bianca. 
Lil. Are you ready ? 

Belleur is coming on here, hard behind 

me: 
I have no leisure to relate my fortune ; 
Only I wish you may come off as hand- 
somely. 
Upon the sign, you know what. 
Ros. Well, well; leave me. 

Exeunt Lillia Bianca and Lugicr. 
Enter Belleur, 

Bel. How now? 
Ros. Ye are welcome, sir. 

Bel. 'T is well ye have manners. 

That court'sy again, and hold your coun- 
tenance staidly. 
That look 's too light ; take heed : so ; sit 

ye down now; 
And, to confirm me that your gall is gone, 
Your bitterness dispers'd (for so I '11 

have it). 
Look on me steadfastly, and, whatsoe'er 

I say to ye. 
Move not, nor alter in your face; ye are 

gone then ; 
For, if you do express the least distaste. 
Or show an angry wrinkle, (mark me, 

woman ! 
We are now alone,) I will so conjure 

thee. 
The third part of my execution 
Cannot be spoke. 
Eos. I am at your dispose, sir. 

Bel. Now rise, and woo me a little ; let me 
hear that faculty: 
But touch me not; nor do not lie, I 

charge ye. 
Begin now. 
Ros. If so mean and poor a beauty 

May ever hope the grace- 

Bel. Ye cog,^'' ye flatter; 

Like a lewd thing, ye lie : "May hope 

that grace !" 
Why, what grace canst thou hope for? 

Answer not ; 
For, if thou dost, and liest again, I '11 

swinge thee. 
Do not I know thee for a pestilent 

woman ? 
A proud at both ends? Be not angry, 
Nor stir not, o' your life. 
-Ros. I am eounsel'd, sir. 

Bel. Art thou not now (confess, for I '11 
have the truth out) 



As much unworthy of a man of merit, 
Or any of ye all, nay, of mere man, 
Though he were crooked, cold, all wants 

upon him, 
Nay, of any dishonest thing that bears 

that figure. 
As devils are of mercy? 
Ros. We are iinworthy. 

Bel. Stick to that truth, and it may 
chance to save thee. 
And is it not our bounty that we take ye? 
That we are troubled, vex'd, or tortur'd 

with ye. 
Our mere and special bounty? 
Ros. Yes. 

Bel. Our pity. 

That for your wickedness we swinge ye 

soundly ; 
Your stubbornness and stout hearts, we 

belabor ye? 
Answer to that ! 
Ros. I do confess your pity. 

Bel. And dost not thou deserve in thine 
own person. 
Thou impudent, thou pert — Do not 
change countenance. 
Ros. I dare not, sir. 

Bel. For, if ye do 

Ros. I am settled. 

Bel. Thou wagtail, peacock, puppy, look 
on me: 
I am a gentleman. 
Ros. It seems no less, sir, 

Bel. And dar'st thou in thy surque- 

dry 

Ros. I beseech ye ! — 

It was my weakness, sir, I did not view 

ye, 

I took not notice of your noble parts, 

Nor call'd your person nor your fashion 
proper.^ 
Bel. This is some amends yet. 
Ros. I shall mend, sir, daily. 

And study to deserve. 
Bel. Come a little nearer: 

Canst thou repent thy villainy? 
Ros. Most seriously. 

Bel. And be asham'd? 
Ros. I am asham'd. 

Bel. Cry. 

Ros. It will be hard to do, sir. 
Bel. Cry now instantly; 

Cry monstrously, that all the town may 
hear thee; 

Cry seriously, as if thou hadst lost thy 
monkey; 

And, as I like thy tears 

Ros. Now ! 



99 cheat. 



1 handsome; original reading proper fashion. 



372 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Enter Lillia Bianca, and four Women, 
laughing. 

Bel. How! how! Do ye jeer me'? 

Have ye broke your bounds again, dame'? 

Bos. Yes, and laugh at ye, 

And laugh most heartily. 
Bel. What are these ? whirlwinds '? 

Is hell broke loose, and all the Furies 

flutter'd? 
Am I greased ^ once again "? 
Bos. Yes, indeed are ye ; 

And once again ye shall be, if ye quar- 
rel: 
Do you come to vent your fury on a 

virgin '? 
Is this your manhood, sir"? 

1 Worn. Let him do his best; 
Let 's see the utmost of his indignation ; 
I long to see him angry. — Come, proceed, 

sir. — 
Hang him, he dares not stir; a man of 
timber ! 

2 Worn. Come hither to fright maids with 

thy bull- faces! 
To threaten gentlewomen ! Thou a man ! 

A Maypole, 
A great dry pudding.^ 

3 Worn. Come, come, do your worst, sir; 
Be angry, if thou dar'st. 

Bel. The Lord deliver me ! 

4 Worn. Do but look scurvily upon this 

lady, 
Or give us one foul word ! — We are all 

mistaken ; 
This is some mighty dairy-maid in man's 
clothes. 
Lil. I am of that mind too. 
Bel. {Aside.) What will they do to 

me? 
Lil. And hired to come and abuse us. — A 
man has manners; 
A gentleman, civility and breeding: — 
Some tinker's trull, with a beard glu'd 
on. 
1 Worn. Let's search him. 

And, as we find him 

Bel. Let me but depart from ye, 

Sweet Christian women ! 
Lil. Hear the thing speak, neighbors. 

Bel. 'T is but a small request : if e'er I 
trouble ye, 
If e'er I talk again of beating women. 
Or beating any thing that can but turn 

to me; 
Of ever thinking of a handsome lady 
But virtuously and well; of ever speak- 
ing 



But to her honor, — this I '11 promise 

ye, 

I will take rhubarb, and pui'ge choler 

mainly,* 
Abundantly I '11 purge. 
Lil. I '11 send ye broths, sir. 

Bel. I will be laugh'd at, and endure it 
patiently ; 
I will do any thing. 
Bos. I '11 be your bail, then. 

When ye come next to woo, pray come 

not boisterously. 
And furnish'd like a bear-ward.^ 
Bel. No, in truth, forsooth. 

Bos. I scented ye long since. 
Bel. I was to blame, sure : 

I will appear a gentleman. 
Bos. 'T is the best for ye, 

For a true noble gentleman 's a brave 

thing. 
Upon that hope, we quit ye. You fear 
seriously *? 
Bel. Yes, truly do I; I confess I fear 

ye, 

And honor ye, and any thing. 
Bos. Farewell, then. 

Worn. And, when ye come to woo next, 
bring more mercy. 

Exeunt all except Belleur. 
Enter two Gentlemen. 

Bel. A dairy-maid! A tinker's trull! 
Heaven bless me ! 

Sure, if I had provok'd 'em, they had 
quarter'd me. 

I am a most ridiculous ass, now I per- 
ceive it; 

A coward, and a knave too. 

1 Gent. 'T is the mad gentleman ; 
Let 's set our faces right. 

Bel. No, no; laugh at me. 

And laugh aloud. 

2 Gent. We are better manner'd, sir. 
Bel. I do deserve it ; call me patch ^ and 

puppy, 

And beat me, if you please. 

1 Gent. No, indeed; we know ye. 
Bel. 'Death, do as I would have ye! 

2 Gent. Ye are an ass, then, 
A coxcomb, and a calf ! 

Bel. I am a great calf. 

Kick me a little now. Why, when! 

(They kick him.) Sufficient. 
Now laugh aloud, and scorn me. So 

good b' ye ! 
And ever, when ye meet me, laugh. 
Gentlemen. We will, sir. 

Exeunt. 



2 fooled. 



3 sausage. 



4 vigorously. 



s bear-keeper. 



6 fool. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



373 



Scene 3. A room in La Castre's house. 

Enter Nantolet, La Castre, De Gard, 
Lugier, and Mirabel. 

Mir. Your patience, gentlemen ; why do 

ye bait me? 
Nant. Is 't not a shame you are so stub- 
bora-hearted, 
So stony and so dull, to such a lady, 
Of her perfections and her misery? 
Lug. Does she not love ye? Does not her 
distraction 
For your sake only, her most pitied lu- 
nacy 
Of all but you, show ye? Does it not 
compel ye? 
Mir. Soft and fair, gentlemen; pray ye, 

proceed temperately. 
Lug. If ye have any feeling, any sense in 

ye, 

The least touch of a noble heart 

La Cast. Let him alone: 

It is his glory that lie can kill beauty. — 

Ye bear ray stamp, but not my tender- 
ness; 

Your wild unsavory courses let '' that in 
ye! 

For shame, be sorry, though ye cannot 
cure her; 

Show something of a man, of a fair na- 
ture. 
Mir. Ye make me mad ! 
De Gard. Let me pronounce this to ye: 

You take a strange felicity in slighting 

And wronging women, which my poor 
sister feels now; 

Heaven's hand be gentle on her! Mark 
me, sir; 

That very hour she dies (there 's small 
hope otherwise). 

That minute, you and I must grapple for 

Either your life or mine. 
Mir. Be not so hot, sir; 

I am not to be wrought on by these poli- 
cies. 

In truth, I am not; nor do I fear the 
tricks. 

Or the high-sounding threats, of a Sa- 
voy an. 

I glory not in cruelty, (ye wrong me,) 

Nor grow up water'd with the tears of 
women. 

This let me tell ye, howsoe'er I show to 

ye, 

Wild, as you please to call it, or self- 
will'd. 



7 prevent. 

8 cobbler. 

9 kittens. 



When I see cause, I can both do and 
suffer. 

Freely and feelingly, as a true gentle- 
man. 

Enter Rosalura and Lillia Bianca. 

Ros. Oh, pity, pity! thousand, thousand 

pities ! 
Lil Alas, poor soul, she will die ! She is 
grown senseless; 
She will not know uor speak now. 
■Ros. Die for love ! 

And love of such a youth ! I would die 

for a dog first : 
He that kills me, I'll give him leave to 

eat me; 
I '11 know men better, ere I sigh for any 
of 'em. 
Lil. You have done a worthy act, sir, a 
most famous; 
Ye have kill'd a maid the wrong way; ye 
are a conqueror. 
Ros. A conqueror? A cobbler! Hang 
him, sowter! * — 
Go hide thyself, for shame ! Go lose thy 

memory ! 
Live not 'mongst men; thou art a beast, 

a monster, 
A blatant beast ! 
Lil. If ye have yet any honesty. 

Or ever heard of any, take my counsel : 
Off with your garters, and seek out a 

bough, — 
A handsome bough, for I would have ye 

hang like a gentleman; 
And write some doleful matter to the 

world, 
A warning to hard-hearted men. 
Mir. Out, killings ! ^ 

What catenvauling 's here ! What gib- 

bing!io 
Do you think my heart is soft'ned with a 

black santis?" 
Show me some reason. 

Enter Oriana on a bed. 

Ros. Here then, here is a reason. 

Nant. Now, if ye be a man, let this sight 

shake ye ! 
La Cast. Alas, poor gentlewoman ! — Do 

ye know me, lady? 
Lug. How she looks up, and stares ! 
Ori. I know ye very well; 

You are my godfather : and that 's the 

monsieur. 
De Gard. And who am I? 
Ori. You are Amadis de Gaul, sir. — 



Catlike behav- 


possibly misprint 


11 I. e. 


black-sane- 


hymn accompan- 


ior (N. E. D.) ; 


for gibing. 


tus, 


a burlesque 


ied by discordant 
noises. (Neilson.) 



374 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Oh, oh, uiy heart! — Were you never in 

love, sweet lady? 
And do you never dream of flowers and 

gardens *? 
I dream of walking fires: take heed; it 

comes now. 
Who's that '? Pray, stand away. I have 

seen that face, sure. — 
How light my head is ! 
Eos. Take some rest. 

Qri. I cannot; 

For I must be up to-morrow to go to 

church. 
And I must dress nie, put my new gown 

on, 
And be as fine to meet my love ! Heigh- 
ho ! 
Will you not tell me where my love lies 
buried? 
Mir. He is not dead. — (Aside.) Beshrew 

my heart, she stirs me ! 
Ori. He is dead to me. 
Mir. (Aside.) Is 't possible my nature 
Should be so damnable to let her suf- 
fer?— 
Give me your hand. 
Ori. How soft you feel, how gentle! 

I '11 tell you your fortune, friend. 
Mir. How she stares on me! 

Ori. You have a flattermg face, but 'tis a 
fine one; 
I warrant you may have a hundred sweet- 
hearts. 
Will ye pray for me? I shall die to- 
morrow ; 
And will ye ring the bells? 
Mir. I am most unworthy, 

I do confess, unhappy. Do you know 
me? 
Ori. I would I did! 

Mir. Oh, fair tears, how ye take me! 

Ori. Do you weep too? You have not 
lost yovir lover? 
You mock me : I '11 go home and pray. 
Mir. Pray ye, pardon me; 

Or, if it i)lease ye to consider justly, 
Scorn me, for I deserve it; scorn and 

shame me. 
Sweet Oriana! 
Lil. Let her alone ; she trembles : 

Her fits will grow more strong, if ye pro- 
voke her. 
La Cast. Certain she knows ye not, yet 
loves to see ye. 
How she smiles now! 

Enter Belleur. 

Bel. Where are ye? Oh, why do not ye 
laugh? Come, laugh at me: 



Why a devil art thou sad, and such a 

subject. 
Such a ridiculous subject, as I am. 
Before thy face? 
Mir. Prithee, put off this lightness; 

This is no time for mirth, nor place; I 

have us'd too much on 't. 
I have undone myself and a sweet lady 
By being too indulgent to my foolery, 
^Vliich truly I repent. Look here. 
Bel What ails she? 

Mir. Alas, she 's mad ! 
Bel. Mad ! 

Mir. Yes, too sure ; for me too. 

Bel. Dost thou wonder at that? By this 
good light, they are all so ; 
They are coz'ning-mad, they are brawl- 

ing-mad, they are proud-mad ; 
They are all, all mad. I came from a 

world of mad women. 
Mad as March hares. Get 'em in chains, 

then deal with 'em. 
There 's one that 's mad ; she seems well, 

but she is dog-mad. 
Is she dead, dost think? 
3Iir. Dead ! Heaven forbid ! 

Bel. Heaven further it ! 

For, till they be key-cold dead, there 's no 

trusting of 'era : 
Whate'er they seem, or howsoe'er they 

carry it. 
Till they be chap-fallen, and their 

tongues at peace, 
Nail'd in their coffins sure, I '11 ne'er be- 
lieve 'em. 
Shall I talk with her? 
Mir. No, dear friend, be quiet, 

And be at peace a while. 
Bel. I '11 walk aside, 

And come again anon. But take heed to 

her: 
You say she is a woman ? 
Mir. Yes. 

Bel. Take great heed; 

For, if she do not cozen thee, then hang 

me : 
Let her be mad, or what she will, she '11 
cheat thee ! 

Exit. 
Mir. Away, wild fool! — How vile this 
shows in him now! — 
Now take my faith (before ye all I speak 

it), 
And with it my repentant love. 
La Cast. This seems well. 

Mir. Were but this lady clear again, whose 
sorrows 
My very heart melts for, were she but 
perfect, 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



(For thus to marry her would be two 

miseries ) , 
Before the richest and the noblest beauty, 
France or the world could show me, I 

would take her. 
As she is now, my tears and prayers shall 
wed her. 
De Gard. This makes some small amends. 
Ros. She beckons to ye ; 

To us, too, to go off. 

Nant. Let 's draw aside all. 

Exeunt all except Oriana and Mirabel. 

O ri. Oh, my best friend ! I would fain — 

Mir. (Aside.) What ! she speaks well. 

And with another voice. 
Ori. But I am fearful, 

And shame a little stops my tongue — 
Mir. SjDeak boldly. 

Ori. Tell ye, I am well. I am perfect well 
(pray ye, mock not) ; 
And that I did this to j^rovoke your 

nature ; 
Out of my infinite and restless love. 
To win your pity. Pardon me ! 
Mir. Go forward : 

Who set ye on ? 
Ori. None, as I live, no creature ; 

Not any knew or ever dream'd what I 

meant. 
Will ye be mine 1 
Mir. 'T is true, I pity ye ; 

But, Avhen I marry ye, ye must be wiser. 
Nothing but tricks? devices? 
Ori. Will ye shame me? 

Mir. Yes, marry, will I. — Come near, come 
near ! a miracle ! 
The woman 's well ; she was only mad for 

marriage. 
Stark mad to be ston'd to death : give her 

good counsel. 
Will this world never mend? — Are ye 
caught, damsel? 

Enter Belleur, Nantulet, La Caslrc, Dc 
Gard, Lugier, Uosalura, and Lillia 
Bianca. 

Bel. How goes it now ? 
Mir. Thou art a kind of prophet ; 

The woman 's well again, and would have 

guU'd me ; 
Well, excellent well, and not a taint upon 
her. 
Bel. Did not I tell ye? Let 'em be what 
can be. 
Saints, devils, any thing, they will abuse 

us: 
Thou wert an ass to believe her so long, 
a coxcomb : 



Give 'em a minute, they '11 abuse whole 
millions. 
Mir. And am not I a rare physician, gen- 
tlemen. 
That can cure desperate mad minds? 
De Gard. Be not insolent. 

Mir. Well, go thy ways : from this hour I 
disclaim thee, 
Unless thou hast a trick above this; then 

I 'U love thee. 
Ye owe me for your cure. — Pray, have a 

care of her. 
For fear she fall into relapse. — Come, 

Belleur; 
We '11 set up bills to cure diseased virgins, 
Bel. Shall we be merry ? 
Mir. Yes. 

Bel. But I '11 no more projects : 

If Ave could make 'em mad, it were some 
mastery. 

Exeunt Mirahcl and Belleur. 
Lil. I am glad she is Avell again. 
Ros. So am I, certain. — • 

Be not ashamed. 
Ori. I shall never see a man more. 

De Gard. Come, ye are a fool : had ye but 
told me this trick. 
He should not have gloried thus. 
Lug. He shall not long, neither. 

La Cast. Be rul'd, and be at peace. Ye 
have my consent. 
And what power I can work with. 
Nant. Come, leave blushing; 

We are your friends : an honest way coin- 

pell'd ye : 
Heaven will not see so true a love unre- 

comi^ens'd. 
Come in, and slight him too. 
Lug. The next shall hit him. 

Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene 1. A street. 

Enter De Gard and Lugier. 

De Gard. 'T will be discover'd. 
Lug. That 's the worst can happen : 

If there be any way to reach, and work 

upon him, 
Upon his nature suddenly, and catch 

him — That he loves. 
Though he dissemble it, and would show 

contrary, 
And will at length relent, I '11 lay my for- 
tune ; 
Nay, more, my life. 
De Gard, Is she won ? 



376 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lug. Yes, and ready, 

And my desigiiments set. 
De Gard. They are now for travel; 

All for that game again; they have for- 
got wooing. 
Lug. Let 'em ; we '11 travel with 'em. 
De Gard. Where 's his father "? 

Lug. Within; he knows my mind too, and 
allows ^- it, 
Pities your sister's fortune most sin- 
cerely. 
And has appointed, for our more as- 
sistance. 
Some of his secret friends. 
De Gard. Speed the plough ! 

Lug. Well said! 

And be you serious too. 
De Gard. I shall be diligent. 

Lug. Let 's break the ice for one, the rest 
will drink too 
(Believe me, sir) of the same cup. My 

young gentlewoman 
Wait but who sets the game a-foot. 

Though they seem stubborn, 
Reserv'd, and proud now, yet I know 

their hearts. 
Their pulses how they beat, and for what 

cause, sir, 
And how they long to venture their 

abilities 
In a true quarrel. Husbands they must 

and will have, 
Or nunneries and thin collations 
To cool their bloods. Let 's all about our 

business. 
And, if this fail, let nature work. 
De Gard. Ye have arm'd me. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. A public walk. 

Enter Mirabel, Nantolet, and La Castre. 

La Cast. Will ye be wilful, then 1 

Blir. Pray, sir, your pardon ; 

For I must travel. Lie lazy here, 

Bound to a wife ! Chain'd to her subtle- 
ties, 

Her humors, and her wills, which are 
mere fetters ! 

To have her to-day pleas'd, to-moiTow 
peevish. 

The third day mad, the fourth rebellious ! 

You see before they are married, what 
moriscoes,^^ 



W^hat masques and mummeries they put 

upon us : 
To be tied here, and suffer their la- 
voltas! !■* 
Nant. 'T is your own seeking. 
Mir. Yes, to get my freedom, 

Were they as I could wish 'em — 
La Cast. Fools and meacocks,^^ 

To endure what you think fit to put upon 

'em. 
Come, change your mind. 
Mir. Not before I have chang'd air, father. 
When I know women Avorthy of my com- 

I will return again, and wait upon 'em ; 
Till then, dear sir, I '11 amble all the 

world over, 
And run all hazards, misery, and poverty, 

Enter Pinac and Belleur. 

So I escape the dangerous bay of matri- 
mony. 
Pin. Are ye resolv'd'? 

Mir. Yes, certain ; I will out again. 

Pin. We are for ye, sir; we are your serv- 
ants once more; 

Once more we '11 seek our fortune in 
strange countries ; 

Ours is too scornful for us. 
Bel. Is there ne'er a land 

That you have read or heard of (for I 
care not how far it be. 

Nor under what pestiferous star it lies), 

A happy kingdom, where there are no 
women. 

Nor have been ever, nor no mention 

Of any such lewd things with lewder 
qualities, 

(For thither would I travel) where 'tis 
felony 

To confess he had a mother; a mistress, 
treason ? 
La Cast. Are you for travel too'? 
Bel. For any thing, 

For living in the moon, and stopping 
hedges,^® 

Ere I stay here to be abus'd and baffl'd.^'^ 
Nant. Why did ye not break your minds 
to me*? They are my daughters; 

And, sure, I think I should have that com- 
mand over 'em. 

To see 'em well bestow*!!. I know ye are 
gentlemen, 

Men of fair parts and states; I know 
your parents : 



l"? approves. 

13 Morris dances, in 
which tlie per- 
formers were fan- 
tastically dressed. 



14 high-bounding 
dances. 

15 cowards. 

16 An allusion to the 
popular idea of 



the man in the 
moon, with his 
bundle of sticks, 
which Belleur 

supposes to be in- 



tended for mend- 
ing hedges with. 
(Weber.) 
17 disgraced ; the 
term was used of 



the punishment 
given a knight 
for perjury, the 
displaying of a 
painting of him 
upside down. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



377 



And, bad ye told me of your fair affec- 
tions — 
Make but one trial more, and let me sec- 
ond ye. 
Bel. No ; I '11 make hob-nails first, and 
mend old kettles. 
Can ye lend me an annor of high proof, 

to appear in. 
And two or three field-pieces to defend 

me? 
The king's guard are mere pigmies. 
Nant. They will not eat ye. 

Bel. Yes, and you too, and twenty fatter 
monsieurs. 
If their high stomachs hold. They came 

with chopping-knives. 
To cut me into rands ^^ and sirloins, and 

so powder ^^ me. — 
Come, shall we go'? 
Nant. You cannot be so discourteous. 

If ye intend to go, as not to visit 'em, 
And take your leaves. 
Mir. That we dare do, and civilly. 

And thank 'em too. 
Pin. Yes, sir, we know that honesty. 

Bel. I '11 come i' the rear, forty foot off, 
I '11 assure ye. 
With a good gun in my hand. I '11 no 

more Amazons, 
I mean, no more of their frights. I '11 

make my three legs,-° 
Kiss my hand twice, and, if I smell no 

danger. 
If the interview be clear, may be I '11 

speak to her; 
I '11 wear a privy coat -^ too, and behind 

me, 
To make those parts secure, a bandog. 
La Cast. You are a meriy gentleman. 
Bel. A wary gentleman, I do assure ye. 

I have been warn'd ; and must be arm'd. 

La Cast. Well, son. 

These are your hasty thoughts; when I 

see you are bent to it, 
Then I '11 believe, and join with ye : so, 
we '11 leave ye. — 
{Aside.) 
There 's a trick will make ye stay. 
Nant. {Aside.) I hoi^e so. 

Exeunt La Castre and Nantolet. 
Mir. We have won immortal fame now, if 

we leave 'em. 
Pin. You have ; but we have lost. 
Mir. Pinac, thou art cozen'd. 

I know they love ye; and to gain ye 

handsomely. 
Not to be thought to yield, they would 
give millions. 



Their father's willingness, that must 
needs show ye. 
Pin. If I thought so — 
Mir. Ye shall be hang'd, ye recreant ! 

Would ye turn renegado now"? 
Bel. No ; let 's away, boys. 

Out of the air and tumult of their vil- 
lainies. 
Though I were married to that grass- 
hopper, 
And had her fast by th' legs, I should 
think she would cozen me. 

Enter a Young Man, disguised as a 
Factor. 

Y. Man. Monsieur Mirabel, I take it 1 
Mir. Y' are i' th' right, sir. 

Y. Man. I am come to seek ye, sir. I have 
been at your father's. 
And, understanding you were here — 
Mir. Ye are welcome. 

May I crave your name? 
r. Man. Fosse, sir, and your servant. 

That you may know me better, I am 

factor 
To your old merchant, Leverdure. 
Mir. How does he? 

r. Man. Well, sir, I hope; he is now at 
Orleans, 
About some business. 
Mir. ' You are once more welcome. 

Your master 's a right honest man, and 
one 
• I am much beholding to, and must very 
shortly 
Trouble his love again. 
Y. Man. You may be bold, sir. 

Mir. Your business, if you please now? 
Y. Man. This it is, sir. 

I know ye well remember in your travel 
A Genoa merchant — 
Mir. I remember many. 

Y. Man. But this man, sir, particularly; 
your own benefit 
Must needs imprint him in ye ; one Al- 
berto, 
A gentleman you sav'd from being mur- 

der'd 
A little from BologTia : 
I was then myself in Italy, and supplied 

ye; 

Though haply you have forgot me now. 
Mir. No, I remember ye, 

And that Alberto too ; a noble gentleman : 

More to remember were to thank myself, 
sir. 

What of that gentleman? 
Y. Man. He is dead. 



18 pieces. 



19 salt. 



20 bows. 



21 secret coat of mail. 



378 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Mir. I am sorry. 

Y. Man. But on his death-bed, leaving to 
his sister 
All that he had, beside some certain 

jewels, 
Which, with a ceremony, he beqncath'd to 

you 
In grateful memory, he commanded 

strictly 
His sister, as she lov'd him and his peace. 
To see those jewels safe and true de- 

liver'd, 
And, with them, his last love. She, as 

tender 
To observe his will, not trusting friend 

nor servant 
With such a weight, is come herself to 

Paris 
And at my master's house. 
Mir. You tell me a wonder. 

Y. Man. I tell ye a truth, sir. She is 
young and handsome. 
And well attended; of much state and 

riches ; 
So loving and obedient to her brother, 
That, on my conscience, if he had given 

her also, 
She would most willingly have made her 
tender. 
Mir. May not I see her? 
Y. Man. Slie desiiTS it heartily. 

Mir. And presently? 

Y. Man. She is now about some business, 
Passing accounts of some few debts here 

owing, 
And buying jewels of a merchant. 
Mir. Is she wealthy ? 

Y. Man. I would ye had her, sir, at all ad- 
venture ! 
Her brother had a main state.-- 
Mir. And fair too? 

Y. Man. The prime of all those parts of 
Italy, 
For beauty and for courtesy. 
Mir. I must needs see her. 

Y. Man. 'T is all her business, sir. Ye 
may now see her; 
But to-morrow will be fitter for your 

visitation, 
For she is not yet prepared. 
Mir. Only her sight, sir; 

And, when you shall think fit, for further 
visit. 
Y. Man. Sir, ye may see her, and T '11 wait 

your coming. 
Mir. And T '11 be with ye instantly ; I know 
the house ; — 
Meantime, my love and thanks, sir. 



T. Man. Your poor servant. 

Exit. 
Pin. Thou hast the strangest luck ! What 

was that Alberto? 
3Iir. An honest noble merchant 't was my 
chance 
To rescue from some rogues had almost 

slain him; 
And he in kindness to remember this ! 
Bel. Now we shall have you 

For all your i^rotestations and your for- 
wardness, 
Find out strange fortunes in this lady's 

eyes. 
And new enticements to put off your jour- 
ney; 
And who shall have honor then? 
Mir. No, no, never fear it : 

I must needs see her to receive my legacy. 
Bel. If it be tied up in her smock. Heaven 
help thee! 
May not we see too? 
Mir. Yes, afore we go : 

I must be known myself, ere I be able 
To make thee welcome. Wouldst thou see 

more women ? 
I thought von had been out of love with 
all. 
Bel. I may be 

(I find thai), with the least encourage- 
ment ; 
Yet I desire to see whether all coun- 
tries 
Are naturally possess'd with the same 

spirits, 
For, if they be, I '11 take a monastery, 
And never travel: for I had rather be a 

friar. 
And live niew'd '^ up, than be a fool, and 
flouted. 
3Iir. Well, well, I '11 meet ye anon, then 
tell you more, boys ; 
However, stand prepared, prest -* for our 

journey ; 
For certain we shall go, I think, when I 

have seen her, 
And view'd her well. 
Pin. Go, go, and we '11 wait for ye ; 

Your fortune directs ours. 
Bel. You shall find us i' th' tavern. 

Lamenting in sack and sugar for our 

losses. 
If she be right Italian, and want serv- 
ants,-^ 
Yon may prefer the properest man. 

How I could 
Worry a woman now ! 
Pin. Come, come, leave prating: 



22 great estate. 



23 confined, like a hawk in a mews. 



2+ ready. 



lovers. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



379 



Ye may have enough to do, without this 
boasting. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3. A room in Nantolet's house. 

Enter Lugier, De Gard, Rosalura, and 
Lillia Bianca. 

Lug. This is the last adventure. 

De Gard. And the happiest, 

As we hope, too. 
Ilos. We should be .elad to find it. 

Lil. Who shall conduct us thither? 
Lug. Your man is ready, 

For I must not be seen ; no, nor this gen- 
tleman ; 
That may beget suspicion ; all the rest 
Are peojjle of no doubt. I would have 

ye, ladies, 
Keep your old liberties, and as we in- 
struct ye. 
Come, look not pale; you shall not lose 

your wishes. 
Nor beg 'em neither; but be yourselves 
and happy. 
Bos. I tell you true, I cannot hold off 
longer, 
Nor give no more hard language. 
De Gard. You shall not need. 

Bos. I love the gentleman, and must now 
show it : 
Shall I beat a proper man out of heart ? 
Lug. There 's none advises ye. 

Lil. Faith, I repent me too. 
Lug. Repent and spoil all ; 

Tell what ye know, ye had best ! 
Lil. _ i '11 tell what I think ; 

For, if he ask me now if I can love him, 
I '11 tell him, yes, I can. The man 's a 

kind man, 
And out of his true honesty affects me. 
Although he play'd the fool, which I re- 
quited, 
Must I still hold him at the staff's end? 
Lug. You are two strange women. 

Bos. We may be, if we fool still. 
Lug. Dare ye believe me? 

Follow but this advice I have set you in 

now. 
And if ye lose — Would ye yield now so 

basely? 
Give up without your honors sav'd? 
De Gard. Fie, ladies! 

Preserve your freedom still. 
Lil. Well, well, for this time. 

Lug. And carry that full state — 
Bos. That 's as the wind stands; 

If it begin to chop about, and scant "^ us, 

20 fail. 



Hang me, but I know what I '11 do ! 

Come, direct us ; 
I make no doubt we shall do handsomely. 
De Gard. Some ]iart o' tli' way we '11 wait 
upon ye, ladies; 
The rest your man supplies. 
Lug. Do well, I '11 honor ye. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 4. A room in a neighboring house, 
with a gallery. 

Oriana disguised as an Italian lady, and 
two persons disguised as Merchants dis- 
covered above. Enter, below, the Young 
Man disguised as a Factor, and Mirabel. 

Y. Man. Look ye, sir, there she is ; you see 
how busy. 
Methinks you are infinitely bound to her 
for her journey. 
Mir. How gloriously she shows ! She is a 

tall woman. 
Y. Man. Of a fair size, sir. My master 
not being at home, 
I have been so out of my wits to get her 

company ! 
I mean, sir, of her own fair sex and 
fashion — 
Mir. Afar off, she is most fair too. 
Y. Man. Near, most excellent. — 

At length, I have entreated two fair ladies 
(And happily you know 'em), the young 

daughters 
Of Monsieur Nantolet. 
Mir. I know 'em well, sir. 

What are those? Jewels? 
r. Man. All. 

Mir. They make a rich show. 

T. Man. There is a matter of ten thousand 
pounds, too, 
Was owing here. You see those mer- 
chants with her; 
They have brought it in now. 
Mir. How hand- 

somely her shape shows ! 
Y. Man. Those are still neat; your Italians 
are most curious.-'^ 
Now she looks this way. 
Mir. She has a goodly presence; 

How full of courtesy! — Well, sir, I'll 

leave ye ; 
And, if I may be bold to bring a friend 

or two, 
Good noble gentlemen — 
Y. Man. No doubt, ye may, sir; 

For you have most command. 

27 fastidious. 



380 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Blir. I have seen a wonder ! 

Exit. 
Ori. Is he gone'? 
r. Man. Yes. 

Ori. How"? 

r. Man. Taken to the utmost : 

A wonder dwells about him. 
Ori. He did not guess at mel 

y. Man. No, be secure; ye show another 
woman. 

He is gone to fetch his friends. 
Ori. Where are the gentlewomen? 

r. Man. Here, here: now they are come, 

Sit still, and let them see ye. 

Enter, below, Bosalura, Lillia Bianca, and 
Servant. 

Eos. Pray ye, where 's my friend, sirf 
r. Man. She is within, ladies ; but here 's 
another gentlewoman, 
A stranger to this town : so please you 
visit her, 
'T will be well taken. 
Lil. Where is she"? 

y. Man. Thei-e, above, ladies. 

Serv. Bless me, what thing is this"? Two 
pinnacles 
Upon her pate! Is 't not a glode -^ to 
catch woodcocks'? 
Ros. Peace, ye rude knave ! 
Serv. What a bouncing bum she has too ! 

There 's sail enough for a carrack."" 
Bos. What is this lady •? 

For, as I live, she is a goodly woman. 
y. Man. Guess, guess. 
Lil. I have not seen a nobler presence. 

Serv. 'T is a lusty wench : now could I 
spend my forty-pence. 
With all my heart, to have but one fling 

at her. 
To give her but a swashing blow. 
Lil. Ye rascal ! 

Serv. Aye, that 's all a man has for 's good 
will. 'T will be long enough 
Before ye ei"y, ''Come, Anthony, and kiss 
me." 
Lil. I '11 have ye whipt. 
Bos. Has my friend seen this lady'? 

y. 3Ian. Yes, yes, and is well known to 

her. 
Bos. I much admire her presence. 
Lil. So do I too ; 

For, I protest, she is the handsomest, 
The rarest, and the newest to mine eye. 
That ever I saw yet. 
Bos. I long to know her; 

My friend shall do that kindness. 



Ori. So she shall, ladies : 

Come, pray ye, come up. 
Bos. Oh me ! 

Lil. Hang me, if I knew her ! — 

Were I a man myself, I should now love 

ye; 

Nay, I should dote. 
Bos. I dare not trust mine eyes ; 

For, as I live, ye are the strangest 

alter'd ! 
I must come up to know the truth. 
Serv. So must I, lady : 

For I 'm a kmd of unbeliever too. 
Lil. Get ye gone, sirrah ; 

And what ye have seen be secret in; you 

are paid else ! 
No more of your long tongue. 
y. Man. Will ye go in, ladies, 

And talk with her"? These venturers will 

come straight. 
Away with this fellow. 
Lil. There, sirrah ; go, disport ye. 

Serv. I would the trunk-hos'd ^° woman 
would go with me. Exeunt. 

Scene 5. The street, before the same 
house. 

Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 

Pin. Is she so glorious handsome"? 
Mir. You would wonder ; 

Our women look like gipsies, like gills ^^ 

to her; 
Their clothes and fashions beggarly and 

bankinipt. 
Base, old, and scurvy. 
Bel. How looks her face"? 

3Iir. Most heavenly; 

And the becoming motion of her body 
So sets her off! 
Bel. Why then, we shall stay. 

Mir. Pardon me. 

That 's more than I know. If she be 

that woman 
She appears to be — 
Bel. As 't is impossible. 

Mir. I shall then tell ye more. 
Pin. Did ye speak to her'? 

Mir. No, no, I only saw her; she was busy. 
Now I go for that end; and mark her, 

gentlemen. 
If she appear not to ye one of the sweet- 
est, 
The handsomest, the fairest in behavior! 
We shall meet the two wenches there too ; 
they come to visit her. 



28 glade, an open- 


ing birds. 


(N. E. 


30 Trunk hose were 


dently Oriana 


Oriental woman 


ing in a wood 


D.) 




large, loose 


was attired in the 


31 common 


utilized for snar- 


29 galleon. 




breeches ; evi- 


manner of an 


wenches. 



THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 



381 



To wonder, as we do. 
Pin. Then we shall meet 'em. 

Bel. I had rather meet two beai's. 
Mir. There you may take your leaves, de- 
spatch that business, 

And, as ye find their humors — 
Pin. Is your love there too 1 

3Iir. No, certain ; she has no great heart 
to set out again. 

This is the house ; I '11 usher ye. 
Bel. I '11 bless me, 

And take a good heart, if I can. 
Mir. Come, nobly. Exeunt. 



Scene 6. A room in the same house. 

Enter the Young Man disguised as a Fac- 
tor, Rosalura, Lillia Bianca, and Oriana 
disguised as before. 

Y. Man. They are come in. Sit you two 
off, as strangers. — 
There, lady.— Where 's the boy? 

Enter Boy. 

Be ready, sirrah, 
And clear your pipes. ^- — The music now ; 
they enter. 

(Music.) 
Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 

Pin. What a state she keeps ! How far 
off they sit from her! 
How rich she is ! Aye, marry, this shows 
bravely ! 
Bel. She is a lusty wench, and may allure 
a good man ; 
But, if she have a tongi;e, I '11 not give 

twopence for her.' 
There sits my Fuiy ; liow I shake to see her ! 
Y. Man. Madam, this is the gentleman. 
Mir. How sweet she kisses ! 

She has a spring dAvells on her lips, a 

paradise ! 
This is the legacy? 
[Song by the Boy, while he presents a cas- 
ket to Mirabel.) 

From the honor'd dead I bring 
Thus his love and last olT'ring. 
Take it nobly, 't is your due, 
From a friendship ever true; 
From a faith, &c. 

Ori. Most noble sir, 

This from my now-dead brother, as his 

love. 
And grateful memory of your great bene- 
fit; 



From me my thanks, my wishes, and my 

service. 
Till I am more acquainted, I am silent ; 
Only I dare say this, — you are truly 
noble. 
Mir. What should I think? 
Pin. Think ye have a handsome fortune: 

Would I had such another! 
Ros. Ye are all well met, gentlemen ; 

We hear ye are for travel. 
Pin. You hear true, lady ; 

And come to take our leaves. 
Lil. We '11 along with ye : 

We see you are grown so witty by your 

journey, 
We cannot thoose but step out too. This 

lady 
We mean to wait upon as far as Italy. 
Bel. I'll travel into Wales, amongst the 
mountains, 
In hope they cannot find me. 
Eos. If you go further. 

So good and free society we hold ye, 
We '11 jog along too. 
Pin. Are you so valiant, lady? 

Lil. And we '11 be merry, sir, and laugh. 
Pin. It may be 

We '11 go by sea. 
Lil. Why, 't is the only voyage ! 

I love a sea-voyage, and a blust'ring tem- 
pest; 
And let all split! 
Pin. This is a dainty damosel ! — 

I think 't will tame ye. Can ye ride post? 
Lil. Oh, excellently! I am never weary 
that way : 
A hundred mile a day is nothing with me. 
Bel. I '11 travel under ground. Do you 
hear, sweet lady? 
I find it will be dangerous for a woman. 
Ros. No danger, sir, I warrant ; I love to 

be under. 
Bel. I see she will abuse me all the world 
over. — 
But say we pass through Germany, and 
drink hard? 
Ros. We '11 learn to drink, and swagger 

too. 
Bel. She '11 beat me !— 

Lady, I '11 live at home. 
Ros. And I '11 live with thee ; 

And we '11 keep house together. 
Bel. I 'II keep hounds first : 

And those I hate right heartily. 
Pin. I go for Turkey; 

And so, it may be, up into Persia. 
Lil. We cannot know too much ; I '11 travel 
with ye. 



32 throat. 



382 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Pin. And you '11 abuse me ? 
Lil. Like enouiih. 

Pin. 'T is dainty ! 

Bel. I will live in a bawdy-house. 
Eos. I dare come to ye. 

Bel. Say I am dispos'd to hang- myself"? 
Ros. There I '11 leave ye. 

Bel. I am glad I know how to avoid ye. 
Mir. May I speak yet *? 

r. Man. She beckons to ye. 
Mir. Lady, I could wish I knew to recom- 
pense, 
Even with the service of my life, those 

pains. 
And those high favors you have thrown 

upon me : 
Till I be more desertf ul in your eye, 
And till my duty shall make known I 

honor ye, 
Noblest of women, do me but this favor, 
To accei3t this back again as a poor testi- 
mony. 

{Offering the casket.) 
Ori. I must have you too with 'em; else 
the will, 
That says they must rest with ye, is in- 

fring'd, sir; 
Which, pardon me, I dare not do. 
Mir. Take me then, 

And take me with the truest love. 
Ori. 'T is certain 

My brother lov'd ye dearly, and I ought 
As dearly to preserve that love : but, sir, 
Though I were willing, these are but your 
ceremonies. 
Mir. As I have life, I speak my soul! 
Ori. I like ye : 

But how you can like me, without I have 

testimony, 
A stranger to ye — 
Mir. I '11 marry ye inmiediately ; 

A fair state I dare promise ye. 
Bel. Yet she '11 cozen thee. 

Ori. Would some fair gentleman durst 

promise for ye ! 
Mir. By all that 's good — 

Enter La Castre, Nantolet, Lugicr, and 
De Gard. 

La Cast., Nant., &c. And we '11 make up 

the rest, lady. 
Ori. Then Oriana takes ye! Nay, she has 
caught ye; 
If ye start now, let all the world cry 

shame on ye ! 
I have out-travell'd ye. 
Bel. Did not I sav she would cheat thee? 



Mir. I thank ye : I am pleas'd ye have de- 
ceiv'd nie. 
And willingly I swallow it, and joy in 't ; 
And yet, perhaps, I knew ye. Whose 
plot was this? 
Lug. He is not asham'd that cast ^^ it ; he 
that executed, 
Follow'd your fathei-'s will. 
Mir. What a world 's this ! 

Nothing but craft and cozenage! 
Ori. Who begun, sir? 

Mir. Well ; I do take thee upon mere com- 
passion ; 
And I do think I shall love thee. As a 

testimony, 
I '11 burn my book, and turn a new leaf 

over. 
But these fine clothes you shall wear still. 
Ori. I obey you, sir, in all. 

Nant. And how, how, daughters? What 
say you to these gentlemen? — 
Wliat say ye, gentlemen, to the girls? 
Pin. By my troth — if she can love me — 

Lil. How long? 

Pin. Nay, if once ye love — 

Lil. Then take me. 

And take your chance. 
Pin. Most willingly: ye are mine, lady; 

And, if I use ye not that ye may love me — ■ 
Lil. A match, i' faith. 
Pin. Why, now ye travel with me. 

Bos. How that thing stands ! 
Bel. It will, if ye urge it : 

Bless your five wits ! 
Ros. Nay, prithee, stay ; I '11 have thee. 
Bel. You must ask me leave first. 
Ros. Wilt thou use me kindly. 

And beat me but once a week? 
Bel. . If you deserve no more. 

Ros. And wilt thou get me with child? 
Bel. Dost thou ask me seriously? 
Ros. Yes, indeed, do I. 
Bel. Yes, I will get thee with child. 
Come, presently. 
An 't be but in revenge, I '11 do thee that 

courtesy. 
Well, if thou wilt fear God and me, have 
at thee! 
Ros. I '11 love ye, and I '11 honor ye 
Bel. I am pleas'd, then. 

Mir. This Wild-Goose Chase is done; we 
have won o' both sides. 
Brother, your love : and now to church of 

all hands ; 
Let 's lose no time. 
Pin. Our travelling lay by. 

Bel. No more for Italy ; for the Low Conn- 
tries, I. Exeunt. 



33 contrived. 



MIDDLETON AND ROWLEY 



THE CHANGELING 



Thomas Middlcton ( 1570?-1027 ), with a 
Cambridgo and Gray's Inn education bohind 
him, was by 1G12 writing for Henslowe, and 
about 1004 began the series of realistic 
comedies of London life whicli established his 
reputation. He also wrote a considerable 
number of masques and Lord IMavor's 
pageants, and held the post of City Cl'iron- 
ologer from 1G20 till his death. Tlie most 
striking incident of his career was connected 
with his play The Game at Chess, satirizing 
the proposed marriage of Prince Charles with 
a Spanish princess, which roused the anger 
of the Spanish ambassador and led to a war- 
rant for the arrest of the players and author. 

William Kowley (lo85^-post 1G37), an 
actor and playwright of whose life we know 
nothing, did most of his work in collabora- 
tion, with Fletcher, Dekker, Heywood, and 
others. The year 1G14, when tW Prince's 
Company, for whom Powlcy was writing, and 
the Lady Elizabeth's men, avIio had been act- 
ing Middleton's plays, were united, is the date 
assigned for the beginning of the collabora- 
tion which, next to that of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, was most fruitful of good work. 

Whatever the circumstances that brought 
Middleton and Rowley together, the partner- 
ship was a fortunate one, for it produced two 
plays of the first water, A Fair Quarrel 
(IGIG) and The Changeling (1G23). By 
1614 Middleton had written most of the 
comedies which stamp him as the chief realist 
of his time. A Mad World, My Masters, A 
Chaste Maid in Chcapside, A Trick to Catch 
the Old One, A'o Wit, No Help like a 
Woman's, racy, bustling plays of intrigue, 
the plot centering in the pursuit of a rich 
widow by a young scapegrace, or the fooling 
of a miserly father or greedy usurer, intro- 
ducing just the sort of figures that would 
come under the observation of a young lawyer 
with a keen eye for the comcdie humaine, 
prodigal sons beset by creditors, countrv 
gentlemen swindled by sharpers, widows with 
more money than prudence, old men over- 
reaching themselves in craft, knaves and 
swaggerers of every sort, constables and police 
magistrates, once an Amazon in doublet and 
hose, courtesans masquerading as fine ladies 
— all the seething underworld of London set 
forth with the veracity of first-hand ac 



383 



quaintance — plays of this kind are Middle- 
ton's contribution to the comedy of manners. 
Not a pleasant world, my masters, and de- 
picted without a touch of romance, without 
moral ideality, without a breath of the fresh 
air that blows through The Shoemakers' Iloli- 
day. 'Ihe plotting is deft, the action is brisk, 
the characters are firmly drawn, the dialogue, 
shifting easily from verse to prose and back, 
is clear and fluent. Bowley, on the other, 
liand, both in style and structure offers a 
striking contrast. His plotting is slovenly; 
the conception may be good, for the man had 
dramatic instinct, but tlie execution is fre- 
quently marred by a huddling of incident and 
violent straining for theatrical efi'ect. The 
verse exhibits the same faults; it is often 
rugged to uncouthness, shambling in meter, 
exaggerated in its ettort for distinction of 
phrase. Pvowley's humor is characteristic: 
genuine, but tending to bufi'oonery, rough and 
ready, and all too commonly depending on 
mere horseplay and on violent attempts at 
verbal cleverness, for Rowley was an inveter- 
ate bad punster. Yet with all his faults 
Ivowley displays an honesty and human sym- 
])atiiy, a capacity for iiiiagination of "the 
higher, idealizing sort, not felt in Middleton's 
more artistic product. 

An ill-assorted i)air tliis, we should be 
tenii)ted to say, with no promise of the sym- 
patliy of taste and poetic gift which made the 
union of Beaumont and Fletcher so happv. 
Yet something in each man seemed to call 
forth the best in the other, and in their first 
united work there comes an indescribable lift, 
a nobility of conception and a power to in- 
terpret life and express it in terms of poetry, 
utterly unheralded by the previous work of 
either man. A Fair Quarrel, with its prob- 
lem of the attitude of a finely grained youth 
toward a mother whose dishonor herself has 
admitted (though untruthfully, in order to 
prevent the boy from fighting a duel), and 
toward her accuser, strikes the reader as sur- 
prisingly modern in idea, and in execution 
the plot is not unworthy of the theme. But 
it is in the romantic tragedy. The Changeling, 
of the same class as Beaumont and Fletcher's 
The Maid's Tragedy and Webster's The 
Duchess of Malfi, tliat Middleton and Rowley 
reach their highest achievement and produce 
one of the greatest plays of the period. 



384 



. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



The Changeling is an illustration of the 
dual-plot construction common at the time 
in Elizahethan plays, in A Woman Killed 
with Kindness, for instance. A superbly con- 
ceived main-plot is disfigured by a trashy 
comic sub-plot, of which the best thing to 
be said is that it soon fades from memory. 
The mad-house scenes are by all critics as- 
signed to Rowley. Worthless in themselves, 
revolting to modern taste, exhibiting Row- 
ley's coarse and clumsy humor at its worst, 
they are united to the main plot in the flim- 
siest fashion ;'<the only connection between the 
two actions is that Antonio and Franciscus 
are for a time suspected of Piracquo's mur- 
der, and that the final scene is almost ruined 
by the intrusion of these buffoons. ' Tlie story 
of De Flores and Beatrice-Joanna is taken 
from God's Revenge against Murder (1G21) 
by John Reynolds, a collection of gory mur- 
der stories, while the Diaphanta episode is 
borrowed from an old French fabliau. In its 
cheap sensationalism and offensive tone this 
'latter shows the evil influence of the Fletch- 
erian romantic work in the decadence of the 
drama. There are notable differences be- 
tween Reynolds's narrative and the play, 
among them being a very decided change in 
the relations of De Flores and Beatrice, of 
which more hereafter, and a skilful compres- 
sion of the ending. In the story, Alsemero 
kills his wife and her paramour and slays 
Tomaso Piracquo by treachery. On being 
arrested and tried for the latter crime he re- 
veals the facts of Alonzo Piracquo's death, 
whereupon he is beheaded, and the bodies of 
De Flores and Beatrice exhumed and burned. 
The new ending not only ennobles Alsemero, 
but raises the sordid end of the paramours to 
the dignity of a tragic catastrophe by mak- 
ing the chief mover in the villainy the in- 
strument of just retribution. 

It is the characters that make the play 
great, and it is Rowley who introduces them. 
The first scene is undoubtedly his. The set- 
ting aside by a lady of a suitor favored by 
her father is used several times by Rowley; 
the, bad punning is in his fashion; and 
Beatrice's action in throwing her glove at De 
Flores is of a piece with the violent behavior 
of other Rowley heroines. The verse, more- 
over, betrays metrical differences from Mid- 
dleton's: it has fewer feminine endings, more 
run-on lines, is less smooth and colloquial in 
effect. But coming to the more important 
question of the conception of the charac- 
ters as they appear in this scene, it is imwise 
to give to Rowley the entire credit for a 
masterly exposition. In a fundamental mat- 
ter like characterization there must have been 
discussion and agreement between the col- 
laborators as to the lines along which the 
people should be developed. De Flores and 
Beatrice are done with extreme care, llie 
relations between them are so improbable 
that the exposition must be unusually thor- 



ough. Now almost the entire first scene is 
given to portraying the actual physical re- 
pulsion inspired in Beatrice by De Flores. 
The mere sight of the man fills her with loath- 
ing, expressed in her reception of his message, 
enforced in the following conversation with 
Alsemero, and driven sharply home by the 
glove incident. This antipathy, so dramatic 
in its conflict of wills, so provocative of curi- 
osity as to what it will lead to, is a stroke 
of genius on the part of the dramatists. 
There is no hint of it in the source, for there 
De Flores is " a gallant young gentleman," to 
whose advances Beatrice makes no resistance. 
In the handling of De Flores there is a note- 
worthy restrained power. He appears, is re- 
pulsed, retires, and is kept at the back of the 
stage until the end of the scene. Exposition 
is managed by the very lack of action, the 
situation made clear by Beatrice's scorn and 
studied neglect. With act II Middleton 
takes up the pen, and is mainly responsible 
for the conduct of the story till the final 
scene. The verse becomes more fluent and 
yet more pointed, and an even excellence of 
dialogue is maintained of which Rowley 
seemed incapable. Between the first scene 
of the act, wherein the liatred of Beatrice for 
De Flores is emphasized, and the second, in 
which she accepts him as her tool for murder, 
the contrast is striking. The second scene in 
particular is masterly in its latent power, as 
Beatrice, confident that she is mistress of 
the situation, thinks she is playing upon De 
Flores by her seeming reluctance to divulge 
the service she requires, while he accepts the 
task open-eyed, in full assurance of its pos- 
sibilities. Ffl'ective too is the laconic brevity 
of his reply to her promise of reward — "Aye, 
aye; we'll talk of that hereafter"; Beatrice 
disregards it, but its full significance ap- 
pears in the finest scene of the play, III. iv. 
Here is Beatrice, rejoicing that Piracquo is 
out of her way, and thinking only of ridding 
herself at once and forever of De Flores; and 
here is De Flores, gloating over the fact that 
she is completely in his power. How subtly 
he weaves the web of complicity about her, 
how slowly she awakens to the fearful con- 
sciousness that he is her master! How 
simple the dialogue is, but how it cuts! Not 
even when she at last imderstands his demand 
can she comprehend that there is no es- 
cape: 

Why, 't is impossible thou canst be so wicked, 

Or shelter surh a cunning cruelty 

To make hi,s death the murderer of my honor! " 

The cold logic whereby he convinces her that 
she has become " the deed's creature," and 
one with him in crime and reward is unan- 
swerable indeed. When Lamb was making 
his excerpts for his Specimens of the English 
Dramatic Poets he, oddly enough, omitted 
The Changeling, and it was left for Leigli 
Hunt to say of De Flores' conduct in this 



THE CHANGELING 



385 



scene that for " effect at once tragical, prob- 
able, and poetical it surpasses anything . . . 
in the drama of domestic lite." It is inter- 
esting that a somewhat similar situation ap- 
pears in our day in Sir A. W. Pinoros Iris. 

There is, almost inevitably, a distinct let- 
ting down with the Diaphanta episode of the 
fourth and fifth acts. The chemical test of 
virtue and the method by which Diaphanta is 
disposed of, strike us as excessively curious. 
The whole episode, indeed, is so far below the 
level of the preceding scenes that it can be 
justified only on the ground tliat it exhibits 
the swift degradation of Beatrice's character 
under the influence of De Flores. In V. i, 
we see how absolutely she accepts him as her 
equal. The introduction of Alonzo's ghost is 
a clieap device, but it calls forth a superb 
speech from De Flores: 

Ha ! what art thou that tak'st away the light 
Betwixt that star and me ? I dread thee not ; 
'T was but a mist of conscience; all's clear again. 

In the last scene " rough Rowley's Esau 
hand," in Swinburne's fine phrase, is dis- 



cernible in the more labored movement of the 
verse, the overcharged language, and the 
pliysical violence. We do not object to the 
deaths of Beatrice and De Flores — only in a 
scene of terror could such a story end. But 
it is undeniable that the solution of the 
action is inferior to the complication. 

The play stands comparison with tlie work 
of Webster and of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
vvith all but the very greatest of its time. 
Not even Webster, indeed, gave us such a 
masterly piece of character-drawing as De 
Flores; Bosola is faltering in comparison. 
Nor, though the Duchess of jMalfi and Vittoria 
Corombona are magnificent in fortitude of 
virtue and of crime respectively, is Web- 
ster's analysis of his women so profound, his 
understanding of them so thorough, as Mid- 
dleton's of Beatrice. Had the last two acts 
been written with tlie restraint and poetic 
beauty of the first tliree, it would not be with 
Webster's tragedy tliat we should be forced 
to compare The. Changeling, but with Lear 
and Macbeth and Hamlet. 



THE CHANGELING 

By THOMAS MIDDLETON and WILLIAM ROWLEY 

NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 



Vermandero, governor of the castle of Ali- 

cant, father to Beatrice. 
ToMASo De Piracquo, a noble lord. 
Alonzo De Piracquo, his brother, suitor to 

Beatrice. 
Alsemero, a nobleman, afterwards married to 

Beatrice. 
Jasperino, Ms friend. 
Alibius, a jealous doctor. 
LoLLlo, his man. 
Pedro, friend to Antonio. 



AxTONio, the changeling. 

Fraxciscus, a counterfeit madman. 

De Flores, servant to Vermandero. 

Madmen, 

Servants. 

Beatrice- Joanna, daughter to Vermandero. 

Diaphanta, her loaiting-ivoman. 

Isabella, ivife of Alibius. 

Scene. — Alicant. 



ACT L 

Scene 1. A street. 

Enter Alsemero. 

Als. 'T was in the temple where I first be- 
held her, 
And now again the same : what omen yet 
Follows of that? None but imaginai-y. 
Why should my hopes or fate be timor- 
ous? 
The place is holy, so is my intent : 
I love her beauties to the holy purpose ; 
And that, methinks, admits comparison 
With man's first creation, the place 
blessed, 



And is his right home back, if he achieve 

it. 
The church hath first begun our interview, 
And that 's the place must join us into 

one; 
So there 's beginning and perfection too. 

Enter Jasperino. 

Jas. sir, are you here"? Come, the 
wind 's fair with you ; 
You 're like to have a swift and pleasant 
passage. 
Als. Sure, you're deceived, friend, 'tis 
contrary, 
In my best judgment. 
Jas. What, for Malta ? 



386 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



If you could buy a gale amongst the 
witches, 

They could not serve you such a lucky 
penny-worth 

As comes a' God's name. 
Als. Even now I observed 

The temple's vane to turn full in my face ; 

I know it is against me. 
J as. Against you ? 

Then you know not where j^ou are. 
Als. Not well, indeed. 

Jas. Are you not Avell, sir 1 
Als. Yes, Jasperino, 

Unless there be some hidden malady 

Within me, that I understand not. 
Jas. And that 

I began to doubt,^ sir. I never knew 

Your inclinations to travels at a pause 

With any cause to hinder it, till now. 

Ashore you were wont to call your serv- 
ants up, 

And help to trap your horses for the 
speed; 

At sea I 've seen you weigh the anchor 
with 'em. 

Hoist sails for fear to lose the foremost 
breath. 

Be in continual prayers for fair winds; 

And have you ehang'd your orisons'? 
Als. No, friend; 

I keep the same church, same devotion. 
Jas. Lover I 'm sure you 're none ; the stoic 
was 

Found m you long ago ; your mother nor 

Best friends, who have set snares of 
beauty, aye, 

And choice ones too, could never trap you 
that way. 

"V\Tiat might be the cause f 
Als. Lord, how violent 

Thou art ! I was but meditating of 

Somewhat I heard within the temple. 
Jas. Is this 

Violence f 'T is but idleness compar'd 

With your haste yesterday. 
Als. I 'm all this while 

A-going, man. 

Enter Servants. 

Jas. Backwards, I think, sir. Look, 

Your servants. 

1 Ser. The seamen call; shall we board 

your trunks'? 
Als. No, not to-day. 
Jas. 'T is the critical day, it seems, and 

the sign in Aquarius. 

2 Serv. We must not to sea to-day; this 

smoke will bring forth fire. 



Als. Keep all on shore; I do not know the 

end. 
Which needs I must do, of an affair in 

hand 
Ere I can go to sea. 

1 Serv. Well, your pleasure. 

2 Serv. Let him e'en take his leisure too; 

we are safer on land. 

Exeunt Servants. 

Enter Beatrice, Diaphanta, and Servants. 
Alsemero accosts Beatrice and then kisses 
her. 

Jas. (Aside.) How now'? The laws of 
the Medes are ehang'd sure; salute a 
woman ! He kisses too ; wonderful ! 
Where learnt he this? and does it per- 
fectly too. In my conscience, he ne'er 
rehearst it before. Nay, go on ; this will 
be stranger and better news at Valencia 
than if he had ransom'd half Greece from 
the Turk. 
Beat. You are a scholar, sir"? 
A Is. A weak one, lady. 

Beat. Wliich of the sciences is this love 

you speak of? 
Als. From your tongue I take it to be 

music. 
Beat. You 're skilful in it, can sing at first 

sight. 
Als. And I have show'd you all my skill at 
once ; 
I want more words to express me further, 
And must be forc'd to repetition; 
I love you dearly. 
Beat. Be better advis'd, sir; 

Our eyes are sentinels unto our judg- 
ments, 
And should give certain judgment what 

they see ; 
But they are rash sometimes, and tell us 

wonders 
Of common things, which when our judg- 
ments find. 
They can tlien check the eyes, and call 
tliem blind. 
Als. But I am further, lady; yesterday 
Was mine eyes' emiDloyment, and hither 

now 
They brought my judgment, where are 

both agreed. 
Both houses then consenting, 't is agreed ; 
Only there wants the confirmation 
By the hand royal ; that 's your part, 
lady. 
Beat. Oh, there 's one above me, sir. — 
(Aside.) For five days past 



1 suspect. 



THE CHANGELING 



387 



To be reeall'd ! Sure mine eyes were mis- 
taken ; 

This was the man was meant me. That 
he should come 

So near his time, and miss it ! 
Jas. We might have come by the carriers 

from Valencia, I see, and sav'd all our 

sea-provision ; we are at farthest sure. 

Methinks I should do something too ; , 

I meant to be a venturer in this voyage. 

Yonder 's another vessel, I'll board her; 

If she be lawful prize, down goes her 
topsail. 

{Accosts Diaphanta.) 
Enter De Flores. 

De F. Lady, your father — 
Beat. Is in health, I hope. 

De F. Your eye shall instantly instruct 
you, lady; 
He 's coming hitherward. 
Beat. What needed then 

Your duteous preface? I had rather 
He had come unexpected ; you must stall - 
A good presence with unnecessary blab- 
bing; 
And how welcome for your part you are, 
I 'm sure you know. 
De F. (Aside.) Will 't never mend, 

this scorn. 
One side nor other? Must I be enjoin'd 
To follow still whilst she flies from me? 

Well, 
Fates, do your worst, I '11 please myself 

with sight 
Of her at all opportunities, 
If but to spite her anger. I know she 

had 
Rather see me dead than living; and yet 
She knows no cause for 't but a peevish 
will. 
Als. You seem'd displeased, lady, on the 

sudden. 
Beat. Your pardon, sir, 't is my infirmity; 
Nor can I other reason render you 
Than his or hers, of some particular thing 
They must abandon as a deadly poison, 
Which to a thousand other tastes were 

wholesome ; 
Such to mine eyes is that same fellow 

there, 
The same that report speaks of the 
basilisk.^ 
Als. This is a frequent frailty in our na- 
ture ; 
There 's scarce a man amongst a thousand 

found 
But hath his imperfection : one distastes 



The scent of roses, which to infinites 
Most pleasing is and odoriferous; 
One oil, the enemy of poison; 
Another wine, the cheerer of the heart 
And lively refresher of the countenance. 
Indeed this fault, if so it be, is general; 
There 's scarce a thing but is both lov'd 

and loath'd : 
Myself, I must confess, have the same 
frailty. 
Beat. And what may be your poison, sir? 

I 'm bold with you. 
Als. What might be your desire, perhaps; 

a cherry. 
Beat. I am no enemy to any creature 
My memory has, but yon gentleman. 
Als. He does ill to tempt your sight, if he 

knew it. 
Beat. He cannot be ignorant of that, sir, 
I have not spar'd to tell him so; and I 

want 
To help myself, since he's a gentleman 
In good respect with my 'father, and fol- 
lows him. 
Als. He 's out of his place then now. 

(They talk apart.) 

Jas. I am a mad wag, wench. 

Dia. So methinks; but for your comfort, 

I can tell you, we have a doctor in the 

city that undertakes the cure of such. 

Jas. Tush, I know what physic is best for 

the state of mine own body. 
Dia. 'T is scarce a well-govern'd state, I 

believe. 
Jas. I could show thee such a thing with 
an ingredient that we two would com- 
pound together, and if it did not tame the 
maddest blood i' th' town for two hours 
after, I '11 ne'er profess * physic again. 
Dia. A little poppy, sir, were good to 

cause you sleep. 
Jas. Poppy? I'll give thee a pop i' th' 
lips for that first, and begin there. 
Poppy is one simple ^ indeed, and cuckoo 
(what-you-call't) another. T '11 discover 
no more now; another time I '11 show thee 
all. 

Exit. 
Enter Vermandero and Servants. 

Beat. My father, sir. 

Ver. Joanna, I came to meet thee. 

Your devotion 's ended ? 
Beat. For this time, sir. — 

(Aside.) I shall change my saint, I fear 
me; I find 

A giddy turning in me. — Sir, this while 

I am beholding to this gentleman, 



2 forestall. 



3 a fabled snake whose mere glance was fatal. 



i claim skill in. 



5 medicinal herb. 



388 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Who left his own way to keep me com- 
pany, 
And in discourse I find him much desir- 
ous 
To see your castle. He hath deserv'd it, 

sir, 
If ye please to grant it. 
Ver. With all my heart, sir. 

Yet there's an article between; I must 

know 
Your country ; we use not to give sur- 
vey 
Of our chief strengths to strangers; our 

citadels 
Are plac'd conspicuous to outward view, 
On promonts' ** tops, but within our 
secrets. 
Als. A Valencian, sir. 
Ver. A Valencian'? 

That 's native, sir. Of what name, I be- 
seech youl 
Als. Alsemero, sir. 
Ver. ' Alsemero'? Not the son 

Of John de Alsemero'? 
Als. The same, sir. 

Ver. My best love bids you welcome. 
Beat. He was wont 

To call me so, and then he speaks a most 
Unfeigii'd truth. 
Ver. sir, I knew your father ; 

We two were in acquaintance long ago. 
Before our chins were worth iulan ^ 

down, 
And so continued till the stamp of time 
Had coin'd us into silver. Well, he 's 

gone ; 
A good soldier went with him. 
Als. You went together in that, sir. 
Ver. No, by Saint Jacques, I came behind 
him ; 
Yet I 've done somewhat too : an unhappy 

day 
Swallowed him at last at Gibraltar, 
In fight with those rebellious Hollanders. 
Was it not so"? 
Als. Whose death I had reveng'd. 

Or followed him in fate, had not the late 

leagrue 
Prevented me. 
Ver. Aye, aye, 't was time to breathe. — 

Joanna, I should ha' told thee news; 

1 saw Piracquo lately. 

Beat. (Aside.) That 's ill news. 

Ver. He 's hot preparing for this day of 
triumph : 
Thou must be a bride within this seven- 
night. 

Als. (Aside.) Ha! 



Beat. Nay, good sir, be not so violent; 
with speed 
I cannot render satisfaction 
Unto the dear companion of my soul, 
Virginity, whom I thus long have liv'd 

with, 
And part with it so rude and suddenly. 
Can such friends divide, never to meet 
, again. 

Without a solemn farewell'? 
Ver. Tush, tush! there's a toy.^ 

Als. (Aside.) I must now part, and never 
meet again 
With any joy on earth. — Sir, your par- 
don ; 
My affairs call on me. 
Ver. How, sir"? By no means: 

Not changed so soon, I hope? You must 

see my castle. 
And her best entertainment, e'er we part; 
I shall think myself unkindly us'd else. 
Come, come, let 's on ; I had good hope 

your stay 
Had been a while with us in Alicant ; 
I might have bid you to my daughter's 
wedding. 
Als. (Aside.) He means to feast me, and 
poisons me beforehand. — 
I should be dearly glad to be there, sir. 
Did my occasions suit as I could wish. 
Beat. I shall be soriy if you be not there 
When it is done, sir; but not so sud- 
denly. 
Ver. I tell you, sir, the gentleman 's com- 
plete, 
A courtier and a gallant, enricht 
With many fair and noble ornaments; 
I would not change him for a son-in- 
law 
For any he in Spain, the proudest he. 
And we have great ones, that you know. 
Als. He 's much 

Bound to you, sir. 
Ver. He shall be bound to me 

As fast as this tie can hold him ; I '11 want 
My will else. 
Beat. (Aside.) T shall want mine, if you 

do it. 
Ver. But come, by the way I '11 tell you 

more of him. 
Als. (Aside.) How shall I dare to ven- 
ture in his castle, 
When he discharges murderers ^ at the 

gate ■? 
But I must on, for back I cannot go. 
Beat. (Aside.) Net this serpent gone 

yet? 

(Drops a glove.) 



6 promontories'. 



7 Of the first ^owth of the beard. (N.E.D.) 



8 whim. 



B small cannon. 



THE CHANGELING 



389 



Ver. Look, girl, thy glove 's fallen. 

Stay, stay ; De Flores, help a little. 
Exeunt Vermandero, Alsemero, and 
Servants. 
De F. Here, lady. 

{Offers her the glove.) 
Beat. IVIiscliief on your officious forward- 
ness ; 
Who bade you stoop f They touch my 

hand no more : 
There! For t' other's sake I part with 
this: 
{Takes off and throws down the other 
glove.) 
Take 'em, and draw thine own skin off 
with 'em ! 
Exit with Diaphanta and Servants. 
De F. Here 's a favor come with a mis- 
chief now ! I know 
She had rather wear my pelt tann'd in a 

pair 
Of dancing pumps, than I should thrust 

my fingers 
Lito her sockets hei'e. I know she hates 

me, 
Yet cannot choose but love her. No mat- 
ter, 
If but to vex her, I will haunt her still; 
Though I get nothing else, I '11 have my 
will. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. A room in the house of Alibius. 

Enter Alibius and Lollio. 

Alib. Lollio, I must trust thee with a 
secret. 
But thou must keep it. 
Lol. I was ever close to a secret, sir. 
Alib. The diligence that I have found in 
thee. 
The care and industry already past. 
Assures me of thy good continuance. 
Lollio, I have a wife. 
Lol. Fie, sir, 't is too late to keep her se- 
cret; she's known to be married all the 
town and country over. 
Alib. Thou goest too fast, my Lollio. 
That knowledge 
I allow no man can be barr'd it ; 
But there is a knowledge which is nearer, 
Deeper, and sweeter, Lollio. 
Lol. Well, sir, let us handle that between 

you and I. 
Alib. 'T is that I go about, man. Lollio, 

My wife is young. 
Lol. So much the worse to be kept secret, 
sir. 



Alib. Why, now thou meet'st the substance 
of the point; 
I am old, Lollio. 
Lol. No, sir, 't is I am old Lollio. 
Alib. Yet why may not this concord and 
sympathize ? 
Old trees and young plants often grow 

together, 
Well enough agreeing. 
Lol. Aye, sir, but the old trees raise them- 
selves higher and broader than the young 
plants. 
Alib. Shrewd application ! There 's the 
fear, man; 
I would wear my ring on my own finger; 
Whilst it is borrowed, it is none of mine, 
But his that useth it. 
Lol. You must keep it on still then; if it 
but lie by, one or other will be thrusting 
into 't. 
Alib. Thou conceiv'st me, Lollio; here thy 
watchful eye 
Must have employment; I cannot always 

be 
At home. 
Lol. 1 dare swear you cannot. 
Alib. I must look out. 
Lol. I know 't, you must look out ; 't is 

eveiy man's case. 
Alib. Here, I do say, must thy employ- 
ment be; 
To watch her treadings, and in my ab- 
sence 
Supply my place. 
Lol. I '11 do my best, sir ; yet surely I can- 
not see who you should have cause to be 
jealous of. 
Alib. Thy reason for that, Lollio? It is 

A comfortable question. 
Lol. We have but two sorts of people in 
the house, and both under the whip, 
that 's fools ^° and madmen ; the one has 
not wit enough to be knaves, and the 
other not knavery enough to be fools. 
Alib. Aye, those are all my patients, 
Lollio ; 
I do profess the cure of either sort ; 
My trade, my living 't is ; I thrive by it : 
But here 's the care that mixes with my 

thrift : 
The daily visitants, that come to see 
My brain-sick patients, I would not have 
To see my wife. Gallants I do observe 
Of quick enticing eyes, rich in habits, 
Of stature and proportion very comely: 
These are most shrewd temptations, 
Lollio. 
Lol. They may be easily answered, sir; if 



10 idiots. 



390 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



they come to see the fools and madmen, 
you and I may serve the turn, and let 
my mistress alone ; she 's of neither sort. 
Alib. 'T is a good ward ; " indeed, come 
they to see 
Our madmen or our fools, let 'em see no 

more 
Than what they come for; by that conse- 
quent 
They must not see her ; I 'm sure she 's 
no fool. 
Lol. And I 'm sure she 's no madman. 
Alib. Hold that buckler fast; LoUio, my 
trust 
Is on thee, and I account it firm and 

strong-. 
What hour is 't, Lollio? 
Lol. Towards belly-hour, sir. 

Alib. Dinner-time'? Thou mean'st twelve 

o'clock? 
Lol. Yes, sir, for every part has his hour : 
we wake at six and look about us, that 's 
eye hour; at seven we should pray, 
that 's knee-hour : at eight walk, that 's 
leg-hour; at nine gather flowers and 
pluck a rose, that's nose-hour; at ten we 
drink, that's mouth-hour; at eleven lay 
about us for victuals, that's hand-hour; 
at twelve go to dinner, that 's belly -hour. 
Alib. Prof oundly, Lollio ! It will be long 
Ere all thy scholars learn this lesson, and 
I did look to have a new one ent'red; — 

stay, 
I think my expectation is come home. 

Enter Pedro, and Antonio disguised as an 
idiot. 



Ped. 



Save you, sir; my business speaks 
itself : 
This sight takes off the labor of my 
tongue. 
Alib. Aye, aye, sir, it is plain enough, you 
mean 
Him for my patient. 
Ped. And if your pains prove but com- 
modious, to give but some little strength 
to his sick and weak part of nature in 
him, these are {Gives him money.) but 
patterns to show you of the whole pieces 
that will follow to you, beside the charge 
of diet, washing, and other necessaries, 
fully defrayed. 
Alib. Believe it, sir, there shall no care 

be Avanting. 
Lol. Sir, an officer in this place may de- 
serve something. The trouble will pass 
through my hands. 

11 guard (in fencing). 



Fed. 'T is fit something should come to 
your hands then, sir. 

(Gives him money.) 

Lol. Yes, sir, 't is I nuist keep him sweet, 
and read to him: what is his name"? 

Ped. His name is Antonio; marry, we use 
but half to him, only Tony. 

Lol. Tony, Tony, 't is enough, and a very 
good name for a fool. — What 's your 
name, Tony? 

Ant. He, he, he! well, I thank you, cou- 
sin ; he, he, he ! 

Lol. Good boy! hold up your head. — He 
can laugh; I perceive by that he is no 
beast. 

Ped. Well, sir, 

If you can raise him but to any height, 
Any degree of wit ; might he attain. 
As I might say, to creep on but all four 
Towards the chair of wit, or walk on 

crutches, 
'T would add an honor to your worthy 

pains, 
And a great family might pray for you. 
To which he should be heir, had he dis- 
cretion 
To claim and guide his own. Assure 

you, sir. 
He is a gentleman. 

Lol. Nay, there 's nobody doubted that ; at 
first sight I knew him for a gentleman, 
he looks no other yet. 

Ped. Let him have good attendance and 
sweet lodging. 

Lol. As good as my mistress lies in, sir; 
and as you allow us time and means, we 
can raise him to the higher degree of dis- 
cretion. 

Ped. Nay, there shall no cost want, sir. 

Lol. He will hardly be stretcht up to the 
wit of a magnifieo. 

Ped. no, that 's not to be expected ; far 
shorter will be enough. 

Lol. I '11 warrant you I '11 make him fit to 
bear office in five weeks ; I '11 undertake 
to Avind him up to the wit of constable. 

Ped. If it be lower than that, it might 
serve turn. 

Lol. No, fie; to level him with a lioad- 
borough,^- beadle, or watchman, were but 
little better than he is. Constable I '11 
able ^^ him ; if he do come to be a jus- 
tice afterwards, let him thank the keeper: 
or I '11 go f ui-ther with you ; say I do 
bring him up to my own pitch, say I 
make him as wise as myself. 

Ped. Why, there I would have it. 

Lol. Well, go to; either I '11 be as arrant a 

constable. is fit him for. 



THE CHANGELING 



391 



fool as he, or he shall be as wise as I, and 

then I think 't will serve his turn. 
Fed. Nay, I do like thy wit passing well. 
Lol. Yes, you may ; yet if I had not been 

a fool, I had had more wit than I have 

too. Remember what state you found 

me in. 
Peel. I will, and so leave you. Your best 

cares, I beseech you. 

Exit Pedro. 
Alih. Take you none with you, leave 'em 

all with us. 
Ant. 0, my cousin 's gone ! cousin, cousin, 

0! 
Lol. Peace, peace, Tony; you must not 

cry, child, you must be whipt if you do; 

your cousin is here still; I am your cou- 
sin, Tony. 
Ant. He, he ! then I 'U not eiy, if thou 

be'st my cousin ; he, he, he ! 
Lol. I were best try his wit a little, that I 

may know what form ^^ to place him in. 
Alih. Aye, do, Lollio, do. 
Lol. I must ask him easy questions at 

first. — Tony, how many true ^^ fingers 

has a tailor on his right hand *? 
Ant. As many as on his left, cousin. 
Lol. Good: and how many on both? 
Ant. Two less than a deuce, cousin. 
Lol. Very well answered. I come to you 

again, cousin Tony; how many fools goes 

to a wise man? 
Ant. Forty in a day sometimes, cousin. 
Lol. Forty in a day? How prove you 

that? 
Ant. All that fall out amongst themselves, 

and go to a lawyer to be made friends. 
Lol. A joarlous fool ! he must sit in the 

fourth form at least. I perceive that. — 

I come again, Tony; how many knaves 

make an honest man? 
Ant. I know not that, cousin. 
Lol. No, the question is too hard for you. 

I 'II tell you, cousin ; there 's three knaves 

may make an honest man, — a sergeant, a 

jailor, and a beadle ; the sergeant catches 

him, the jailor holds him, and the beadle 

lashes him; and if he be not honest then, 

the hangman must cure him. 
Ant. Ha, ha, ha ! that 's fine sport, cousin. 
Alih. This was too deep a question for the 

fool, Lollio. 
Lol. Yes, this might have serv'd yourself, 

though I say 't. — Once more and you 

shall go play, Tony. 
Ant. Aye, play at push-pin,^*' cousm ; ha, 

he! 



Lol. So thou shalt: say how many fools 
are here 

Ant. Two, cousin ; thou and I. 

Lol. Nay, you 're too forward there, Tony. 
Mark my question; how many fools and 
knaves are here; a fool before a knave, 
a fool behind a knave, between every two 
fools a knave; how many fools, how 
many knaves? 

Ant. I never learnt so far, cousin. 

Alih. Thou puttest too hard questions to 
him, Lollio. 

Lol. I '11 make him understand it easily. — 
Cousin, stand there. 

Ant. Aye, cousin. 

Lol. Master, stand you next the fool. 

Alib. Well, Lollio. 

Lol. Here 's my place. Mark now, Tony, 
there 's a fool before a knave. 

Ant. That 's I, cousin. 

Lol. Here 's a fool behind a knave, that 's 
I; and between us two fools there is a 
knave, that 's my master, 't is but we 
three, that 's all. 

Ant. We three, we three, cousin. 

1 Mad. {Within.) Put's head i' th' pil- 
loiy, the bread 's too little. 

2 Mad. {Within.) Fly, fly, and he 
catches the swallow. 

3 Mad. (Within.) Give her more onion, 
or the devil put the rope about her crag.^''' 

Lol. You may hear what time of day it is, 
the chimes of Bedlam goes. 

Alih. Peace, peace, or the wire ^^ comes! 

3 Mad. { Within. ) Cat whore, cat whore ! 
her permasant, her permasant ! ^® 

Alih. Peace, I say! — Their hour's come, 
they must be fed, Lollio. 

Lol. There 's no hope of recovery of that 
Welsh madman ; was undone by a mouse 
that spoil'd him a permasant; lost his 
wits for 't. 

Alih. Go to your charge, Lollio; I'll to 
mine. 

Lol. Go you to your madmen's ward, let 
me alone with your fools. 

Alih. And remember my last charge, Lol- 
lio. 

Exit. 

Lol. Of which your patients do you think 
I am? Come. Tony, you must amongst 
your school-fellows now ; there 's pretty 
scholars amongst 'em, I can tell you; 
there 's some of 'em at stultus, stulta, 
stultum. 

Ant. I would see the madmen, cousin, if 
they would not bite me. 



14 class. 

15 honest. 



If. a child's game. 
17 neck. 



18 whip made of wire. 



19 Parmesan cheese. 



392 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lol. No, they sliall not bite thee, Tony. 

Ant. They bite when they are at dinner, 
do they not, eoz? 

Lol. They bite at dinner, indeed, Tony. 
Well, I hope to get credit by thee ; I like 
thee the best of all the scholars that ever 
I brought up, and thou shalt prove a wise 
man, or I '11 prove a fool myself. 

Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

Scene 1. An apartment in the Castle. 
Enter Beatrice and Jasperino severally. 

Beat. sir, I 'm i^eady now for that f air 

service 
Wbieh makes the name of friend sit 

glorious on you ! 
Good angels and this conduct be your 

guide ! 

{Giving a paper.) 
Fitness of time and place is there set 

down, sir. 
J as. The joy I shall return rewards my 

service. 

Exit. 

Beat. How wise is Alsemero in his friend ! 

It is a sign he makes his choice with 

judgment; 
Then I appear in nothing more approv'd 
Than making choice of him; for 'tis a 

principle, 
He that can choose 
That bosom well who of his thoughts 

partakes, 
Proves most discreet in every choice he 

makes. 
Methinks I love now with the eyes of 

judgment, 
And see the way to merit, clearly see it. 
A true deserver like a diamond sparkles ; 
In darkness you may see him, that 's in 

absence. 
Which is the greatest darkness falls on 

love; 
Yet is he best diseern'd then 
With intellectual eyesight. What 's Pi- 

racquo. 
My father spends his breath for? And 

his blessing 
Is only mine as I regard his name. 
Else it goes from me, and turns head 

against me, 
Transform'd into a curse. Some speedy 

way 



Must be rememb'red. He's so forward 
too, 

20 thin-bearded 



So urgent that way, scarce allows me 

breath 
To speak to my new comforts. 

Enter De Flores. 

De F. {Aside.) Yonder 's she; 

Whatever ails me, now a-late especially, 

I can as well be hang'd as refrain seeing 
her; 

Some twenty times a day, nay, not so 
little, 

Do I force errands, frame ways and ex- 
cuses, 

To come into her sight ; and I 've small 
reason for 't, 

And less encouragement, for she baits me 
stiU 

Eveiy time worse than other; does pro- 
fess herself 

The cruellest enemy to my face in town ; 

At no hand can abide the sight of me. 

As if danger or ill-luck hung in my 
looks. 

I must confess my face is bad enough. 

But I know far worse has better for- 
tune, 

And not endur'd alone, but doted on; 

And yet such pick-hair'd -'^ faces, chins 
like witches', 

Here and there five hairs whispering in a 
corner. 

As if they grew in fear one of another. 

Wrinkles like troughs, where swine-de- 
formity swills 

The tears of perjur}^, that lie there like 
wash 

Fallen from the slimy and dishonest 
eye,— 

Yet such a one plucks sweets without re- 
straint, 

And has the grace of beauty to his sweet. 

Though my hard fate has thrust me out 
to servitude, 

I tumbled into th' world a gentleman. 

She turns her blessed eye upon me now, 

And I '11 endure all storms before I part 
with 't. 
Beat. {Aside.) Again? 

This ominous ill-fac'd fellow more dis- 
turbs me 

Than all my other passions. 
De F. {Aside.) Now 't begins again; 

I '11 stand this storm of hail, though the 
stones pelt me. 
Beat. Thy business? What's thy busi- 
ness? 
De F. {Aside.) Soft and fair! 

I cannot part so soon now. 



THE CHANGELING 



393 



Beat. (Aside.) The villain 's fixt.— 

Thou standing toad-pool 

De F. [Aside.) The shower falls amain 

now. 
Beat. Who sent thee? What's thy er- 
rand? Leave my sight! 
De F. My lord your father charg'd me 
to deliver 
A message to you. 
Beat. What, another since? 

Do 't, and be hang'd then ; let me be rid 
of thee. 
Be F. True service merits mercy. 
Beat. What's thy message? 

De F. Let beauty settle but in patience, 

You shall hear all. 
Beat. A dallying, trifling torment ! 

De F. Signor Alcnzo de Piraequo, lady, 

Sole brother to Tomaso de Piraequo 

Beat. Slave, when wilt make an end? 
De F. Too soon I shall. 

Beat. What all this while of him? 
De F. The said Alonzo, 

With the foresaid Tomaso 

Beat. Yet again? 

De F. Is new alighted. 
Beat. Vengeance strike the news ! 

Thou thing most loath'd, what cause was 

there in this 
To bring thee to my sight? 
De F. My lord your father 

Charg'd me to seek you out. 
Beat. Is there no other 

To send his errand by? 
De F. It seems 't is my luck 

To be i' th' way still. 
Beat. Get thee from me ! 

De F. So:— 

(Aside.) Why, am not I an ass to de- 
vise ways 
Thus to be rail'd at? I must see her 

still! 
I shall have a mad qualm within this 

hour again, 
I know't; and, like a common Garden- 

bull,2i 
I do but take breath to be lugg'd ^- again. 
What this may bode I know not ; I '11 de- 
spair the less, 
Because there 's daily precedents of bad 

faces 
Belov'd beyond all reason. These foul 

chops 
May come into favor one day 'mongst 

their fellows. 
Wrangling has prov'd the mistress of 
good pastime ; 



As children cry themselves asleep, I ha' 

seen 
Women have chid themselves a-bed to 

men. 

Exit. 
Beat. I never see this fellow but I think 
Of some harm towards me; danger's in 

my mind still; 
I scarce leave trembling of an hour after. 
The next good mood I find my father in, 
I '11 get him quite discarded. 0, I was 
Lost in this small disturbance, and forgot 
Affliction's fiercer torrent that now comes 
To bear down all my comforts! 

Enter Vermandero, Alonzo, and Tomaso. 

Ver. You 're both welcome, 

But an especial one belongs to j^ou, sir, 
To whose most noble name our love pre- 
sents 
Th' addition of a son, our son Alonzo. 
Alan. The treasury of honor cannot bring 
forth 
A title I should more rejoice in, sir. 
Ver. You have improv'd it well. — Daugh- 
ter, prepare ; 
The day will steal upon thee suddenly. 
Beat. (Aside.) Howe'er, I will be sure 
to keep the night, 
If it should come so near me. 
(Beatrice and Vermandero talk apart.) 
Tom. Alonzo? 

Alon. - Brother? 

Tom. In troth I see small welcome in her 

eye. ' 

Alon. Fie, you are too severe a censurer 
Of love in all points, there 's no bringing 

on you. 
If lovers should mark everything a fault. 
Affection wovild be like an ill-set book, 
Whose faults might prove as big as half 
the volume. 
Beat. That's all I do entreat. 
Ver. It is but reasonable; 

I '11 see what my son says to 't. — Son 

Alonzo, 
Here is a motion made but to reprieve 
A maidenhead three days longer; the re- 
quest 
Is not far out of reason, for indeed 
The former time is pinching. 
Alon. Though my joys 

Be set back so much time as I could Avish 
They had been forward, yet since she de- 
sires it. 
The time is set as pleasing as before, 
I find no gladness wanting. 



21 The sport of biill-baiting was carried on in Paris Garden on.lhe.Bflnkside. 



22 dragged by the ear. 



394 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Ver. May I ever 

Meet it in that point still ! You 're nobly 
welcome, sirs. 

Exit with Beatrice. 
Tom. So ; did you mark the dulness of her 

parting now"? 
Alon. What dulness? Thou art so excep- 
tions still ! 
Tom. Why, let it go then ; I am but a fool 

To mark your harms so heedfully. 
Alon. Where's the oversight ■? 

Tom. Come, your faith 's cozened in her, 
strongly cozened. 
Unsettle your affection with all speed 
Wisdom can bring it to; your j)eaee is 

ruin'd else. 
Think what a torment 'tis to marry one 
\Aniose heart is leapt into another's 

bosom : 
If ever pleasure she receive from thee, 
It comes not in thy name, or of thy gift ; 
She lies but with another in thine arms, 
He the half-father unto all thy children 
In the conception; if he get 'em not, 
She helps to get 'em for him ; and how 

dangerous 
And shameful her restraint may go ir 

time to, 
It is not to be thought on without suffer- 
ings. 
Alon. Yovi speak as if she lov'd some 

other, then. 
Tom. Do you apprehend so slowly? 
Alon. Nay, an that 

Be your fear onljs I am safe enough. 
Preserve your friendship and your coun- 
sel, brother, 
For times of more distress ; I should de- 
part 
An enemy, a dangerous, deadly one, 
To any but thyself, that should but think 
She knew the meaning of inconstancy, 
Much less the use and practice : yet we 're 

friends. 
Pray, let no more be urg'd ; I can endure 
Much, till I meet an injuiy to her. 
Then I am not myself. Farewell, sweet 

brother ; 
How much we 're bound to Heaven to 
depart lovingly. Exit. 

Tom. Why, here is love's tame madness; 
thus a man 
Quickly steals into his vexation. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. Another apartment in the 

Castle. 

Enter Diaphanta and Alsemero. 



Dia. The place is my charge; you have 
kept your hour. 
And the reward of a just meeting bless 

you ! 
I hear my lady coming. Complete gen- 
tleman, 
I dare not be too busy with my praises, 
They're dangei'ous things to deal with. 

Exit. 
Als. This goes well ; 

These women are the ladies' cabinets, 
Things of most precious trust are lockt 
into 'em. 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. I have within mine eye all my de- 
sires. 

Requests that holy prayers ascend 
Heaven for, 

And brings 'em down to furnish our de- 
fects, 

(^ome not more sweet to our necessities 

Than thou unto my wishes. 
Als. We 're so like 

In our expressions, lady, that unless I 
borrow 

The same words, I shall never find their 
equals. 
Beat. How happy were this meeting, this 
embrace, 

If it were free from en^'y ! This poor 
kiss 

It has an enemy, a hateful one, 

That wishes poison to 't. How well were 
I now, 

If there were none such name knoAvn as 
Piracquo, 

Nor no such tie as the command of par- 
ents ! 

I should be but too much bless'd. 
Als. One good service 

Would strike off both your fears, and 
I '11 go near 't too. 

Since you are so distrest. Remove the 
cause. 

The command ceases; so there's two 
fears blown out 

With one and the same blast. 
Beat. Pray, let me find you,-^ sir: 

What might that service be, so strangely 
happy? 
Als. The honorablest piece about man, 
valor : 

T '11 send a challenge to Piracquo in- 
stantly. 
Beat. How? Call you that extinguishing 
of fear. 



23 get your meaning. 



THE CHANGELING 



395 



When 't is the only way to keep it flam- 
ing^ 
Are not you ventured in the action, 
That 's all my joys and comforts? Pray, 

no more, sir. 
Say you prevail' d, you 're danger's and 

not mine then ; 
The law would claim you from me, or 

obscurity 
Be made the grave to bury you alive. 
I 'm glad these thoughts come forth ; 0, 

keep not one 
Of this condition, sir! Here was a 

course 
Found to bring sorrow on her way to 

death ; 
The tears would ne'er ha' dried, till dust 

had chok'd 'em. 
Blood-giiiltiness becomes a fouler vis- 
age;— 
(Aside.) And now I think on one; I 

was to blame, 
I ha' marr'd so good a market with my 

scorn; 
'T had been done cjuestionless : the ugliest 

creature 
Creation f ram'd for some use : yet to see 
I could not mark so much where it should 

be! 
Als. Lady—; — 
Beat. (Aside.) Why, men of art make 

much of poison. 
Keep one to expel another. Where was 

my art? 
Als. Lady, you hear not me. 
Beat. I do especially, sir. 

The present times are not so sure of our 

side 
As those hereafter may be; we must use 

'em then 
As thrifty folks their wealth, sparingly 

now, 
Till Ihe time opens. 
Als. You teach wisdom, lady. 

Beat. Within there! Diaphanta! 

Re-enter Diaphanta. 

Dia. Do you call, madam? 

Beat. Perfect your service, and conduct 
this gentleman 
The private way you brought him. 
Dia. ' I shall, madam. 

Als. My love 's as firm as love e'er built 
upon. 

Exit with Diaphanta. 
Enter De Flores. 
De F. (Aside.) I've watcht this meet- 
ing, and do wonder much 

24 preened, trimmed. 



What shall become of t'other; I'm sure 

both 
Cannot be serv'd unless she transgress; 

haply 
Then I '11 j^ut in for one; for if a woman 
Fly from one point, from him she makes 

a husband. 
She spreads and mounts then like arith- 
metic ; 
One, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten 

thousand. 
Proves in time sutler to an army royal. 
Now do I look to be most richly rail'd at. 
Yet I nmst see her. 
Beat. (Aside.) Why, put case I 

loath'd him 
As much as youth and beauty hates a 

sejDidchre, 
Must I needs show it? Cannot I keep 

that secret. 
And serve my turn upon him ? See, he 's 

here. — 
De Flores. 
De F. (Aside.) Ha, I shall run mad 
with joy! 
She call'd me fairly by my name De 

Flores, 
And neither rogue nor rascal. 
Beat. What ha' you done 

To your face a' late ? You 've met with 

some good physician ; 
You 've prun'd -* yourself, methmks : 

you were not wont 
To look so amorously. 
De F. ' Not I;— 

(Aside.) 'T is the same physnomy, to a 

hair and pimple. 
Which she called scurvy scarce an hour 

ago : 
How is this? 
Beat. Come hither; nearer, man. 

De F. (Aside.) I'm up to the chin in 

Heaven ! 
Beat. Turn, let me see; 

Faugh, 't is but the heat of the liver, I 

perceive 't ; 
I thoiight it had been worse. 
De F. (Aside.) Her fingers toucht me! 

She smells all amber.-^ 
Beat. I '11 make a water for you shall 
cleanse this 
Within a fortnight. 
De F. With your own hands, lady? 

Beat. Yes, mine own, sir; in a work of 
cure 
I '11 trust no other. 
De F. (Aside.) 'T is half an act of 

pleasure 

25 ambergris. 



396 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



To hear her talk thus to me. 
Beat. When we 're us'd 

To a hard face, it is not so unpleasing: 

It mends still in opinion, hourly mends; 

I see it by experience. 
De F. {Aside.) I was blest 

To li^ht upon this minute; I'll make use 
on 't. 
Beat. Hardness becomes the visage of a 
man well; 

It argues service, resolution, manhood. 

If cause were of employment. 
De F. 'T would be soon seen 

If e'er your ladyship had cause to use it ; 

I would but wish the honor of a service 

So happy as that mounts to. 
Beat. We shall try you.— 

my De Flores! 

De F. (Aside.) How's that? She 

calls me hers 
Already! My De Flores! — You were 

about 
To sigh out somewhat, madam 1 
Beat. No, was 1*? 

1 forgot —0 ! 

De F. There 'tis again, the very fellow 

on 't. 
Beat. You are too quick, sir. 
De F. There's no excuse f or 't now; I 
heard it twice, madam; 
That sigh would fain have utterance : 

take pity on 't. 
And lend it a free word. 'Las, how it 

labors 
For liberty ! I hear the murmur yet 
Beat at your bosom. 

Beat. Would creation 

De F. Aye, well said, that is it. 
Beat. Had form'd me man ! 

De F. Nay, that 's not it. 
Beat. O, 't is the soul of freedom ! 

I should not then be fore'd to marry 

one 
I hate beyond all depths; I should have 

power 
Then to oppose my loathings, nay, re- 
move 'em 
For ever from my sight. 

De F. (Aside.) blest occasion ! 

Without change to your sex you have 

your wishes ; 
Claim so much man in me. 
Beat. In thee, De Flores'? 

There is small cause for that. 
De F. Put it not from me, 

It is a service that I kneel for to you. 
(Kneels.) 
Beat. You are too violent to mean faith- 
fully. 



There 's horror in my service, blood, and 

danger ; 
Can those be things to sue fori 
De F. If you knew 

How sweet it were to me to be employed 
In any act of yours, you would s'ay then 
I fail'd, and us'd not reverence enough 
When I receive [d] the charge on 't. 
Beat. (Aside.) This is much, 

Methinks; belike his wants are greedy; 

and 
To such gold tastes like angel's food. 
Rise. 
De F. I '11 have the work first. 
Beat. (Aside.) Possible his need 

Is strong upon him. — There 's to en- 
courage thee; 

(Gives money.) 
As thou art forward, and thy service 

dangerous, 
Thy reward shall be precious. 
De F. That I 've thought on ; 

I have assur'd myself of that before- 
hand. 
And know it will be precious; the 
thought ravishes ! 
Beat. Then take him to thy fury! 
De F. I thirst for him. 

Beat. Alonzo de Piracquo. 
De F. (Rising.) His end's upon him; 

He shall be seen no more. 
Beat. How lovely now 

Dost thou appear to me! Never w^s 

man 
Dearlier rewarded. 
De F. I do think of that. 

Beat. Be wondrous careful in the execu- 
tion. 
De F. Whv, are not both our lives upon 

the cast? 
Beat. Then I throw all my fears upon thy 

service. 
De F. They ne'er shall rise to hurt you. 
Beat. When the deed 's done, 

I '11 furnish thee with all things for thy 

flight : 
Thou may'st live bravely in another 
country. 
De F. Aye, aye; 

We '11 talk of that hereafter. 
Beat. (Aside.) I shall rid myself 

Of two inveterate loathing-s at one time, 
Piracquo, and his dog-face. 

Exit. 
De F. my blood! 

Methinks I feel her in mine arms al- 
ready ; 
Her wanton fingers combing out this 
beard, 



THE CHANGELING 



397 



And, being pleased, praising- this bad 

face. 
Hunger and pleasure, tliey'll commend 

sometimes 
Slovenly dishes, and feed heartily on 

'em. 
Nay, which is stranger, refuse daintier 

for 'em : 
Some women are odd feeders. — I am too 

loud. 
Here comes the man goes supperless to 

bed, 
Yet shall not rise to-morrow to his din- 
ner. 

Enter Alonzo. 

Alon. De Flores. 

Be F. My kind, honorable lord"? 

Alon. I'm glad I ha' met with thee. 

De F. ^ Sir? 

Alon. Thou canst show me 

The full strength of the castle? 
De F. That I can, sir. 

Alon. I much desire it. 
De F. And if the ways and straits 

Of some of the passages be not too tedi- 
ous for you, 
I '11 assure you, worth your time and 
sight, my lord. 
Alon. Pooh, that shall be no hindrance. 
De F. I 'm your servant, then. 

'T is now near dinner-time; 'gainst your 

lordship's rising 
I '11 have the keys about me. 
Alon. Thanks, kind De Flores. 

De F. (Aside.) He's safely thrust upon 
me beyond hopes. 

Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene 1. A narrow passage in the Castle. 

Enter Alonzo and De Flores. In the 
act-time -® De Flores hides a naked 
rapier. 

De Flores. Yes, here are all the keys; I 
was afraid, my lord, 
I 'd wanted for the postern, this is it. 
I 've all, I 've all, my lord : this for the 
sconce. ^'^ 
Alon. 'T is a most spacious and impreg- 
nable fort. 
De F. You '11 tell me more, my lord. 
This descent 
Is somewhat narrow, we shall never pass 
Well with our weapons, they '11 but trou- 
ble us. 



Alon. Thou say est true. 
De F. Pray, let me help your lordship. 
Alon. 'T is done : thanks, kind De Flores. 
De F. Here are hooks, my lord. 

To hang such things on purpose. 
(Hanging up his own sword and that of 

Alonzo.) 
Alon. Lead, I '11 follow thee. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. A vault. 

Enter Alonzo and De Flores. 

De F. All this is nothing; you shall see 
anon 
A place you little dream on. 
Alon. I am glad 

I have this leisure; all your master's 

house 
Imagine I ha' taken a gondola. 
De F. All but myself, sir;, — (Aside.) 
which makes up my safety. 
My lord, I '11 place you at a casement 

here 
Will show you the full strength of all the 

castle. 
Look, spend your eye awhile upon that 
object. 
Alon. Here 's rich variety, De Flores. 
De F. Yes, sir. 

Alon. Goodly munition. 
De F. -A^ye, there 's ordnance, sir, 

No bastard metal, will ring you a peal 

like bells 
At great men's funerals. Keep your eye 

straight, my lord ; 
Take special notice of that sconce before 

you, 
There you may dwell awhile. 
(Takes the rapier which he had hid behind 

the door.) 
Alon. I am upon 't. 

De F. And so am I. 

(Stabs him.) 
Alon. De Flores! De Flores! 

Whose malice hast thou put on % 
De F. Do you question 

A work of secrecy? I must silence you. 
(Stabs him.) 
Alon. 0, 0, 0! 

De F. I must silence you. 

(Stabs him.) 
So here 's an undertaking well aceom- 

plish'd. 
This vault serves to good use now : ha, 

what 's that 
Threw sparkles in my eye? 0, 'tis a 
diamond 



26 between the acts. 



27 small fort. 



398 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



He wears upon bis iingei'; 'twas well 

found ; 
This will approve the work.-^ What, so 

fast on? 
Not part in death? I'll take a speedy 

course then. 
Finger and all shall off. {Cuts off the 

finger.) So, now, I'll clear 
The passages from all suspect or fear. 

Exit with body. 

Scene 3. An apartment in the house of 
Alibius. 

Enter Isabella and Lollio. 

Isa. Why, sirrah, whence have you com- 
mission 

To fetter the doors against me? 

If you keep me in a cage, pray, whistle 
to me, 

Let me be doing something. 
Lol. You shall be doing, if it please you; 

I '11 whistle to you, if you '11 pipe after. 
Isa. Is it your master's pleasure, or your 
own. 

To keep me in this pinfold ? -^ 
Lol. 'T is for my master's pleasure, lest 

being taken in another man's corn, you 

might be pounded ^*^ in another place. 
Isa. 'T is veiy well, and he '11 prove veiy 

wise. 
Lol. He says you have company enough 

in the house, if you please to be sociable, 

of all sorts of people. 
Isa. Of all sorts? Why, here's none but 

fools and madmen. 
Lol. Very well : and where will you find 

any other, if you should go abroad? 

There 's my master and I to boot too. 
Isa. Of either sort one, a madman and a 

fool. 
Lol. I would ev'n participate of both then 

if I were as you ; I know yon 'I'c half 

mad already, be half foolish too. 
Isa. You 're a brave saucy rascal ! Come 
on, sir, 

Afford me then the pleasure of your bed- 
lam. 

You were commending once to-day to me 

Your last-come lunatic; what a proper ^^ 

Body there was without brains to guide 

it, 
And what a pitiful delight appear'd 
In that defect, as if your wisdom had 

found 
A mirth in madness; pray, sir, let rne 

partake. 
If there be such a pleasure. 



Lol. If I do not show you the handsomest, 
disereetest madman, one that I may call 
the understanding madman, then say I 
am a fool, 

Isa. Well, a match, I will say so. 

Lol. When you have had a taste of the 
madman, you shall, if you please, see 
Fool's College, o' th' other side. I sel- 
dom lock there; 'tis but shooting a bolt 
or two, and you are amongst 'em. {Exit. 
Enter presently.) — Come on, sir; let me 
see how handsomely you '11 behave your- 
self now. 

Enter Franciscus. 

Fran. How sweetly she looks ! 0, but 
there 's a wrinkle in her brow as deep as 
philosophy. Anacreon, drink to my mis- 
tress' health, I '11 pledge it. Stay, stay, 
there 's a spider in the cup ! No, 't is but 
a grape-stone; swallow it, fear nothing, 
poet ; so, so, lift higher. 

Isa. Alack, alack, it is too full of pity 
To be laught at! How fell he mad? 
Canst thou tell? 

Lol. For love, mistress. He was a pretty 
poet, too, and that set him forwards 
first ; the muses then forsook him ; he ran 
mad for a chambermaid, yet she was but 
a dwarf neither. 

Fran. Hail, bright Titania ! 

Why stand'st thou idle on these flow'ry 

banks? 
Oberon is dancing with his Dryades; 
I '11 gather daisies, primrose, violets. 
And bind them in a verse of poesy. 

Lol. (Holding up a whip.) Not too 
near! You see your danger. 

Fran. 0, hold thy hand, great Diomede ! 
Thou feed'st thy horses well, tliey shall 

obey thee : 
Get up, Bucephalus kneels. 
{Kneels.) 

Lol. You see how I awe my flock; a shep- 
herd has not his dog at more obedience. 

Isa. His conscience is unquiet; sure that 
was 
The cause of this : a proper gentleman ! 

Fran. Come hither, iEsculapius; hide the 
poison. 

Lol. Well, 't is hid. 

{Hides the whip.) 

Fran. Didst thou ne'er hear of one 
Tiresias, 
A famous poet? 

Lol. Yes, that kept tame wild geese. 

Fran. That 's he ; I am the man. 



28 prove that the 
work has been 



done. (BuUen.) fining 

20 a pound for con- tie. 



stray cat- 30 confined in 
pound. 



31 handsome. 



THE CHANGELING 



399 



Lol. No? 

Fran. Yes ; but make no words on 't. 1 
was a man 
Seven years ago. 
Lol. A stripling, I think, you might. 

Fran. Now I 'm a woman, all feminine. 
Lol. I would I might see that ! 
Fran. Juno struck me blind. 
Lol. I'll ne'er believe that; for a woman, 

they say, has an eye more than a man. 
Fran. I say she struck me blind. 
Lol. And Luna made you mad : you have 

two trades to beg with. 
Fran. Luna is now big-bellied, and there 's 
room 
For both of us to ride with Hecate; 
I '11 drag thee up into her silver sphere. 
And there we '11 kick the dog — and beat 

the bush ^- — 
That barks against the witches of the 

night ; 
The swift lyeanthropi ^^ that walks the 

round, 
We '11 tear their wolvish skins, and save 
the sheep. 
{Attempts to seize Lollio.) 
Lol. Is't come to this"? Nay, then, my 
poison comes forth agam. (Showing the 
whip.) Mad slave, indeed, abuse your 
keeper ! 
Isa. I prithee, hence with him, now he 

grows dangerous. 
Fran. [Sings.) 

Sweet love, pity me, 
Give me leave to lie with thee. 
Lol. No, I '11 see you wiser first. To your 

own kennel! 
Fran. No noise, she sleeps; draw all the 
curtains round, 
Let no soft sound molest the pretty soul 
But love, and love creeps in at a mouse- 
hole. 
Lol. I would you would get into your 
hole! [Exit Franciscus.) — Now, mis- 
tress, I will bring you another sort; j'ou 
shall be fool'd another while. (Exit, and 
brings in Antonio.) — Tony, come hither, 
Tony: look who's yonder, Tony. 
Ant. Cousin, is it not my aunf?^* 
Lol. Yes, 't is one of 'em, Tony. 
Ant. He, he! how do you, uncle? 
Lol. Fear him not, mistress, 't is a gentle 
nigget ; ^^ you may play with him, as 
safely with him as with his bauble. 
Isa. How long hast thou been a fool? 
Ant. Ever since I came hither, cousin. 
Isa. Cousin? I'm none of thy cousins, 
fool. 



Lol. 0, mistress, fools have always so 

much wit as to claim their kindred". 
Madman. (Within.) Bounce, bounce! he 

falls, he falls ! 
Isa. Hark you, your scholars in the upper 
room 
Are out of order. 
Lol. Must I come amongst you there? — 
Keep you the fool, mistress ; I '11 go up 
and play left-handed Orlando amongst 
the madmen. 

Exit. 
Isa. Well, sir. 

Ant. 'T is opportuneful now, sweet lady ! 
nay, 
Cast no amazing eye upon this change. 
Isa. Ha ! 

Ant. This shape of folly shrouds your 
dearest love. 
The truest servant to your powerful 

beauties. 
Whose magic had this force thus to trans- 
form me. 
Isa. You 're a fine fool indeed ! 
Ant. 0, 'tis not strange! 

Love has an intellect that runs through 

all 
The scrutinous ^'^ sciences; and, like a 

cunning poet. 
Catches a quantity of every knowledge. 
Yet brings all home into one mystery. 
Into one secret that he proceeds in. 
Isa. You 're a parlous fool. 
Ant. No danger in me; I bring nought 
but love 
And his soft-wounding shafts to strike 

you with. 
Try but one arrow; if it hurt you, I 
Will stand you twenty back in recom- 
pense. 

(Kisses her.) 
Isa. A forward fool too ! 
Ant. This was love's teaching: 

A thousand ways he fashion'd out my 

way, 
And this I found the safest and the 

nearest, 
To tread the galaxia to my star. 
Isa. Profound withal ! certain you 
dream'd of this. 
Love never taught it waking. 
Ant. Take no acquaintance 

Of these outward follies, there 's within 
A gentleman that loves you. 
Isa. When I see him, 

I '11 speak with him ; so, in the meantime, 
keep 



32 the doK and the 


man in the moon. 


wolf-madness. Cf. 


34 bawd 


thorn bush be- 


33 afflicted with ly- 


Duchess of Malfi, 


35 idiot. 


longing to the 


canthropia, or 


V. ii. 


36 exact. 



400 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Your habit, it becomes you well enough. 

As you 're a gentleman, I '11 not discover 
you; 

That 's all the favor that you must ex- 
pect. 

When you are weaiy, you may leave the 
school, 

For all this while you have but play'd 
the fool. 

Re-enter Lollio. 

Ant. And must again. — He, he! I thank 
you, cousin; 
I '11 be your valentine 4;o-morrow morn- 
ing. 

Lol. How do you like the fool, mistress*? 

Isa. Passing Avell, sir. 

Lol. Is he not witty, pretty well, for a 
fool? 

Isa. If he holds on as he begins, he 's like 
To come to something. 

Lol. Aye, thank a good tutor. You may 
put him to't; he begins to answer pretty 
hard questions. — Tony, how many is five 
times six? 

Ant. Five times six is six times five. 

Lol. What arithmetician could have an- 
swer'd better? How many is one hun- 
dred and seven? 

Ant. One hundred and seven is seven hun- 
dred and one, cousin. 

Lol. This is no wit to speak on ! — Will 
you be rid of the fool now? 

Isa. By no means ; let him stay a little. 

Madman. (WUhin.) Catch there, catch 
the last couple in hell ! ^^ 

Lol. Again! must I come amongst you? 
Would my master were come home ! I 
am not able to govern both these wards 
together. Exit. 

Ant. Why should a minute of love's hour 
be lost? 

Isa. Fie, out again ! I had rather you 
kept 
Your other posture ; you become not your 

tongue 
When you speak from ^^ your clothes. 

Ant. How can he freeze 
Lives near so sweet a warmth? Shall I 

alone 
Walk through the orchard of th' Hes- 

perides, 
And, cowardly, not dare to pull an 
apple? 

Enter Lollio above. 



This with the red cheeks I must venture 
for. 

{Attempts to kiss her.) 
Isa. Take heed, there 's giants keep 'em. 
Lol. {Aside.) How now, fool, are you 
good at that? Have you read Lipsius? "^ 
He's past Ars Amandi; I believe I must 
put harder questions to him, I j^erceive 
that. 
Isa. You 're bold without fear too. 
Ant. _ _ What should I fear. 

Having all joys about me? Do you 

smile, 
And love shall play the wanton on your 

lip. 
Meet and retire, retire and meet again ; 
Look you but cheerfully, and in your 

eyes 
I shall behold mine own deformity. 
And dress myself up faii'er. I know this 

shape 
Becomes me not, but in those bright mir- 
rors 
I shall array me handsomely. 
{Cries of madmen are heard within, some 

as birds, others as beasts.) 
Lol. Cuckoo, cuckoo ! 

Exit, above. 

Ant. What are these? 

Isa. Of fear enough to part us; 

Yet are they but our schools of lunatics, 

That act their fantasies in any shapes, 

Suiting their present thoughts: if sad, 

they crj'; 
If mirth be their conceit, they laugh 

again : 
Sometimes they imitate the beasts and 

birds, 
Singing or howling, braying, barking; 

all 
As their wild fancies prompt 'em. 

Enter Lollio. 

Ant. These are no fears. 

Isa. But here 's a large one, my man. 

Ant. Ha, he ! that 's fine sport, indeed, 
cousin. 

Lol. I would my master were come home ! 
'T is too much for one shepherd to gov- 
ern two of these flocks; nor can I be- 
lieve that one churchman can instruct 
two benefices at once; there will be some 
incurable mad of the one side, and very 
fools on the other. — Come, Tony. 

Ant. Prithee, cousin, let me stay here still. 



37 An allusion to the 
gcime of barley- 
break, the ground 
for which was di- 



vided into three 
coiniiartments. of 
which the middle 
one was termed 



"hell." (Ellis.) 

3S foreiiin to. 

39 A Flemish schol- 
ar of the six- 



teenth century; 
introduced only 
for the pun on 
lip. 



THE CHANGELING 



401 



Lol. No, you must to your book now ; you 

have play'd sufliciently. 
Isa. Your fool has grown wondrous witty. 
Lul. Well, I'll say nothing: but I do not 
think but he will put you down one of 
these days. 

Exit with Antonio. 
Isa. Here the restrained current might 
make breach, 
Spite of the watchful bankers. Would a 

woman stray, 
She need not gad abroad to seek her sin, 
It would be brought home one way or 

another : 
The needle's point will to the fixed north ; 
Such drawing arctics women's beauties 
are. 

Re-enter Lollio. 

Lol. How dost thou, sweet rogue? 

Isa. How nowf 

Lol. Come, there are degrees; one fool 

may be better than another. 
Isa. "What's the matter? 
Lol. Nay, if thou giv'st thy mind to fool's 

flesh, have at thee ! 
Isa. You bold slave, you ! 
Lol. I could follow now as t' other fool 

did: 

"What should I fear. 

Having all joys about me? Do you but 
smile, 

And love shall play the wanton on your 

Meet and retire, retire and meet again ; 
Look you but cheerfully, and in your 

eyes 
I shall behold my own deformity, 
And dress myself up fairer. I know 

this shape 
Becomes me not — " 

And so as it follows: but is not this the 
most foolish way? Come, sweet rogue; 
kiss me, my little Lacedaemonian ; let me 
feel how thy pulses beat. Thou hast a 
thing about thee would do a man pleas- 
ure, I '11 lay my hand on 't. 
Isa. Sii'rah, no more! I see you have dis- 
covered 
This love's knight errant, who hath made 

adventure 
For purchase *° of my love : be silent, 

mute, 
Mute as a statue, or his injunction 
For me enjoying, shall be to cut thy 

throat ; 
I '11 do it, though for no other purpose ; 

and 



Be sure he '11 not refuse it. 
Lol. My share, that 's all ; 

I '11 have my fool's part with you. 
Isa. No more ! Your master. 



Enter Alibius. 



Alib 
Isa. 
Alib 
Isa. 
Alib 



Sweet, how dost thou? 

Your bounden servant, sir. 

Fie, fie, sweetheart, no more of that. 
You were best lock me up. 

In my arms and bosom, my sweet 

Isabella, 
I '11 lock thee up most nearly. — Lollio, 
We have employment, we have task in 

hand. 
At noble Vermandero's, our castle's cap- 
tain, 
There is a nuptial to be solemniz'd — 
Beatrice-Joanna, his fair daughter, 

bride, — 
For which the gentleman hath bespoke 

our pains, 
A mixture of our madmen and our fools, 
To finish, as it were, and make the fag *^ 
Of all the revels, the third night from 

the first ; 
Only an unexpected passage over, 
To make a frightful pleasure, that is all, 
But not the all I aim at. Could we so 

act it, 
To teach it in a wild distracted measure. 
Though out of form and figure, breaking 

time's head, 
It were no matter, 't would be heal'd 

again 
In one age or other, if not in this: 
This, this, Lollio, there 's a good reward 

begun. 
And will besret a bounty, be it known. 
Lol. This is easy, sir, I '11 warrant you : 
you have about you fools and madmen 
that can dance very well ; and 't is no 
wonder, your best dancers are not the 
wisest men ; the reason is, with often 
jumping they jolt their brains down into 
their feet, that their wits lie more in 
their heels than in their heads. 
Alib. Honest Lollio, thou giv'st me a 

good reason, 
And a comfort in it. 
Isa. You 've a fine trade on 't. 

Madmen and fools are a staple commod- 
ity. 
Alib. wife, we must eat, wear clothes, 

and live. 
Just at the lawyer's haven we arrive, 
By madmen and by fools we both do 

thrive. Exeunt. 



40 winning. 



41 end. 



402 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Scene 4. An apartment in the Castle. 

Enter Vermanclero, Beatrice, Alsemero, 
and Jasperino. 

Ver. Valencia speaks so nobly of you, sir, 

I wish I had a daughter now for you. 
Als. The fellow of this creature were a 
pai'tner 
For a king's love. 
Ver. I had her fellow once, sir, 

But Heaven has married her to joys 

eternal ; 
'T were sin to wish her in this vale again. 
Come, sir, your friend and you shall see 

the pleasures 
Which my health chiefly joys in. 
Als. I hear 

The beauty of this seat largely com- 
mended. 
Ver. It falls much short of that. 

Exit with Alsemero and Jasperino. 

Beat. So, here 's one step 

Into my father's favor; time will fix him; 

I 've got him now the liberty of the 

house. 
So wisdom, by degrees, works out her 

freedom ; 
And if that eye be dark'ned that offends 

me, — 
I wait but that eclipse, — this gentleman 
Shall soon shine glorious in m.y father's 

liking, 
Through the refulgent virtue of my love. 

Enter De Flores. 

Be F. {Aside.) My thoughts are at a 
banquet; for the deed, 
I feel no weight in 't ; 't is but light and 

cheap 
For the sweet recompense that I set down 
for 't. 
Beat. De Flores? 
De F. Lady"? 

Beat. Thy looks promise cheerfully. 

De F. All things are answerable, time, cir- 
cumstance. 
Your wishes, and my service. 
Beat. Is it done, then? 

De F. Piracquo is no more. 
Beat. My joys start at mine eyes; our 
sweel'st delights 
Are evermore born weeping. 
De F. I 've a token for you. 

Beat. Forme? 

De F. But it was sent somewhat unwill- 
ingly; 
I could not get the ring without the 
finger. 

42 casket. 



{Produces the finger and ring.) 
Beat. Bless me, what hast thou done? 
De F. Why, is that more 

Than killing the whole man? I cut his 

heart-strings ; 
A gi'eedy hand thrust in a dish at court, 
In a mistake hath had as nuich as this. 
Beat. 'T is the first token my father made 

me send him. 
De F. And I have made him send it back 
again 
For his last token. I w^as loth to leave it, 
And I 'm sure dead men have no use of 

jewels ; 
He was as loth to part with 't, for it 

stuck 
As if the flesh and it were both one sub- 
stance. 
Beat. At the stag's fall, the keeper has his 
fees; 
'T is soon appli'd, all dead men's fees are 

yours, sir. 
I pray, bury the finger, but the stone 
You may make use on shortly; the true 

value. 
Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred 
ducats. 
De F. 'T will hardly buy a capcase ^^ for 
one's conscience though, 
To keep it from the worm, as fine as 't is. 
Well, being my fees, I '11 take it ; 
Great men have taught me that, or else 

my merit 
Would scorn the way on 't. 
Beat. It might justly, sir. 

Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores ; 't is not 

given 
In state *^ of recompense. 
De F. No, I hope so, lady ; 

You should soon witness my contempt 
to 't then. 
Beat. Prithee, — thou look'st as if thou 

wert offended. 
De F. That were strange, lady; 'tis not 
possible 
My service should draw such a cause from 

you. 
Offended! Could you think so? That 

were much 
For one of my performance, and so warm 
Yet in my service. 
Beat. 'T were misery in me to give you 

cause, sir. 
De F. I know so much, it were so; misery 

In her most sharp condition. 
Beat. 'T is resolv'd then ; 

Look you, sir, here 's three thousand 
golden florins ; 

4S instead of. 



THE CHANGELING 



403 



I have not meanly thought upon thy 
merit. 
DeF. What ! salary ? Now you move me. 
Beat. How, De Flores"? 

De F. Do you place me ua the rank of ver- 
minous fellows, 
To destroy things for wages ? Offer gold 
For the life-blood of man"? Is anything 
Valued too precious for my recompense? 
Beat. I understand thee not. 
Be F. I could ha' hir'd 

A journeyman in murder at this rate, 
And mine own conscience might have 

[slept at ease],** 
And have had the work brought home. 
Beat. {Aside.) I 'm in a labyrinth; 

What will content him ? I 'd fain be rid 

of him. — 
I '11 double the sum, sir. 
De F. You take a course 

To double my vexation, that 's the good 
you do. 
Beat. (Aside.) Bless me, I'm now in 
worse plight than I was ; 
I know not what will please him. — For 

my fear's sake, 
I prithee, make away with all speed pos- 
sible ; 
And if thou be'st so modest not to 

name 
The sum that will content thee, paper 

blushes not, 
Send thy demand in writing, it shall fol- 
low thee; 
But, prithee, take thy flight. 
De F. You must fly too, then. 

Beat. I? 

De F. I '11 not stir a foot else. 
Beat. What's your meaning"? 

De F. Wliy, are not you as guilty"? In, 
I 'm sure. 
As deep as I ; and we should stick to- 
gether. 
Come, your fears counsel you but ill ; my 

absence 
Would draw suspect upon you instantly; 
There were no rescue for you. 
Beat. (Aside.) He speaks home ! 

De F. Nor is it fit we two, engag-'d so 
jointly, 
Should part and live asunder. 
Beat. How now, sir"? 

This shows not well. 
De F. Wliat makesyour lip so strange"? 

This must not be 'twixt us. 
Beat. The man talks wildly ! 

De F. Come, kiss me with a zeal now. 
Beat. (Aside.) Heaven, I doubt him! 

44 Added in an edition of 1816. 



De F. I will not stand so long to beg 'em 

shortly. 
Beat. Take heed, De Flores, of forgetful- 

ness, 
'T will soon betray us. 
De F. Take you heed first; 

Faith, you're grown nuicli forgetful, 

you 're to blame in 't. 
Beat. (Aside.) He's bold, and I am 

blam'd for't. 
De F. I have eas'd you 

Of your trouble, think on it; I am in 

pain. 
And must be eas'd of*^ you; 'tis a 

charity : 
Justice invites your blood to understand 

me. 
Beat. I dare not. 
De F. Quickly ! 

Beat. 0, I never shall! 

Speak it yet further off, that I may lose 
What has been siDoken, and no sound re- 
main on 't ; 
I would not hear so much offence again 
For such another deed. 
De F. Soft, lady, soft ! 

The last is not yet paid for. 0, this act 
Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy 

on't 
As the parcht earth of moisture, when the 

clouds weep. 
Did you not mark, I wrought myself 

into 't, 
Nay, su'd and kneel'd for't"? Why was 

all that pains took? 
You see I 've thrown contempt uiDon your 

gold ; 
Not that I want it not, for I do piteously, 
In order I '11 come unto 't, and make use 

on 't. 
But 't was not held so precious to begin 

with, 
For I place wealth after the heels of 

pleasure ; 
And were not I resolv'd in my belief 
That thy virginity were perfect in thee, 
I should but take my recompense with 

grudging, 
As if I had but half my hopes I agreed 

for. 
Beat. Wliy, 't is impossible thou canst be 

so wicked, 
Or shelter such a cunning cruelty, 
To make his death the murderer of my 

honor! 
Thy language is so bold and vicious, 
I cannot see which way I can forgive it 
With any modesty. 

45 by. 



404 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Be F. Pish ! you forget yourself ; 

A woman dipt in blood, and talk of mod- 
esty ! 
Beat. misery of siu ! would I 'd been 
bound 
Perpetually unto my living- hate 
In that Piracquo, than to hear these 

words ! 
Think but upon the distance that creation 
Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep 
thee there. 
De F. Look but into your conscience, read 
me there ; 
'T is a true book, you '11 find me there 

your equal. 
Pish ! fly not to your birth, but settle you 
In what the act has made you ; you 're no 

more now. 
You nuist forget your parentage to me; 
You're the deed's creature; by that name 
You lost your first condition, and I chal- 
lenge you. 
As peace and innocency has tuni'd you 

out. 
And made you one with me. 
Beat. With thee, foul villain ! 

De F. Yes, my fair murd'ress. Do you 
urge me, 
Though thou writ'st maid, thou whore in 

thy affection"? 
'T was chang'd from thy first love, and 

that 's a kind 
Of whoredom in thy heart ; and he 's 

chang'd now 
To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero, 
Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness 

tasted, 
If I enjoy thee not, thou ne'er enjoy'st ! 
I '11 blast the hopes and joys of marnage, 
I '11 confess all ; my life I rate at nothing. 
Beat. De Flores! 

De F. I shall rest from all love's 

plagues then ; 
I live in pain now ; that shooting eye 
Will burn my heart to cinders. 
Beat. sir, hear me ! 

De F. She that in life and love refuses 
me, 
In death and shame my partner she shall 
be. 
Beat. (Kneeling.) Stay, hear me once for 
all; I make thee master 
Of all the wealth I have in gold and 

jewels ; 
Let me go poor unto my bed with honor. 
And I am rich in all things! 
De F. Tjet this silence thee : 

The wealth of all Valencia shall not buy 
My pleasure from me ; 



Can you weep Fate from its determin'd 
purpose ? 

So soon may you Aveep me. 
Beat. Vengeance begins; 

Murder, I see, is followed by more sins. 

Was my creation in the womb so curst, 

It must engender with a viper first 1 
De F. {Raising her.) Come, rise and 
shroud your bluslies in my bosom ; 

Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts : 

Thy peace is wrought for ever in this 
yielding. 

'Las ! how the turtle pants ! Thou 'It love 
anon 

What thou so fear'st and faiut'st to ven- 
ture on. 

Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Dumb Show. 
Filter Gentlemen, Vcnnandero meeting 
them icitJi action of wonderment at the 
flight of Piracquo. Enter Alsemero with 
Jasperino and gallants: Vermandero 
points to him, the gentlemen seeming to 
applaud the choice. Alsemero, Jasper- 
ino, and Gentlemen; Beatrice the bride 
following in great state, accompanied 
with Diaphanta, Isabella, and other gen- 
tlewomen; De Flores after all, smiling at 
the accident: Alonzo's ghost appears to 
De Flores in the midst of his smile, 
startles him, showing him the hand whose 
finger he had cut off. They pass over in 
great solemnity. 

Scene 1. Alsemero's apartment in the 
Castle. 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. This fellow has undone me end- 
lessly ; 
Never was bride so fearfully distrest. 
The more I think upon th' ensuing night. 
And whom I am to co]ie with in embraces. 
One who 's ennobled both in blood and 

mind. 
So clear in understanding, — that 's my 

]ilague now — 
Before whose judgment will my fault 

appear 
Like malefactors' crimes before tribunals. 
There is no hiding on 't, the more T dive 
Into my own distress. How a wise man 
Stands' for a great calamity! There's 

no venturing 
Into his bed, what course soe'er I light 
upon, 



THE CHANGELING 



405 



Without my shame, which may grow up 

to danger. 
He cannot but in justice strangle me 
As I lie by him ; as a cheater use me ; 
'T is a precious craft to play with a false 

die 
Before a cunning gamester. Here 's his 

closet ; 
The key left in 't, and he abroad i' th' 

park ! 
Sure 't was forgot ; I '11 be so bold as look 

in't. 

{Opens closet.) 
Bless me ! a right physician's closet 't is, 
Set round with vials; every one her 

mark too. 
Sure he does pi'actise physic for his own 

use, 
Which may be safely eall'd your great 

man's wisdom. 
What manuscrii^t lies here? "The Book 

of Experiment, 
CalFd Secrets in Nature." So 't is : 't is 

so. 

(Reads.) 
"How to know whether a woman be with 

child or no." 
I hope I am not yet; if he should try 

though ! 
Let me see (reads) "folio forty-five," 

here 't is, 
The leaf tuckt down upon 't, the place 

suspicious. 

(Reads.) 
"If you would know whether a woman be 
with child or not, give her two spoonfuls 
of the white water in glass C — " 
Where 's that glass C? yonder, I see 't 
now — (reads) "and if she be with child, 
she sleeps full twelve hours after; if not, 
not :" 

None of that water comes into my belly; 
I '11 know yoii from a hundred ; I could 

break you now, 
Or turn you into milk, and so beguile 
The master of the mystery ; but I '11 look 

to you. 
Ha ! that which is next is ten times worse : 

(Reads.) 
"How to know whether a woman be a 
maid or not :" 

If that should be appli'd, what would be- 
come of me"? 
Belike he has a strong faith of my purity, 
That never yet made proof; but this he 

calls 

(Reads.) 
"A merry slight,'**' but true experiment; 

46 trick. 



the author Antonius Mizaldus. Give the 
party you suspect the quantity of a 
spoonful of the water in the glass M, 
which, upon her that is a maid, makes 
three several effects ; 't will make her in- 
continently ■*' gape, then fall into a sud- 
den sneezing, last into a violent laughing ; 
else, dull, heavy, and lumpish." 
Where had I been ? 
I fear it, yet 't is seven hours to bed-time. 

Enter Diaphanta. 

Dia. Cuds, madam, are you here ? 
Beat. Seeing that wench now, 

A trick comes in my mind ; 't is a nice 

piece 
Gold cannot purchase. (Aside.) — I come 

hither, wench. 
To look my lord. 
Dia. Would I had such a cause 

To look him too ! — Why, he 's i' th' park, 
madam. 
Beat. There let him be. 
Dia. Aye, madam, let him compass 

Whole parks and forests, as great rangers 

do, 
At roosting-time a little lodge can hold 

'em. 
Eai'th-eonquering Alexander, that 

thought the world 
Too narrow for him, in th' end had but 
his pit-hole. 
Beat. I fear thou art not modest, Dia- 
phanta. 
Dia. Your thoughts are so unwilling to be 
known, madam. 
'T is ever the bride's fashion, toward bed- 
time. 
To set light by her joys, as if she ow'd 
'em not. 
Beat. Her joys? Her fears thou wouldst 

say. 
Dia. Fear of what? 

Beat. Art thou a maid, and talk'st so to a 
maid ? 
You leave a blushing business behind ; 
Beshrew your heart for 't ! 
Dia. Do you mean good sooth, madam ? 

Beat. Well, if I 'd thought upon the fear 
at first, 
Man should have been unknown. 
Dia. Is 't possible? 

Beat. I 'd give a thousand ducats to that 
woman 
Would try what my fear were, and tell 

me true 
To-morrow, when she gets from 't ; as she 
likes, 

47 immediately. 



406 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



I might perhaps be drawn to 't. 
Dia. Are you in earnest ? 

Beat. Do you get the woman, then chal- 
lenge me. 
And see if I '11 fly from 't ; but I must 

tell you 
This by the way, she must be a true maid ; 
Else there 's no trial, my fears are not 
her's else. 
Dia. Nay, she that I would put into your 
hands, madam, 
Shall be a maid. 
Beat. You know I should be sham'd else. 

Because she lies for me. 
Dia. 'T is a strange humor ! 

But are you serious still? Would you 

resign 
Youi" first night's pleasure, and give 
money too ? 
Beat. As wullingly as live. — (Aside.) 
Alas, the gold 
Is but a by-bet to wedge in the honor! 
Dia. I do not know how the world goes 
abroad 
For faith or honesty ; there 's both re- 

quir'd in this. 
Madam, what say you to me, and stray 

no fui'ther? 
I 've a good mind, in troth, to earn your 
money. 
Beat. You are too quick, I fear, to be a 

maid. 
Dia. How f Not a maid ? Nay, then you 
urge me, madam; 
Your honorable self is not a truer. 
With all your fears upon you — 
Beat. (Aside.) Bad enough then. 

Dia. Then I with all my lightsome joys 

about me. 
Beat. I 'm glad to hear 't. Then you dare 
put your honesty '^^ 
Upon an easy trial. 
Dia. Easyf Anything. 

Beat. I '11 come to you straight. 
(Goes to the closet.) 
Dia. She will not search me, will she, 

Like the forewoman of a female jury'? 
Beat. Glass M: aye, this is it. (Brings 
vial.) Look, Diaphanta, 
You take no worse than I do. 
(Drinks.) 
Dia. And in so doing, 

I will not question wliat it is, but take it. 
(Drinks.) 
Beat. (Aside.) Now if th' experiment be 
true, 't will praise itself, 
And give me noble ease: begins already; 
(Diaphanta gapes.) 



There's the fii'st symjitom; and what 

haste it makes 
To fall into the second, there by this 
time ! 

(Diaphanta sneezes.) 
Most admirable secret ! on the contraiy. 
It stirs not me a whit, which most con- 
cerns it. 
Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Beat. (Aside.) Just in all things, and in 
order 
As if 't were circumserib'd ; one acci- 
dent "» 
Gives way unto another. 
Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! 
Beat. How now, wench? 
Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! I 'm so — so light 

At heart — ha, ha, ha ! — so pleasurable I 
But one swig more, sweet madam. 
Beat. Aye, to-morrow. 

We shall have time to sit by 't. 
Dia. Now I 'm sad ^^ again. 

Beat. (Aside.) It laj's itself so gently 
too ! — Come, wench. 
Most honest Diaphanta I dare call thee 
now. 
Dia. Pray, tell me, madam, what trick call 

you this? 
Beat. I'll tell thee all hereafter; we must 
study 
The carriage of this business. 
Dia. 1 shall cany 't well. 

Because I love the burthen. 
Beat. About midnight 

You must not fail to steal forth gently, 
That I may use the place. 
Dia. O, fear not, madam, 

I shall be cool by that time. The bride's 

place. 
And with a thousand ducats ! I 'm for a 

justice now, 
I bring a portion ^^ with me; I scorn 
small fools. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2. Another apartment in the 
Castle. 

Enter Vermandero and Servant. 

Ver. I tell thee, knave, mine honor is in 
question, 
A thing till now free from suspicion. 
Nor ever was there cause. Who of my 

gentlemen 
Are absent? Tell me, and truly, how 
many and who? 
Ser. Antonio, sir, and Franciscus. 
Ver. When did they leave the castle? 



48 chastity. 



18 symptom. 



BO serious. 



51 i. e. marriage portion. 



THE CHANGELING 



407 



Ser. Some ten days since, sir; the one in- 
tending to 

Brianiata, th' other for Valencia. 
Ver. The time accuses 'em; a charge of 
nuircler 

Is brought within my castle-gate, Pirac- 
quo's murder; 

I dare not answer ^- faithfully their ab- 
sence. 

A strict command of apprehension ^^ 

Shall pursue 'em suddenly, and either 
wipe 

The stain off clear, or oiJenly discover ^* 
it. 

Provide me winged warrants for the pur- 
I^ose. 

Exit Servant. 

See, I am set on again. 

Enter Tomaso. 

Tom. I claim a brother of you. 

Ver. You 're too hot ; 

Seek him not here. 
Tom: Yes, 'mongst your dearest bloods, 

If my peace find no fairer satisfaction. 
This is the place must yield account for 

him, 
For here I left him ; and the hasty tie 
Of this snatcht marriage gives strong 

testimony 
Of his most certain ruin. 
Ver. Certain falsehood ! 

This is the place indeed ; his breach of 

faith 
Has too much marr'd both my abused 

love. 
The honorable love I reserv'd for him. 
And mockt my daughter's joy; the pre- 

pai"'d morning 
Blusht at his infidelity ; he left 
Contempt and scora to throw upon those 

friends 
Whose belief hurt 'em. 0, 't was most 

ignoble 
To take his flight so unexpectedly. 
And throw such public wrongs on those 

that lov'd him ! 
Tom. Then this is all your answer f 
Ver. 'T is too fair 

For one of his alliance; and I warn you 
That this place no more see you. 

Exit. 
Enter Be Flores. 

Tom. The best is. 

There is more ground to meet a man's re- 
venge on. — 
Honest be Flores? 



De F. That 's my name indeed. 

Saw you the bride? Good sweet sir, 
which way took she? 
Tom. I 've blest mine eyes from seeing 

such a false one. 
De F. (Aside.) I'd fain get off, this 
man 's not for my company ; 
I smell his brother's blood when I come 
near him. 
Tom. Come hither, kind and true one; I 
remember 
My brother lov'd thee well. 
De F. 0, purely, dear sir ! — 

{Aside.) Methinks I'na now again 

a-killing on him. 
He brings it so fresh to me. 
Tom. Thou canst guess, sirrah — 

An honest friend has an instinct of jeal- 
ousy — 
At some foul guilty person. 
De F. Alas! sir, 

I am so charitable, I think none 
Worse than myself! You did not see the 
bride then ? 
Tom. I prithee, name her not : is she not 

wicked? 
De F. No, no ; a pretty, easy, round-packt 
sinner. 
As vour most ladies are, else you might 

"think 
I flattered her; but, sir, at no hand 

wicked, 
Till they 'I'e so old their chins and noses ^^ 

meet. 
And they salute witches. I 'm call'd, I 

think, sir. — 
{Aside.) His comjDany ev'n overlays my 
conscience. 

Exit. 
Tom. That De Flores has a wondrous hon- 
est heart ! 
He '11 bring it out in time, I 'm assur'd 

on't. 
0, here 's the glorious master of the day's 

joy! 
'T will not be long till he and I do 
reckon. — 



Enter Alsemero. 



Sir. 



Als. You 're most welcome. 

Tom. You may call that word back; 

I do not think I am, nor wish to be. 
Als. 'T is strange you found the way to 

this house, then. 
Tom. Would I 'd ne'er known the cause ! 

I 'm none of those, sir. 



52 account for. 

53 arrest. 



54 reveal. 



55 Dyce's correction for the quarto reading sins and %)iccs. 



408 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



That come to give you joy, and swill 

your wine; 
'T is a more precious liquor that must lay 
The fiery thirst I bring-. 
Als. Your words and you 

Appear to me great strangers. 
Tom. Time and our swords 

May make us more acquainted. This the 

business : 
I should have had a brother in your 

place; 
How treachery and malice have dispos'd 

of him, 
I 'm bound to inquire of him which holds 

his right, 
Which never could come fairly. 
Als. You must look 

To answer for that word, sir. 
Tom. Fear you not, 

I '11 have it ready di-awn at our next meet- 
ing. 
Keep your day solemn; farewell, I dis- 
turb it not ; 
I '11 bear the smart with patience for a 
time. 

Exit. 
Als. 'T is somewhat ominous this; a quar- 
rel ent'red 
Upon this day ; my innocence relieves me, 

Enter Jasperino. 

I should be wondrous sad else. — Jasper- 
ino, 
I 've news to tell thee, strange news. 
.Jas. I ha' some too 

I think as strange as yours. Would I 

might keep 
Mine, so my faith and friendship might 

be kept in 't ! 
Faith, sir, dispense a little with my zeal, 
And let it cool in this. 
Als. This puts me on. 

And blames thee for thy slowness. 
Jas. All may prove nothing. 

Only a friendly fear that leapt from me, 

sir. 
Als. No question, 't may prove nothing; 

let 's partake it though. 
Jas. 'T was Diaphanta's chance — for to 

that wench 
I pretend ^^ honest love, and she deserves 

it— 
To leave me in a back part of the house, 
A place we chose for private conference. 
She was no sooner gone, but instantly 
I heard your bride's voice in the next 

room to me ; 



And lending more attention, found De 

Flores 
Louder than she. 
Als. De Flores! Thou art out now. 

Jas. You '11 tell me more anon. 
Als. Still I'll prevent ^^ thee, 

The very sight of him is poison to her. 
Jas. That made me stagger too; but Dia- 
phanta 
At her return confirm'd it. 
Als. Diaphanta ! 

Jas. Then fell we both to listen, and words 
past 
Like those that challenge interest in a 
woman. 
Als. Peace: quench thy zeal, 'tis danger- 
ous to thy bosom. 
Jas. Then truth is full of peril. 
Als. Such truths are. 

0, were she the sole glory of the earth. 
Had eyes that could shoot fire into king's 

breasts. 
And toucht,^^ she sleeps not here ! Yet I 

have time. 
Though night be near, to be resolv'd 

hereof ; 
And, prithee, do not weigh me by my 
passions. 
Jas. I never weigh'd friend so. 
Als. Done charitably! 

That key will lead thee to a pretty secret, 

{Giving key.) 
By a Chaldean taught me, and I have 
My study upon some. Bring from my 

closet 
A glass inscrib'd there with the letter M, 
And question not my purpose. 
Jas. It shall be done, sir. 

Exit. 
Als. How can this hang together"? Not 
an hour since 
,Her woman came pleading her lady's 

fears, 
Deliver'd her for the most timorous vir- 
gin 
That ever shrunk at man's name, and so 

modest. 
She charg'd her weep out her request to 

me. 
That she might come obscurely to my 
bosom. 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. (Aside.) All things go well; my 
woman's preparing yonder 

For her sweet voyage, which gneves me 
to lose ; 

Necessity compels it ; I lose all, else. 



56 profess. 



."jT anticipate. 



58 polluted, 



THE CHANGELING 



409 



Als. (Aside.) Pish! modesty's shrine is 
set in yonder forehead : 
I cannot be too sure though. — My Jo- 
anna ! 
Beat. Sir, I was bold to weep a message to 
you; 
Pardon my modest fears. 
Als. The dove's not meeker; 

(Aside.) She's abus'd, questionless. 

Re-enter Jasperino with vial. 

0, are you come, sir? 
Beat. (Aside.) The glass, upon my life! 

I see the letter. 
Jos. Sir, this is M. (Giving vial.) 

Als. 'T is it. 

Beat. (Aside.) I am suspected. 

Als. How fitly our bride comes to partake 

with us ! 
Beat. What is 't, my lord ? 
Als. No hurt. 

Beat. Sir, pardon me, 

I seldom taste of any composition. 
Als, But this, upon my warrant, you shall 

venture on. 
Beat. I fear 't will make me ill. 
Als. Heaven forbid that. 

Beat. (Aside.) I'm put now to my cun- 
ning: th' effects I know. 
If I can now but feign 'em handsomely. 
(Drinks.) 
Als. It has that secret virtue, it ne'er mist, 
sir, 
Upon a virgin. 
Jas. Treble-qualitied ? 

(Beatrice gapes and sneezes.) 
Als. By all that 's virtuous it takes there ! 

proceeds ! 
Jas. This is the strangest trick to know a 

maid by. 
Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! 

You have given me joy of heart to drink, 
my lord. 
Als. No, thou hast given me such joy of 
heart, 
That never can be blasted. 
Beat. What's the matter, sir'? 

Als. (Aside.) See now 'tis settled in a 
melancholy ; 
Keeps both the time and method. — My 

Joanna, 
Chaste as the breath of Heaven, or morn- 
ing's womb, 
That brings the day forth ! thus my love 
encloses thee. 

Exeunt. 



Scene 3. A room in the house of Alibius. 
Enter Isabella and Lollio. 

Isa. Heaven ! is this the waning moon % 
Does love turn fool, run mad, and all at 

once? 
Sirrah, here 's a madman, akin to the fool 

too, 
A lunatic lover. 

Lol. No, no, not he I brought the letter 
from ? 

Isa. Compare his inside with his out, and 
tell me. 

Lol. The out 's mad, I 'm sure of that ; I 
had a taste on 't. (Reads letter.) "To 
the bright Andromeda, chief chambermaid 
to the Knight of the Sun, at the sign of 
Scorpio, in the middle region, sent by the 
bellows-mender of iEolus. Pay the 
post." This is stark madness ! 

Isa. Now mark the inside. (Takes the let- 
ter and reads.) "Sweet lady, having now 
east off this counterfeit cover of a mad- 
man, I appear to your best judgment a 
true and faithful lover of your beauty." 

Lol. He is mad still. 

Isa. (Reads.) "If any fault you find, 
chide those perfections in you which have 
made me imperfect ; 't is the same sun 
that eauseth to grow and enforceth to 
wither — " 

Lol. rogue! 

Isa. (Reads.) "Shapes and transhapes, 
destroys and builds again. I come in 
winter to you, dismantled of my proper 
ornaments ; by the sweet splendor of your 
cheerful smiles, I spring and live a 
lover." 

Lol. Mad rascal still! 

Isa. (Reads.) "Tread him not under 
foot, that shall appear an honor to your 
bounties. I remain — mad till I speak 
with you, from whom I expect my cure, 
yours all, or one beside himself, Fran- 
ciscus." 

Lol. You are like to have a fine time on 't. 
My master and I may give over our pro- 
fessions ; I do not think but you can cure 
fools and madmen faster than we, with 
little pains too. 

Isa. Very likely. 

Lol. One thing I must tell you, mistress: 
you perceive that I am privy to your 
skill ; if I find you minister once, and set 
up the trade, I put in for my thirds; I 
shall be mad or fool else. 

Isa. The first place is thine, believe it, 
Lollio, 
If I do falL 



410 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lol. I fall upon you. 

Isa. So. 

Lol. Well, I stand to my venture. 

laa. But thy counsel now; how shall I deal 
with 'euil 

Lul. Why, do you mean to deal with 'em"? 

Isa. Nay, the fair understanding,-''''-* how 
to use 'em. 

Lol. Abuse ^° 'em ! That 's the way to 
mad the fool, and make a fool o£ the 
madman, and then you use 'era kindly. 

la. 'T is easy, I'll practise; do thou ob- 
serve it. 
The key of thy wardrobe. 

Lol. There (Gives key.) ; fit yourself for 
'em, and I '11 fit 'em both for you. 

Isa. Take thou no further notice than the 
outside. 

Exit. 

Lol. Not an inch ; I '11 put you to the in- 
side. 

Enter Alibius. 

Alib. Lollio, art there 1 Will all be per- 
fect, think'st thou"? 
To-morrow night, as if to close up the 
Solemnity, Vermandero expects us. 
Lol. I mistrust the madmen most ; the 
fools will do well enough ; I have taken 
pains with them. 
Alib. Tush! tKey cannot miss; the more 
absurdity. 
The more commends it, so no rough be- 
haviors 
Affright the ladies; they're nice ^^ things, 
thou know'st. 
Lol. You need not fear, sir; so long as we 
are there with our commanding pizzles,®^ 
they '11 be as tame as the ladies them- 
selves. 
Alib. I '11 see them once more rehearse be- 
fore they go. 
Lol. I was about it, sir: look you to the 
madmen's morris, and let me alone with 
the other. There is one or two that I mis- 
trust their fooling; I'll instruct them, 
and then they shall rehearse the whole 
measure. 
Alib. Do so; I'll see the nmsic prepar'd : 
but, Lollio, 
By the way, how does my wi fe brook her 

restraint ? 
Does she not grudge at it "? 
Lol. So, so ; she takes some pleasure in the 
house, she would abroad else. You must 
allow her a little more length, she 's kept 
too short. 



Alib. She shall along to Vermandero's 
with us. 
That will serve her for a month's liberty. 
Lol. What's that on your face, sir*? 
Alib. Where, Lollio"? I see nothing. 
Lol. Cry you mercy ,'"'3 sir, 'tis your nose; 
it show'd like the trunk of a young ele- 
phant. 
Alib. Away, rascal! I'll prepare the 
music, Lollio. 

Exit. 
Lol. Do, sir, and I '11 dance the whilst. — 
Tony, where art thou, Tony*? 

Enter Antonio. 

Ant. Here, cousin; where art thou? 

Lol. Come, Tony, the footman ship I 
taught you. 

Ant. I had rather ride, cousin. 

Lol. Aye, a whip take you ! but I '11 keep 
you out ; vault in : look you, Tony ; fa, la, 
la, la, la. 

(Dances.) 

Ant. Fa, la, la, la, la. 

(Sings and dances.) 

Lol. There, an honor.^* 

Ant. Is this an honor, eoz"? 

Lol. Yes, an it please your worship. 

Ant. Does honor bend in the hams, coz"? 

Lol. Marry does it, as low as worship, 
squireship, nay, yeomaniy itself some- 
times, from whence it first stiffened : 
there rise, a caper. 

Ant. Caper after an honor, coz'? 

Lol. Very proper, for honor is but a caper, 
rises as fast and high, has a knee or two, 
and falls to th' ground again. You can 
remember your figure, Tony"? 

Ant. Yes, cousin ; when I see thy figure, I 
can remember mine. 

Exit Lollio. 

Re-enter Isabella dressed as a madwoman. 

Isa. Hey, how he treads the air ! Shough, 
shough, t' other way ! he burns his wings 
else. Here 's wax enough below, Icarus, 
more than will be cancelled these eighteen 
moons. He 's down, he 's down ! what a 
terrible fall he had! Stand up, thou son 
of Cretan Daedalus, 
And let us tread the lower labyrinth; 
T '11 bring thee to the clue. 

Ant. Prithee, coz, let me alone. 

Isa. Art thou not drown'd? 

About thy head T saw a heap of clouds 
Wrapt like a Tui'kish turban ; on thy back 
A crookt chameleon-color'd rainbow hung 
Like a tiara down unto thy hams. 



59 take the words in their modest sense. 



on deceive. 
Ci delicate. 



62 whips. 

63 beg pardon. 



04 bow. 



THE CHANGELING 



411 



Let me suck out those billows in thy 

belly; 
Hark, how they roar and rumble in the 

straits ! ^^ 
Bless thee from the pirates ! 
Ant. Pox upon you, let me alone ! 
Isa. Why shouldst thou mount so high 
as Mei'cury, 
Unless thou hadst reversion of his place? 
Stay in the moon with me, Eudymion, 
And we will rule these wild rebellious 

waves, 
That would have drown'd my love. 
Ant. ' I '11 kick thee, if 

Again thou touch me, thou wild unshapen 

antic ; 
I am no fool, you bedlam ! 
Isa. But you are, as sure as I am, mad. 
Have I i3ut on this habit of a frantic, 
With love as full of fury, to beguile 
The nimble eye of watchful jealousy. 
And am I thus rewarded"? 
Ant. Ha! dearest beauty! 

Isa. No, I have no beauty now, 

Nor ever had but what was in my gar- 
ments. 
You a quick-sighted lover! Come not 

near me: 
Keep your cajiarisons, you 're aptly clad; 
I came a feigner, to return stark mad. 

Exit. 
Ant. Stay, or I shall change condition, 
And become as you are. 

Re-enter Lollio. 

Lol. Why, Tony, whither now? Why 

fool— 
Ant. Whose fool, usher of idiots? You 
coxcomb ! 
I have fool'd too much. 
Lol. You were best be mad another while 

then. 
Ant. So I am, stark mad; I have cause 
enough ; 
And I could throw the full effects on thee. 
And beat thee like a fury. 
Lol. Do not, do not ; I shall not forbear 
the gentleman under the fool, if you do. 
Alas! I saw through your fox-skin be- 
fore now ! Come, I can give you com- 
fort; my mistress loves you; and there 
is as arrant a madman i' th' house as you 
are a fool, your rival, whom she loves 
not. If after the masque we can rid her 
of him, you earn her love, she says, and 
the fool shall ride her. 
Ant. May I believe thee? 



Lol. Yes, or you may choose whether you 

will or no. 
Ant. She 's eas'd of him ; I 've a good 

quarrel on 't. 
Lol. Well, keep your old station yet, and 

be quiet. 
Ant. Tell her I will deserve her love. 

Exit. 
Lol. And you are like to have your desert. 

Enter Franciscus. 

Fran, (sings.) ''Down, down, down, a-down 
a-down," — and then with a horse- 
trick 
To kick Latona's forehead, and break her 
bow-string. 

Lol. This is t' other counterfeit ; I '11 put 
him out of his humor. {Aside. Takes 
out a letter and reads.) ''Sweet lady, 
having now cast this counterfeit cover of 
a madman, I appear to your best judg- 
ment a true and faithful lover of your 
beauty." This is pretty well for a mad- 
man. 

Fran. Ha ! what 's that ? 

Lol. (reads) "Chide those perfections in you 
which have made me imperfect." 

Fran. I am discover'd to the fool. 

Lol. I hope to discover the fool in you ere 
I have done with you. (Reads.) 
"Yours all, or one beside himself, Fran- 
ciscus." This madman will mend sure. 

Fran. What do you read, sirrah? 

Lol. Your destiny, sir; you'll be hang-'d 
for this trick, and another that I know. 

Fran. Art thou of counsel with thy mis- 
tress ? 

Lol. Next her apron-strings. 

Fran. Give me thy hand. 

Lol. Stay, let me put yours in my pocket 
first. (Putting letter into his pocket.) 
Your hand is true,®" is it not? It will not 
pick ? •"■ I partly fear it, because I think 
it does lie. 

Fran. Not in a syllable. 

Lol. So if you love my mistress so well as 
you have handled the matter here, you 
are like to be cur'd of your madness. 

Fran. And none but she can cure it. 

Lol. Well, I '11 give you over then, and she 
shall east your water next. 

Fran. Take for thy pains past. 
(Gives him money.) 

Lol. I shall deserve more, sir, I hope. My 
mistress loves you, but must have some 
proof of your love to her. 

Fran. There I meet my wishes. 



65 Q. streets. 



66 honest. 



67 steal. 



412 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Lol. That will not serve, you must meet 
her enemy and yours. 

Fran. He 's dead already. 

Lol. Will you tell me that, and I parted 
but now with him? 

Fran. Show me the man. 

Lol. Aye, that's a right course now; see 
him before you kill him, in any case; and 
yet it needs not g'o so far neither. 'T is 
but a fool that haunts the house and my 
mistress in the shape of an idiot ; bang- 
but his fool's coat well-favoredly, and 
'tis well. 

Fran. Soundly, soundly ! 

Lol. Only reserve him till the masque be 
past; and if you find him not now in the 
dance yourself, I'll show you. In, in! 
my master! 

Fran. He handles him like a feather. 
Hey! 

Exit. 
Enter Alibius. 

Alih. Well said: in a readiness, Lollio'? 
Lol. Yes, sir. 

AUb. Away then, and guide them in, Lol- 
lio: 
Entreat your mistress to see this sight. 
Hark, is there not one incurable fool 
That might be begg'd ? «« I 've friends. 
Lol. I have him for you. 

One that shall deserve it too. 
Alih. Good boy, Lollio! 

(The mnchnen and fools dance.) 
'T is perfect : well, fit but once these 

strains, 
We shall have coin and credit for our 
pains. 

Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene 1. A gallerii in the Castle. 
Enter Beatrice: a clock strikes one. 

Beat. One struck, and yet she lies by 't ! 

O my fears! 

This strumpet serves her own ends, 't is 
apparent now, 

Devours the pleasure with a areedy appe- 
tite, 

And never minds my honor or my peace, 

Makes havoc of my right. But she pays 
dearly for 't; 

No trusting of her life with such a se- 
cret 

That cannot rule her blood to keep her 
promise ; 

<58 for the sake of the income from his estate. 



Beside, I 've some suspicion of her faith 

to me, 
Because I was suspected of my lord, 
And it must come from her. (Strikes 

two.) Hark! by my horrors, 
Another clock strikes two ! 

Enter De Flores. 

De F. Pist ! where are you ? 

Beat. De Flores? 

De F. Aye. Is she not come from him 

yet? 

Beat. As I 'm a living soul, not ! 
De F. Sure the devil 

Hath sow'd his itch within her. Who 

would trust 
A waiting-woman ? 
Beat. I must trust somebody. 

De F. Pish! they're termagants; 

Especially when they fall upon their 

masters 
And have their ladies' first fruits ; they 're 

mad whelps 
You cannot stave 'em off from game 

royal : then 
You are so rash and hardy, ask no coun- 
sel; 
And I could have heljot you to a 'pothe- 

eary's daughter 
Would have fall'n off before eleven, and 
thankt you too. 
Beat. me, not yet; this whore forgets 

herself. 
De F. The rascal fares so well : look, 
you 're undone; 
The day-star, by this hand ! see Phos- 
phorus plain yonder. 
Beat. Advise me now to fall upon some 
ruin ; 
There is no counsel safe else. 
De F. Peace ! I ha 't now, 

For we must force a rising, there 's no 
remedy. 
Beat. How? take heed of that. 
De F. Tush ! be you quiet, or else give 

over all. 
Beat. Prithee, I ha' done then. 
De F. This is my reach : ^^ I '11 set 

Some part a-fire of Diaphanta's chamber. 
Beat. How? Fire, sir? That may en- 
danger the whole house. 
De F. You talk of danger when your 

fame 's on fire? 
Beat. That 's true; do what thou wilt now. 
De F. Pish ! I aim 

At a most rich success strikes all dead 
sure. 

69 device. 



THE CHANGELING 



413 



The chimney being a-fire, and some light 
parcels 

Of the least danger in her chamber onl}^ 

If Diaphanta should be met by chance 
then 

Far from her lodging, which is now sus- 
picious, 

It would be thought her fears and af- 
frights then 

Drove her to seek for succor; if not seen 

Or met at all, as that 's the likeliest, 

For her own.shame she'll hasten towaixls 
her lodging ; 

I will be ready with a piece "° high- 
charg'd, 

As 't were to cleanse the chimney, there 
't is proper now 

But she shall be the mark. 
Beat. I 'm forc'd to love thee now, 

'Cause thou provid'st so carefully for my 
honor. 
Be F. 'Slid, it concerns the safety of us 
both. 

Our pleasure and continuance. 
Beat. One word now. 

Prithee; hoAV for the servants'? 
Dc F. I '11 despatch them, 

Some one way, some another in the hurr.y, 

For buckets, hooks, ladders ; fear not you. 

The deed shall find its time; and I've 
thought since 

Upon a safe conveyance for the body too : 

How this fire purifies wit! Watch you 
your minute. 
Beat. Fear keeps my soul upon 't, I can- 
not stray from 't. 

Enter Alonzo's Ghost. 

De F. Ha ! what art thou that tak'st away 

the light 
Betwixt that star and me? I dread thee 

not. — 
'T was but a mist of conscience ; all 's 

clear again. 

Exit. 
Beat. Who's that, De Flores"? Bless me, 

it slides by! 

Exit Ghost. 
Some ill thing haunts the house; 't has 

left behind it 
A shivering sweat upon me ; I 'm afraid 

now. 
This night hath been so tedious! this 

strumpet ! 
Had she a thousand lives, he should not 

leave her 
Till he had destroy'd the last. List ! 

my terrors ! 

70 gun. 



{Clock strikes three.) 
Three struck by St. Sebastian's! 
Within. Fire, fire, fire ! 
Beat. Already? How rare is that man's 
speed ! 
How heartily he serves me! his face 

loathes one; 
But look upon his care, who would not 

love him ? 
The east is not more beauteous than his 
service. 
Within. Fire, fire, fire ! 

Re-enter De Flores : Servants pass over: 
bell rings. 

De F. Away, despatch ! hooks, buckets, 
ladders ! that 's well said.'^^ 
The fire-bell rings; the chimney works, 

my charge ; 
The piece is ready. 

Exit. 
Beat. Here 's a man worth loving ! 

Enter Diaphanta. 

you 're a jewel ! 

Dia. Pardon frailty, madam; 

In troth, I was so well, I ev'n forgot my- 
self. 
Beat. You 've made trim work ! 
Dia. What ? 

BeOit. Hie quickly to your chamber; 

Your reward follows you. 
Dia. I never made 

So sweet a bargain. 

Exit. 
Enter Alsemero. 

Als. my dear Joanna, 

Alas ! art thou risen too ? I was coming. 
My absolute treasure ! 

Beat. When I mist you, 

1 could not choose but follow. 

Als. Thou 'rt all sweetness : 

The fire is not so dangerous. 
Beat. Think you so, sir? 

Als. I prithee, tremble not; believe me, 
't is not. 

Enter Vermandero and Jasperino. 

Ver. bless my house and me! 

Als. My lord your father. 

Be-enter De Flores with a gun. 

Ver. Knave, whither goes that piece? 
De F. To scour the chimney. 

Exit. 
Ver. 0, well said, well said ! 
That fellow 's good on all occasions. 

71 well done. 



414 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Beat. A wondrous necessary man, my lord. 
Ver. He hath a ready wit ; he 's worth 'em 
all, sir; 
Dog at a house of fire; I ha' seen him 
singed ere now. — 

{The piece goes off.) 
Ha, there he goes ! 
Beat. 'T is done ! 

Als. Come, sAveet, to bed now; 

Alas ! thou wilt get cold. 
Beat. Alas! the fear keeps that out! 

My heart will find no quiet till I hear 
How Diaphanta, my poor woman, fares; 
It is her chamber, sir, her lodging cham- 
ber. 
Ver. How should the fire come there"? 
Beat. As good a soul as ever lady coun- 
tenanc'd. 
But in her chamber negligent and heavy : 
She scapt a mine twice. 
Ver. Twice ? 

Beat. Strangely twice, sir. 

Ver. Those sleepy sluts are dangerous in 
a house. 
An they be ne'er so good. 

Re-enter Be Flores, with the body of 
Diaphanta. 

Be F. poor virginity, 

Thou hast paid dearly for 't ! 
Ver. Bless us, what's that"? 

Be F. A thing you all knew once, Dia- 
phanta 's burnt. 
Beat. My woman ! my woman ! 
£)(, p. Now the flames 

Are greedy of her; burnt, burnt, burnt 
to death, sir! 
Beat. my presaging soul ! 
jils. Not a tear more ! 

I charge you by the last embrace I gave 
you 

In bed, before this rais'd us. 
Beat. Now you tie me ; 

Were it my sister, now she gets no more. 

Enter Servant. 

Ver. How nowf 

Ser. All danger 's past ; you may now take 

Your rests, my lords; the fire is 
throughly quencht. 

Ah, poor gentlewoman, how soon was she 
stifled ! 
Beat. De Flores, what is left of her inter, 

And we as mourners all will follow her. 

I will entreat that honor to my servant 

Ev'n of my lord himself. 
Als. Command it, sweetness. 

Bea^t. Which of you spied the fire first ? 
J)e F. 'T was I, madam. 



Beat. And took such pains in 't too *? A 
double goodness ! 
'T were well he were rewarded. 
Ver. He shall be. — 

De Flores, call upon me. 

Als. And upon me, sir. 

Exeunt all except De Flores. 

Be F. Rewarded? Precious! here's a 

trick beyond me. 

I see in all bouts, both of sport and wit, 

Always a woman strives for the last hit. 

Exit. 

Scene 2. Another apartment in the Castle. 
Enter Tomaso. 

Tom. I cannot taste the benefits of life 

With the same relish I was wont to do. 

Man I gi'ow weary of, and hold his fel- 
lowship 

A treacherous bloody friendship ; and be- 
cause 

I 'm ignorant in whom my wrath shoujd 
settle, 

I must think all men villains, and the next 

I meet, whoe'er he be, the murderer 

Of mv most worthy brother. Ha ! what 's 
lie? 
{Be Flores passes over the stage.) 

0, the fellow that some call honest De 
Flores ; 

But methinks honesty was hard bestead 

To come there for a lodging; as if a 
queen 

Should make her palace of a pest-house. 

I find a contrariety in nature 

BetA\dxt that face and me ; the least occa- 
sion 

Would give me game upon him ; yet he 's 
so foul 

One would scarce touch him with a sword 
he lov'd 

And made account of; so most deadly 
venomous. 

He would go near to poison any weapon 

That should draw blood on him; one 
must resolve 

Never to use that sword again in fight 

In way of honest manhood that strikes 
him; 

Some river must devour it; 'twere not 
fit 

That any man should find it. What, 
again ? 

Re-enter Be Flores. 

He walks a' purpose by, sure, to choke 

me up, 
T' infect my blood. 



THE CHANGELING 



415 



Be F. My worthy noble lord ! 

Tom. Dost offer to come near and breathe 
upon me? 

(Strikes him.) 
De F. A blow! 

(Draws.) 
Tom. Yea, are you so prepared*? 

I '11 rather like a soldier die by th' sword, 
Than like a politician by thy poison. 
(Draws.) 
De F. Hold, my lord, as you are honor- 
able ! 
Tom. All slaves that kill by poison are 

still cowards. 
De F. (Aside.) I cannot strike; I see 
his brother's wounds 
Fresh bleedina: in his eye, as in a crys- 
tal.— 
I will not question this, I know you 're 

noble ; 
I take my injury with thanks given, sir, 
Like a wise lawyer, and as a favor 
Will wear it for the worthy hand that 

gave it. — 
(Aside.) Why this from him that yes- 
terday appear'd 
So strangely loving to me*? 
0, but instinct is of a subtler strain ! 
Guilt must not walk so near his lodge 

again ; 
He came near me now. 

Exit. 
Tom. All league with mankind I renounce 
for ever, 
Till I find this murderer; not so much 
As common courtesy but I '11 lock up ; 
For in the state of ignorance I live in, 
A brother may salute his brother's mur- 
derer, 
And wish good speed to th' villain in a 
greeting. 

Enter Vermandero, Alibius, and Isabella. 

Ver. Noble Piraequo ! 

Tom-. Pray, keep on your way, sir; 

I 've nothing to say to you. 
Ver. Comforts bless you, sir; 

Tom. I 've forsworn compliment, in troth 
I have, sir; 
As you are merely man, I have not left 
A good wish for you, nor for any here. 
Ver. Unless you be so far in love with 
grief, 
You will not part from 't upon any 

terms, 
We bring that news will make a welcome 
for us. 
Tom. What news can that be? 



Ver. Throw no scornful smile 

Upon the zeal I bring you, 'tis worth 

more, sir. 
Two of the chiefest men I kept about me 
I hide not from the law of your just 
vengeance. 
Tom. Ha"! 

Ver. To give your peace more ample sat- 
isfaction, 
Thank these discoverers. 
Tom. If you bring that calm, 

Name but the manner I shall ask forgive- 
ness in 
For that contemptuous smile [I threw] 

upon you ; 
I '11 perfect it with reverence that be- 
longs 
Unto a sacred altar. 

(Kneels.) 
Ver. (Raising him.) Good sir, rise; 
Why, now you overdo as much a' this 

hand 
As you fell short a' t' other. — Speak, 
Alibius. 
Alih. 'T was my wife's fortune, as she is 
most lucky 
At a discovery, to find out lately. 
Within our hospital of fools and mad- 
men. 
Two counterfeits slipt into these dis- 
guises, 
Their names Franciscus and Antonio. 
Ver. Both mine, sir, and I ask no favor 

for 'em. 
Alib. Now that which draws suspicion to 
their habits. 
The time of their disguisings agrees 

justly 
With the day of the murder. 
Tom. blest revelation! 

Ver. Nay, more, nay, more, sir — I '11 not 
spare mine own 
In way of justice — they both feign'd a 

journey 
To Briamata, and so wrought out their 

leaves ; ' - 
My love was so abus'd in 'f . 
Tom. Time 's too precious 

To run in M^aste now; you have brought 

a peace 
The riches of five kingdoms could not 

purchase. 
Be my most happj' conduct; I thirst for 

'em : 
Like subtle lightning will I wind about 

'em, 
And melt their marrow in 'em. 

Exeunt. 



72 obtained permission to leave. 



416 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Scene 3. Alsemero's apartment in the 
Castle. 

Enter Alsemero and Jasperino. 

Jas. Your confidence, I 'm sure, is now of 
proof; 
The prospect from the garden has show'd 
Enough for deep suspicion. 
Als. The black mask 

That so continually was worn upon 't 
Condemns the face for ugly ere 't be seen, 
Her despite to him, and so seeming bot- 
tomless. 
Jas. Touch it home then ; 't is not a shal- 
low probe 
Can search this ulcer soundly; I fear 

you '11 find it 
Full of corruption. 'T is fit I leave you. 
She meets you opportunely from that 

walk ; 
She took the back door at his parting 
with her. 

Exit. 
Als. Did my fate wait for this unhappy 
stroke 
At my first sight of woman? She is 
here. 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. Alsemero ! 
Als. How do you"? 

Beat. How do I? 

Alas, sir! how do you"? You look not 

well. 
Als. You read me well enough ; I am not 

well. 
Beat. Not well, sir? Is 't in my power to 

better you? 
Als. Yes. 

Beat. Nay, then you 're cur'd again. 
Als. Pray, resolve '^^ me one question, 

lady. 
Beat. If I can. 

Als. None can so sure: are you honest? 
Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! that 's a broad question, 

my lord. 
Als. But that 's not a modest answer, my 

lady. 
Do you laugh? My doubts are strong 

upon me. 
Beat. 'T is innocence that smiles, and no 

rough brow 
Can take away the dimple in her cheek. 
Say I should strain a tear to fill the vaiilt, 
Which would you give the better faith 

to? 
Als. 'T were but hypocrisy of a sadder 

color, 



But the same stuff; neither your smiles 

nor tears 
Shall move or flatter me from my belief : 
You are a whore ! 
Beat. What a horrid sound it hath ! 

It blasts a beauty to deformity ; 
Upon what face soever that breath falls. 
It strikes it ugly. 0, you have ruin'd 
What you can ne'er repair again ? 
Als. I '11 all 

Demolish, and seek out truth within you, 
If there be any left; let your SAveet 

tongue 
Prevent your heart's rifling; there I'll 

ransack 
And tear out my suspicion. 
Beat. You may, sir; 

It is an easy passage; yet, if you please, 
Show me the ground whereon you lost 

your love; 
My spotless virtue may but tread on 

that 
Before I perish. 
Als. Unanswerable; 

A ground you cannot stand on; you fall 

down 
Beneath all grace and goodness when you 

set 
Your ticklish heel on 't. There was a 

visor 
Over that cunning face, and that became 

you; 
Now Impudence in triumph rides upon 't. 
How comes this tender reconcilement 

else 
'Twixt you and your despite, your ran- 
corous loathing, 
De Flores? he that your eye was sore at 

sight of, 
He 's now become your arm's supporter, 

your 
Lip's saint ! 
Beat. Is there the cause? 

Als. Worse, your lust's devil. 

Your adultery! 
Beat. Would any but yourself say that, 

'T would turn him to a villain ! 

Als. It was witnest 

By the counsel of your bosom, Diaphanta. 

Beat. Is vour witness dead then? 

Als. " 'T is to be fear'd 

It was the wages of her knowledge ; poor 

soul, 
She liv'd not long after the discovery. 
Beat. Then hear a story of not much less 
horror 
Than this your false suspicion is beguii'd 
with; 



73 answer. 



THE CHANGELING 



417 



To your bed's scandal I stand up inno- 
cence, 
Which even the guilt of one black other 

deed 
Will stand for proof of; your love has 

made nie 
A cruel murd'ress, 
Als. Ha! 

Beat. A bloody one ; 

1 have kist poison for it, strokt a ser- 
pent : 
That thing of hate, worthy in my esteem 
Of no better empkiyment, and him most 

worthy 
To be so employ'd, I caus'd to murder 
That innocent Piracquo, having no 
Better means than that worst to assure 
Yourself to me. 
Als. O, the lilace itself e'er since 

Has crying been for vengeance ! The 

temple, 
Where blood and beauty first unlawfully 
Fir'd their devotion and quencht the 

right one ; 
'T was in my fears at first, 't will have it 

now : 
0, thou art all def orm'd ! 
Beat. Forget not, sir, 

It for your sake was done. Shall greater 

dangers 
Make the less welcome? 
Als. 0, thou should'st have gone 

A thousand leagues about to have avoided 
This dangerous bridge of blood ! Here 

we are lost. 
Beat. Remember, I am true unto your bed. 
Als. The bed itself 's a charnel, the sheets 

shrouds 
For murdered carcasses. It must ask 

pause 
What I must do in this; meantime you 

shall 
Be my prisoner only : enter my closet ; 

Exit Beatrice. 
I '11 be your keeper yet. 0, in what part 
Of this sad story shall I first begin"? 

Ha! 
This same fellow has put me in.'^* — De 

Flores ! 

Enter De Flores. 

De F. Noble Alsemero ! 
Als. I can tell you 

News, sir; my wife has her commended 
to you. 
De F. That's news indeed, my lord; I 
think she would 

74 given me my cue. 



Commend me to the gallows if she could, 
She ever lov'd me so well; I thank her. 
Als. What 's this blood upon your band, 

De Flores? 
De F. Blood ! no, sure 't was washt since. 
Als. Since when, man? 

De F. Since 't other day I got a knock 
In a sword-and-dagger school; I think 
't is out. 
Als. Yes, 't is almost out, but 't is per- 
ceiv'd though. 
I had forgot my message; this it is, 
What price goes murder? 
De F. How, sir? 

Als. I ask you, sir; 

My wife 's behindhand with you, she tells 

me, 
For a brave bloody blow you gave for her 

sake 
Upon Piracquo. 
De F. Upon ? 'T was quite through him 
sure : 
Has she eonfest it? 
Als. As sure as death to both of you; 

And much more than that. 
De F. It could not be much more; 

'T was but one thing, and that — she is a 
whore. 
Als. It could not choose but follow. 
cunning devils ! 
How should blind men know you from 
fair-fac'd saints? 
Beat. {Within.) He lies! the villain does 

belie me ! 
De F. Let me go to her, sir. 
Als. Nay, you shall to her. — 

Peace, crying crocodile, your sounds are 

heard ; 
Take your prey to you; — get you into 
her, sir: 

Exit De Flores. 
I '11 be your pander now ; rehearse again 
Your scene of lust, that you may be per- 
fect 
When you shall come to act it to the 

black audience. 
Where howls and gnashings shall be 

music to you. 
Clip ^^ your adulteress freely, 't is the 

pilot 
Will guide you to the mare mortuum, 
Where you shall sink to fathoms bottom- 
less. 

Enter Vermondero, Tomaso, Alibius, Isa- 
bella, Franciscus, and Antonio. 

Ver. Alsemero! I've a wonder for 
you. 

75 hug. 



418 



THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 



Als. No, sir, 't is I, I have a wonder for 

Ver. I have suspicion near as proof itself 

For Piracquo's murder. 
Als. !Sir, I have proof 

Beyond suspicion of Piracquo's murder. 
Ver. Beseech you, hear me ; these who have 
been disguis'd 
E'er smce the deed was done. 
Als. I have two other 

That were more close disguis'd than your 

two could be 
E'er since the deed was done. 
Ve7: You '11 hear me — these mine ow^n 

servants 

Als. Hear me — those nearer than your 
servants 
That shall acquit them, and prove them 
guiltless. 
Fran. That may be done with easy truth, 

sir. 
Tom. How is my cause bandied through 
your delays! 
'T is urgent in my blood and calls for 

haste. 
Give me a brother or alive or dead ; 
Alive, a wife with him ; if dead, for both 
A recompense for murder and adultery. 
Beat. {Within.) 0, 0, ! 
Als. Hark ! 't is coming to you. 

De F. {Within.) Nay, I'll along for 

company. 
Beat. (Within.) 0, 0! 
Ver. "What horrid sounds are these? 
Als. Come forth, you twins 

Of mischief ! 

Re-enter De Flores, bringing in Beatrice 
wounded. 

De F. Here we are ; if you have any 

more 
To say to us, speak quickly, I shall not 
Give you the hearing else ; I am so stout 

yet, 

And so, I think, that broken rib of man- 
kind. 
Ver. A host of enemies ent'red my citadel 
Could not amaze like this : Joanna ! 
Beatrice-Joanna ! 
Beat. 0, come not near me, sir, I shall 
defile you ! 
I that was of your blood was taken from 

youj 
For your better health ; look no more 

upon 't, 
But cast it to the ground regardlessly, 
Let the common sewer take it from dis- 
tinction. 



Beneath the stars, U23on yon meteor 

{Pointing to De Flores.) 
Ever hung my fate 'mongst things cor- 
ruptible ; 
I ne'er could pluck it from him; my 

loathing- 
Was prophet to the rest, but ne'er be- 

liev'd. 
Mine honor fell with him, and now my 

life.— 
Alsemero, I 'm a stranger to your bed ; 
Your bed was coz'ned on the nuptial 

night, — 
For which your false bride died. 
Als. Diaphantal 

De F. Yes, and the while I coupled with 
your mate 
At barley-break; now we are left in 
hell.^« 
Ver. We are all there, it circumscribes us 

here. 
De F. I lov'd this woman in spite of her 
heart : 
Her love I earn'd out of Piracquo's mur- 
der. 
Tom. Ha! my brother's murderer? 
De F. Yes, and her honor's prize 

Was my reward ; I thank life for nothing 
But that pleasure; it was so sweet to me, 
That I have drunk up all, left none be- 
hind 
For any man to pledge me. 
Ver. Horrid villain ! 

Keep life in him for future tortures. 
De F. No! 

I can prevent you ; here 's my pen-knife 

still; 
It is but one thread more {Stabbing him- 
self), and now 'tis cut. — 
Make haste, Joanna, by that token to 

thee. 
Canst not forget, so lately put in mind; 
I would not go to leave thee far behind. 
{Dies.) 
Beat. Forgive me, Alsemero, all forgive ! 
'T is time to die when 't is a shame to live. 
(Dies.) 
Ver. 0, my name 's ent'red now in that 
record 
Where till this fatal hour 't was never 
read. 
Als. Let it be blotted out; let your heart 
lose it. 
And it can never look you in the face, 
Nor tell a tale behind the back of life 
To your dishonor. Justice hath so right 
The guilty hit, that innocence is quit 
By proclamation, and may joy again. — 



76 Cf. n. 37, p. 400. 



THE CHANGELING 



419 



Sir, you are sensible of what truth hath 

done ; 
'T is the best comfort that your grief can 
find. 
Tom. Sir, I am satisfied; my injuries 
Lie dead before me ; I can exact no more, 
Unless my soul were loose, and could o'er- 

take 
Those black fugitives that are fled from 

hence, 
To take a second vengeance; but there 

are wraths 
Deeper than mine, 't is to be fear'd, about 
'em. 
Als. What an opacous body had that 
moon 
That last chang'd on us ! Here is beauty 

chang'd 
To ugly whoredom; here servant-obedi- 
ence 
To a master-sin, imperious murder; 
I, a suppos'd husband, chang'd embraces 
With wantonness, — but that was paid be- 
fore. — 
Your change is come too, from an igno- 
rant wrath 
To knowing friendship. — Are there any 
more on 's ? 
Ant. Yes, sir, I was chang'd too fi'om a 
little ass as I was to a great fool as I 
am ; and had like to ha' been chang'd to 
the gallows, but that you know my inno- 
cence '''^ always excuses me. 



Fran. I was chang'd from a little wit to 

be stark mad. 
Almost for the same purj^ose. 
Isa. Your change is still behind, 

But deserve best your transformation : 
You are a jealous coxcomb, keep schools 

of folly, 
And teach your scholars how to break 

your own head. 
Alih. I see all apparent, wife, and will 

change now 
Into a better husband^ and ne'er keep 
Scholars that shall be wiser than myself. 
Als. Sir, you have yet a son's duty living. 
Please you, accept it; let that your sor- 
row. 
As it goes from your eye, go from your 

heart, 
Man and his sorrow at the grave must 

part. 

EPILOGUE 

Als. All we can do to comfort one another. 
To stay a brother's sorrow for a brother. 
To diy a child from the kind father's 

eyes, 
Is to no purpose, it rather multiplies: 
Your only smiles have power to cause 

re-live 
Tbe dead again, or in their rooms to give 
Brother a new brother, father a child; 
If these appear, all griefs are reconcil'd. 
Exeunt omnes. 



77 simple-mindedness. 



III. THE RESTORATION 

JOHN DRYDEN 

ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR THE CON- 
QUEST OF GRANADA 



John Dryden (1631-1700) was the leading 
literary man of the last quarter of the sev- 
enteenth century. He came of a Puritan 
family, and graduated at Cambridge. After 
the Restoration he transferred his loyalty 
from Oliver Cromwell's weak son Richard to 
Charles II, and at the accession of James II 
he became a Roman Catholic. In such 
changes there was probably not so much 
time-serving as a desire to support a strong 
autocratic governmental system. It is cer- 
tain that he was interested in politics, and 
liked to be on the winning side. In his liter- 
ary work he was remarkable for his versa- 
tility; besides nearly thirty tragedies and 
comedies, he excelled in prose criticism, trans- 
lation, and satirical, lyric, and narrative 
poetry. For many years he exercised a con- 
trolling influence on literature, and is gener- 
ally recognized as the first great leader in 
the era of classicism. 

Since poetry expresses both the ideals and 
the realities of the age which produces it, 
we should expect a strong contrast between 
the drama of the Elizabethan period and that 
of so different an age as the forty years or 
so of the Restoration period. Tlie earlier 
form in large measure sur\'ived, since a 
dramatic form is too complex to be often 
renewed, but the spirit is greatly altered. 
In 1042 tlie Puritan parliament, always op- 
posed to the stage, took advantage of the be- 
ginnings of the Civil War to close the thea- 
ters, and for eighteen years such perform- 
ances as were given were rude and clandes- 
tine. Many other innocent amusements 
Avere proscribed, and the sober and ascetic 
spirit of Puritanism was at least theoreti- 
cally supreme in the land. The era of the 
Puritan Revolution saw England's great ex- 
periment in a moral idealism compulsory for 
all. It produced a far-reaching effect, for 
to it more than to any other cause are due 
the differences which every one feels be- 
tween English (and partly American) life 
and that of the whole of continental Europe. 
But on the whole it failed, and the violence 
of the reaction when Charles IT's return I'e- 
leased the tense spring is nowhere more ap- 
parent than in the drama. That of the Res- 



toration lacked the fine, steady, normal, 
masculine spirit of the greater Elizabethan 
dramatists — their universality and deptli 
of insight; it became contracted lengthwise 
and crosswise, became superficial and nar- 
rower. It was aristocratic rather than 
democratic, met the taste of a smaller part 
of the community; it exhibited the irre- 
sponsible life they led, and when it expressed 
moral ideality, this was sometimes an insin- 
cere, weak, and unnatural ideality. With all 
these limitations as to spirit and matter, 
technically and as to literary style the drama 
was never more brilliant. It does not fail in 
what it sets out to do, and from the point 
of view of moral and social history is unusu- 
ally significant. All this is vividly shown in 
the comedy, but the serious plays, if under- 
stood, are quite as characteristic. 

Dryden's Conquest of Granada, his great- 
est popular success (first performed in 1070, 
printed IC72), is the best example of a type 
of serious drama differing from tragedy in 
having a happy ending — the " heroic play." 
Though a relation can be seen to some of the 
Elizabethan dramas, and though he expressed 
obligation to D'Avenant's Siege of Rhodes, 
Dryden is regarded as the originator of the 
type. There is a certain amount of resem- 
blance to the French classical drama of 
Corneille and Racine; and as in them the 
three "classical" unities (see page 46 
above) were observed. But these plays were 
largely an attempt to bring into the drama 
the supposed manner and spirit of Greek and 
Italian epic, and especially of the prose 
romances of seventeenth-century France, such 
as those of la Calprenede, Gomberville, and 
Mile, de Scudery. Three romances by the 
last-named underlie respectively the three 
parts of the plot in The Conquest of Granada; 
which is also foimded on a Spanish history 
of Granada. For this, like other " heroic 
plays," has a historical background, which 
was felt to impart a weiglity dignity. The 
locality is always remote, classical, among 
the Aztecs or Peruvians, or as with this play 
among the orientals. This too, was felt to 
give a. romantic dignity, and made less no- 
ticeable certain departures from nature and 



420 



JOHN DRYDEN 



421 



probability. There is little attempt at 
•■ local color " ; the Moors invoke the saints, 
observe knightly usages, and even sing of 
" Pliyllis." 

pletest example in English of the Superman- 
type, of " the will to power." Alnianzor's 

Tlie plot is apt to be loose and episodic, 
with no prolonged suspense (opportunities 
for it are rejected), not working up to a 
crisis, not intimately growing out of the per- 
sonalities, but accidental and successive, and 
made up of commonplace elements. Dryden 
was far from being a born dramatist. In all 
these plays the general formula for plot is 
the conflict between love and honor. In this 
play the plot is of three parts, well inter- 
woven, dealing with the loves of Almanzor, 
Almahide, and Boabdelin, with those of Ab- 
dalla, Lyndaraxa, and Abdelmelech, and with 
those of Ozmyn and Benzayda. The Second 
Part is eqiially intricate, ending in the cap- 
ture of Granada by the Spaniards, the deatii 
of Boabdelin, the prospective union of liis 
widow Almahide with Almanzor, and the 
wholly unprepared-tor recognition of the lat- 
ter as the long-lost son of the Duke of Arcos. 
The commonplaceness of the plot is some- 
what concealed by the incessant bustling 
action, and the amorous framework by the 
constant drums and tramplings of conquests, 
the alarums and excursions of domestic 
malice and foreign levies. As a critic has 
well said, the play combines French artificial 
gallantry with the English love of sound and 
fury. The noisy motion was doubtless one 
reason for its popularity on the stage. There 
being no one point of deep interest, the 
focus of attention is constantly shifted. The 
outline of the play is narrative, epic, rather 
than dramatic. 

This point bears equally on the most char- 
acteristic feature of the heroic play, its 
treatment of personality. Here too its na- 
ture and origin is rather epic than dramatic. 
As in the epic, the characters are of the high- 
est rank. Dryden stated that his originals 
for Almanzor were Homer's Achilles and 
Tasso's Rinaldo. Almanzor, however, did not 
perfectly please contemporary critics. To us 
it seems more odd to censure him as " no 
perfect pattern of heroic virtue," a " con- 
temner of kings," who changes sides, than to 
carp at him for performing impossibilities 
— he falls short of, and exceeds, the conven- 
tional notion of his kind. Dryden makes the 
defence that heroic plays are not subject to 
the laws of probability, and that, being a 
foreigner, Almanzor was bound to neither of 
the Moorish factions. The hero's very first 
words, as he goes to aid one of them, are 

I cannot stay to ask which cause is best: 
But this is so to me because opprest; 

and later he declares. 

True, I would wish my friend the juster side; 
But, in the unjust, my kindness more is tried. 



Thus from the first he declares his indiffer- 
ence to ordinary rules of conduct. With his 
frantic self-assertion and megalomania, " a 
confidence of himself, almost approaching to 
an arrogance," Dryden moderately says, Al- 
manzor and his fellow-heroes are the com- 
biggest talk does no more than justice to his 
deeds, he faces kings, armies and ghosts 
(Part II.) with like equanimity. 

What, in another, vanity would seem, 
Appears but noble confidence in him. 

But heroic arrogance is not exhibited merely 
for its own sake. Almanzor's chief virtues 
Dryden meant to be " a frank and open noble- 
ness of nature, an easiness to forgive his con- 
quered enemies, and to protect them in dis- 
tress; and, above all, an inviolable faith in 
his affection." He towers above the world 
of men that his subjection to woman and love 
may be more flattering and delightful. Love 
is the giant's only weakness; what a tribute 
to love! Love is at first sight, but as con- 
stant as it is sudden. An etiquette controls 
it, even if repented of. Almahide, though lov- 
ing Almanzor, feels as much bound by her be- 
trothal to the weak Boabdelin as by her 
marriage-vow, and must be faithful not only 
to his person but to his memory; at the end 
of Part II she dedicates a year's widowhood 
to les convenances. Wliat a tribute to the 
virtue of constancy and loyalty, when even 
the almighty Almanzor is kept waiting! 
But if love and honor hopelessly conflict, 
usually honor goes to the wall. Boabdelin 
prefers his love to his crown. 

Hardly less important than the characters, 
in the mind of Dryden and his auditors, were 
the " sentiments," the views and ideals dis- 
coursed upon. Some of these plays devote 
much space to arguments and controversies 
among the characters, as here in the second 
act. The ideals are mainly of love and honor; 
" betwixt their love and virtue they are 
tost; " honor being partly glory and partly 
a rigid sense of propriety. In each case the 
ideal is a thoroughly individualistic one; the 
love is passion, and the honor is largely 
selfish virtue. Though occasionally a per- 
sonage is so Quixotic as to contemplate kill- 
ing himself to spare another the guilt of kill- 
ing him, of patriotism there is scarcely a 
hint. " Honor is what myself and friends I 
owe," Almanzor announces. " L'etat c'est 
moi " is the principle of all of them. With 
an empire of eight hundred years nearing its 
fall the Moors think only of private revenge, 
private ambition, and private passion. Here 
as elsewhere Dryden sacrificed nature and 
breadth to intensity. Yet insist is not 
wholly wanting; a passage in Part II has 
often been quoted: 

A blush remains in a forgiven face: 

It wears the silent tokens of disgrace. 

Forgiveness to the injur'd does belong; 

But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong. 



422 



THE RESTORATION 



Such passages, and even rhodomontade 
and commonplace, gain impressiveness by 
Dryden's matcliless style. Not always great 
as ' an imaginative poet, or as a dramatist, 
he was a master of dramatic rhetoric, un- 
subtle, bold. His verse sweeps one along like 
a wave on its rhythmic rise and fall, with 
endless nerve and verve and never a sign of 
faltering; it reads aloud superbly. The form 
of verse is, as regularly in the heroic plays, 
the ten-syllable couplet, the " heroic couplet," 
treated with some variety, such as occasional 
short lines. His lyric gift enabled him also 
to introduce charming songs, which contrast 
with the masculine march of the other verse, 
and also sometimes with its high moral tone. 

An artificial idealism, in a word, is what 
this play embodies. There is plenty of ideal- 
ism in Shakespeare, but it comes from a 
heightening of human nature as it is; his peo- 
ple are merely more fully and intensely what 
they are than they would be in life. l>ry- 
den's are not imitated from life, but from the 
vague ideals of the unideal, artificial aristo- 



crats for vi^hom he wrote. The reality of 
these people appears in the comedy of the 
age. Sexual morality and personal honor 
were at a low ebb ; in these plays they are 
lauded in an unreal and exaggerated manner. 
Because such people cared little for ideals, 
these serious plays are artificial. They are 
the somewhat perfunctory homage which Res- 
toration vice paid to virtue. Their arti- 
ficiality links them closely to another highly 
artificial dramatic type, which grew up about 
the same time and from much the same origin 
— the opera. Both were felt to be independ- 
ent of nature and probability, both were re- 
mote and aristocratic, both were simple and 
conventional in their elements, both dealt 
largely with the heroic and with love. The 
sonorous lyric verse which is the accompani- 
ment of Dryden's plays in a sense takes the 
place of the music which is that of the opera. 
The spirit of The Conquest of (Iranada there- 
fore still survives on the boards of the opera- 
house. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR THE 
CONQUEST OF GRANADA 



PART I 

Major rerum milii nascitur ordo; 
Majus opus moveo. 

Virgil, jEneid, vii, 44, 45. 

PROLOGUE TO PART I 

Spoken by Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, in a Broad- 
hrimmed Hat, and Waist-belt. 

This jest^ was first of f otber house's 

making. 
And five times tried, has never failed of 

taking ; 
For 't were a shame a poet should be killed 
Under the shelter of so broad a shield. 
This is that hat, whose very sight did win 

ye 

To laugh and clap as though the devil were 
in ye. 

As then, for Nokes, so now I hope you '11 be 

So dull, to laugh once more for love of me. 

"I '11 write a play," says one, "for I have 
got 

A broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt, to- 
wards a plot." 

Says t'other, "I have one more large than 
that." 



Thus they out-write each other with a hat ! 

The brims still grew with every play they 
writ; 

And grew so large, they covered all the wit. 

Hat was the play; 'twas language, wit, and 
tale: 

Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth 
in ale. 

What dulness do these mongrel wits con- 
fess. 

When all their hope is acting of a dress ! 

Thus, two the best comedians of the age 

Must be worn out, with being blocks o' the 
stage ; 

Iiike a young girl, who better things has 
known. 

Beneath their poet's impotence they groan. 

See now what charity it was to save ! 

They thought you liked, what only you for- 
gave ; 

And brought you more dull sense, dull sense 
much worse 

Than brisk gay nonsense, and the heavier 
curse. 

They bring old iron, and glass upon the 
stage, 

To barter with the Lidians of our age. 



1 Nokes, an actor at a rival theater, is said to have caricatured French styles in the above-mentioned costume. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 423 



Still they write on, and like great authors 

show ; 
But 't is as rollers in wet gardens grow 
Heavy with dirt, and gathering as they go. 
May none, who have so little understood, 
^ To like such trash, presume to praise 

what 's good ! 
And may those drudges of the stage, whose 

fate 
Is damn'd dull farce more dully to trans- 
late, 
Fall under that excise the state thinks fit 
To set on all French wares, whose worst is 
wit. 



French farce, worn out at home, is sent 

abroad ; 
And, patched up here, is made our English 

mode. 
Henceforth, let poets, ere allowed to write. 
Be searched, like duellists before they 

fight. 
For wheel-broad hats, dull humor, all that 

chaff. 
Which makes you mourn, and makes the 

vulgar laugh : 
For these, in plays, are as unlawful 

arms 
As, in a combat, coats of mail, and charms. 



NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 3 

MEN 



Mahomet Boabdelin, the last king of Gra- 
nada. 
I'RINCE Abdalla, his hrother. 
Abdelmelech, chief of the AhencerragesA 
ZuLEMA, chief of the ZegrysA 
Abenamak, an old Ahencerrago. 
Selin, an old Zeyry. 



Duke of Arcos, his General. 

Don Alonzo d'Aguilak, a Spanish Captain. 

WOMEN 



AXMAHIDE, queen of Granada. 
Lyndaraxa, sister of Zuleina, a Zegry lady. 
Benzayda, daughter to Selin. 
EsPEBANZA, slave to the queen. 
Halyma, slave to Lyndaraxa. 



OZMYN, a hrave young Ahencerrago, son to Isabella, Queen of Spain 



Abenamar 
IIamet, brother to Zuleina, a Zegry. 
Gomel, a Zegry. 
Almanzok. 
Ferdinand, King of Spain. 

ACT I. 

{Boabdelin, Abenamar, Abdelmelech, 
Guards. ) 

Boab. Thus, in the triumphs of soft peace, 
I reign; 

And, from my walls, defy the powers of 
Spain; 

With pomp and sports my love I cele- 
brate. 

While they keep distance, and attend my 
state. — 

{To Aben.) 

Parent to her, whose eyes my soul en- 
thral, 

Whom I, in hope, already father call, 

Abenamar, thy youth these sports has 
known, 

Of which thy age is now spectator 
grown ; 

Judge-like thou sit'st, to praise, or to ar- 
raign 

The fiying skirmish of the darted cane : ^ 

2 as to like. 4 Tribes or parties amons the Moors, whose enmities hastened the fall of Granada. 

3 Some of these personages appear only in Part II. 



Messengers, Guards, Attendants, Men, and 
Women. 

The Scene in Granada, and tlie Christian 
Camp besieging it. 

But, when fierce bulls run loose upon the 

place, 
And our bold Moors their loves with dan- 
ger grace. 
Then heat new-bends thy slackened 

nerves again. 
And a short youth runs warm through 

every vein. 
Aben. I must confess the encounters of 

this day 
Warmed me indeed, but quite another 

way: 
Not with the fire of youth; but generous 

rage, 
To see the glories of my youthful age 
So far out-done. 
Abdelm.. Castile could never boast, in all 

its pride, 
A pomp so splendid, when the lists, set 

wide, 
Gave room to the fierce bulls, which 

wildly ran 
In Sierra Ronda, ere the war began; 
Who, with high nostrils snuffing up the 

wind. 



424 



THE RESTORATION 



Now stood the champions of the savage 

kind. 
Just opposite, within the circled place, 
Ten of our bold Abencerrages' race 
(Each brandishing his bull-spear in his 

hand) 
Did their proud jennets gracefully com- 
mand. 
On their steeled heads their demi-lances 

wore 
Small pennons, which their ladies' colors 

. bore. 
Before this troop did warlike Ozmyn go ; 
Each lady, as he rode, salutnig low; 
At the chief stands, with reverence more 

profound, 
His well-taught courser, kneeling, 

touched the ground; 
Thence raised, he sidelong bore his rider 

on, 
Still facing, till he out of sight was gone. 
Boab. You j^raise him like a friend; and 

I confess. 
His brave deportment merited no less. 
Abdelm. Nine bulls Avere launched by his 

victorious arm, 
Wliose wary jennet, shunning still the 

harm. 
Seemed to attend the shock, and then 

leaped wide : 
Meanwhile, his dext'rous rider, when he 

spied 
The beast just stooping, 'twixt the neck 

and head 
His lance, with never-erring fury, sped. 
Ahen. My son did well, and so did Hamet 

too; 
Yet did no more than we were wont to 

do; 
But what the stranger did was more than 

man. 
Abdelm. He finished all those triumphs we 

began. 
One bull, with curled black head, beyond 

the rest. 
And dew-laps hanging from his brawny 

chest, 
With nodding front a while did daring 

stand. 
And with his jetty hoof spurned back the 

sand; 
Then, leaping forth, he bellowed out 

aloud : 
The amazed assistants back each other 

crowd, 
While monarch-like he ranged the listed 

field; 

5 javelin. 7 Uncontrolled prancing, bounding or running (French technical term in horsemanship). 

6 gallery or balcony for spectators. 



Some tossed, some gored, some trampling 
down he killed. 

The ignobler Moors from far his rage 
provoke 

With woods of darts, which from his 
sides he shook. 

Meantime your valiant son, who had be- 
fore 

Gained fame, rode round to every mira- 
dor ; ^ 

Beneath each lady's stand a stop he 
made, 

And, bowing, took the applauses which 
they paid. 

Just in that jjoint of time, the brave un- 
known 

Approached the lists. 
Boab. I marked him, when alone 

(Observed by all, himself observing 
none) 

He entered first, and with a graceful 
pride 

His fiery Arab dext'rously did guide, 

Who while his rider every stand sur- 
veyed, 

Sprung loose, and flew into an esca- 
pade ; '^ 

Not moving foi'ward, yet, with eveiy 
bound. 

Pressing, and seeming still to quit his 
ground : 

What after passed 

Was far from the ventanna ^ where I 
sate. 

But you were near, and can the truth 
relate. 

{To Abdelm.) 
Abdelm. Thus while he stood, the bull, 
who saw this foe, 

His easier conquests proudly did fore- 
go; 

And, making- at him with a furious 
bound, 

From his bent forehead aimed a double 
wound. 

A rising murmur ran through all the 
field, 

And everv lady's blood with fear was 
chilled : 

Some shrieked, while others, with more 
helpful care, 

Cried out aloud, "Beware, brave youth, 
beware !" 

At this he tui-ned, and, as the bull drew 
near, 

Shunned and received him on his pointed 
spear : 



8 window. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 425 



The lance broke short, the beast then bel- 
lowed loud 

And his strong neck to a new onset 
bowed. 

The undaunted youth 

Then drew ; and from his saddle bending 
low, 

Just where the neck did to the shoulders 
grow, 

With his full force discharged a deadly 
blow. 

Not heads of poppies (when they reap 
the grain) 

Fall with more ease before the laboring 
swain, 

Than fell this head: 

It fell so quick, it did even death pre- 
vent, ° 

And made imperfect bellowings as it 
went. 

Then all the trumpets victory did sound, 

And yet their clangors in our shouts were 
drown'd. 
{A confused noise within.) 
Boob. The alarm-bell rings from our Al- 
hambra walls, 

And from the streets sound drums and 
atabals.^" 

{Within, a hell, drums, and trumpets.) 
{To them a Messenger.) 

How now? from whence proceed these 
new alarms? 
Mess. The two fierce factions are again 
in arms; 

And, changing into blood the day's de- 
light, 

The Zegrys with the Abencerrages fight ; 

On each side their allies and friends ap- 
pear; 

The Ma^as here, the Alabezes there : 

The Gazuls with the Bencerrages join, 

And, with the Zegrys, all great Gomel's 
line. 
Boah. Draw up behind the Vivarambla 
place ; 

Double my guards, — these factions I will 
face; 

And try if all the fury they can bring, 

Be proof against the presence of their 
king. 

{Exit Boah.) 
(The Factions appear: At the head of the 

Ahencerrages, Ozmyn; at the head of the 

Zegrys, Zulema, Hamet, Gomel, and 

Selin: Ahenamar and Ahdelmelech joined 

with the Ahencerrages.) 
Zul. The faint Abencerrages quit their 
ground ; 

9 anticipate, get ahead of. 



Press 'em; put home your thrusts to 
every wound. 
Abdelm. Zegry, on manly force our line 
relies ; 

Thine poorly takes the advantage of sur- 
prise : 

Unarmed and much out-numbered we re- 
treat ; 

You gain no fame, when basely you de- 
feat. 

If thou art brave, seek nobler victory; 

Save Moorish blood; and, while our 
bands stand by, 

Let two to two an equal combat try. 
Ham. 'T is not for fear the combat we 
refuse. 

But we our gained advantage will not 
lose. 
Zul. In combating, but two of you will 
fall; 

And we resolve we will despatch you all. 
Osm. We '11 double yet the exchange be- 
fore we die, 

And each of ours two lives of yours shall 
buy. 

{Almanzor enters betwixt them, as they 
stand ready to engage.) 

Aim. I cannot stay to ask which cause is 
best; 

But this is so to me, because oppress'd. 

{Goes to the Abencerrages.) 

{To them Boahdelin and his Guards, going 

betwixt them.) 
Boah. On your allegiance, I command you 
stay; 

Who passes here, through me must make 
his way; 

My life 's the Isthmus ; through this nar- 
row line 

You first must cut, before those seas can 
join. 

What fury, Zegrys, has possessed your 
minds? 

What rage the brave Abencerrages 
blinds? 

If of your courage you new proofs would 
show, 

Without much travel you may find a foe. 

Those foes are neither so remote nor few. 

That you should need each other to pur- 
sue. 

Lean times and foreign wars should 
minds unite; 

When poor, men mutter, but they seldom 
fight. 

O holy Allah ! that I live to see 

Thy Granadines assist their enemy! 

10 kettle-drums or tabors. 



426 



THE RESTORATION 



You fight the Christians' battles; every 

life 
You lavish thus, in this intestine strife, 
Does from our Aveak foundations take 

one prop 
Which helped to hold our sinking coun- 
try up. 
Ozm. 'T is fit our private enmity should 

cease ; 
Though injured first, yet I will first seek 

peace. 
Zul. No, murderer, no; I never will be 

won 
To peace with him, whose hand has slain 

my son. 
Ozm. Our jDrophet's curse 

On me, and all the Abencerrages light, 
If, unprovoked, I with your son did 

fight. 
Abdelm. A band of Zegrys ran within the 

place, 
Matched with a troop of thirty of our 

race. 
Your son and Ozmyn the first squadrons 

led, 
Which, ten by ten, like Parthians, 

charged and fled; 
The ground was strowed with canes 

where we did meet. 
Which crackled underneath our coursers' 

feet: 
When Tarifa (I saw him ride apart) 
Changed his blunt cane for a steel- 
pointed dart. 
And, meeting Ozmyn next, — 
Who wanted time for treason to pro- 
vide, — 
He basely threw it at him, undefied. 
Ozm. {Shoioing his arm.) Witness this 

blood — which when by treason 

sought. 
That followed, sir, which to myself I 

ought. ^^ 
Zul. His hate to thee was grounded on a 

grudge. 
Which all our generous Zegrys just did 

judge : 
Thy villain-blood thou openly didst place 
Above the purple of our kingly race. 
Boah. From equal stems their blood both 

houses draw, 
They from Morocco, you from Cordova. 
Ham.. Tlieir mongrel race is mixed with 

Christian breed; 
Hence 't is that they those dogs in prisons 

feed. 
Abdelm. Our holy pi-ophet wills, that 

charity 

11 owed. 



Should even to birds and beasts extended 

be : 
None knows what fate is for himself de- 
signed ; 
The thought of human chance should 
make us kind. 
Gom. We waste that time we to revenge 
should give : 
Fall on : let no Abencerrago live. 
{Advancing before the rest of his party. 
Almanzor, advancing on the other side, 
and describing a line with his sword.) 
Almanz. Upon thy life pass not this mid- 
dle space; 
Sure death stands guarding the forbidden 
place. 
Gom. To dare that death, I will approach 
yet nigher; 
Thus, — wert thou compassed in with 
circling fire. 

^ {They fight.) 
Boob. Disarm 'em both ; if they resist you, 

kill. 
{AVmanzor, in the midst of the Guards, 

kills Gomel, and then is disarmed.) 
Almanz. Now you have but the leavings of 

my will. 
Boab. Kill him! this insolent unknown 
shall fall. 
And be the victim to atone ^~ you all. 
Ozm. If he must die, not one of us will 
live: 
That life he gave for us, for him we give. 
Boab. It was a traitor's voice that spoke 
those words; 
So are you all, who do not sheathe your 
swords. 
Zul. Outrage unpunished, when a prince 
is by, 
Forfeits to scorn the rights of majesty: 
No subject his protection can expect, 
Who what he owes himself does first 
neglect. 
Aben. This stranger, sir, is he. 

Who lately in the Vivarambla place 
Did, with so loud applause, your tri- 
umphs grace. 
Boab. The word which I have given, I '11 
not revoke ; 
If he be brave, he 's ready for the stroke. 
Almanz. No man has more contempt than 
I of breath. 
But whence hast thou tlie right to give 

me death? 
Obeyed as sovereign! by thy subjects be, 
But know, that I alone am king of me. 
T am as free as nature first made man, 
Ere the base laws of servitude began, 

12 reconcile 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 427 



When wild in woods the noble savage 
ran. 
Boob. Since, then, no power above your 
own you know, 

Mankind should use you like a common 
foe; 

You should be hunted like a beast of 
prey : 

By your own law I take your life away. 
Almanz. My laws are made but only for 
my sake; 

No king against himself a law can make. 

If thou pretend'st to be a prince like 
me, 

Blame not an act, which should thy pat- 
tern be. 

I saw the oppressed, and thought it did 
belong 

To a king's office to redress the wrong: 

I brought that succor, which thou 
ought'st to bring. 

And so, in nature, am thy subjects' king. 
Boob. I do not want your counsel to di- 
rect. 

Or aid to help me punish or protect. 
Almanz. Thou want'st 'em both, or better 
thou wouldst know, 

Than to let factions in thy kingdom grow. 

Divided interests, while thou think'st to 
sway, 

Draw, like two brooks, thy middle stream 
away: 

For though they band and jar, yet both 
combine 

To make their greatness by the fall of 
thine. 

Thus, like a buckler, thou art held in 
sight. 

While they behind thee with each other 
fight. 
Boab. Away, and execute him instantly ! 

(To his Guards.) 

Almanz. Stand off; I have not leisure yet 

to die. 

{To them Abdalla, hastily.) 

Abdal. Hold, sir! for heaven sake hold! 

Defer this noble stranger's punishment. 

Or your rash orders you will soon repent. 
Boab. Brother, you know not yet his inso- 
lence. 
Abdal. Upon yourself you punish his of- 
fence : 

Tf we treat gallant strangers in this sort, 

Mankind will shun the inhospitable court; 

And who, henceforth, to our defence will 
come, 

If death nmst be the brave Almanzor's 
doom ? 

13 capricious, self-willed. 



From Africa I drew him to your aid, 
And for his succor have his life betrayed. 
Boab. Is this the Almanzor whom at Fez 
you knew, 
When first their swords the Xeriff broth- 
ers drew? 
Abdal. This, sir, is he, who for the elder 
fought. 
And to the juster cause the conquest 

brought ; 
Till the proud Santo, seated in the 

throne. 
Disdained the service, he had done, to 

own : 
Then to the vanquished part his fate he 

led: 
The vanquished triumphed, and the vic- 
tor fled. 
Vast is his courage, boundless is his mind. 
Rough as a storm, and humorous ^^ as 

wind : 
Honor 's the only idol of his eyes ; 
The charms of beauty like a pest he 

flies ; 
And, raised by valor from a birth un- 
known. 
Acknowledges no power above his own. 
(Boabdelin coming to Almanzor.) 
Boab. Imi^ute your danger to our igno- 
rance ; 
The bravest men are subject most to 

chance : 
Granada much does to your kindness 

owe; 
But towns, expecting sieges, cannot show 
More honor, than to invite you to a foe. 
Almanz. I do not doubt but I have been 
to blame: 
But, to pursue the end for which I came. 
Unite your subjects first ; then let us go. 
And pour their common rage upon the 
foe. 
Boab. (To the Factions.) Lay down your 
arms, and let me beg you cease 
Your enmities. 
Zul. We will not hear of peace, 

Till we by force have first revenged our 
slain. 
Abdelm. The action we have done we will 

maintain. 
Selin. Then let the king depart, and we 
will try 
Our cause by arms. 
Zul. For us and victory! 
Boab. A king entreats you. 
Almanz. What subjects will precarious ^* 
kings regard? 
A beggar speaks too softly to be heard: 

14 suppliant. 



428 



THE RESTORATION 



Lay down your arms! 'tis I command 
you now. 

So it — or, by our joropbet's soul I vow, 
y bands sball rigbt your king on bim 
I seize. 
New let me see wbose look but disobeys ! 
Omnes. Long live king Mahomet Boab- 

delin ! 
Almanz. No more; but bushed as mid- 
night silence go : 
He will not have your acclamations now 
Hence, you unthinking crowd ! — 
{The common people go off on both 

parties.) 
Empire, thou poor and despicable thing, 
When such as these unmake or make a 
king ! 
Abdal. How much of virtue lies in one 
great soul, 

{Embracing him.) 
Whose single force can multitudes con- 
trol! 

{A trumpet within.) 
{Enter a Messenger.) 
Mess. The Duke of Arcos, sir, 

Does with a trumpet from the foe appear. 
Boab. Attend him; he shall have his au- 
dience here. 

{Enter the Duke of Arcos.) 

D. Arcos. The monarchs of Castile and 
Aragon 

Have sent me to you, to demand this 
town, 

To which their just and rightful claim is 
known. 
Boab. Tell Ferdinand, my right to it ap- 
pears 

By long possession of eight hundred 
years : 

When first my ancestors from Afric 
sailed. 

In Rodrique's death your Gothic title 
failed. 
D. Arcos. The successors of Rodrique 
still remain. 

And ever since have held some part of 
Spain : 

Even in the midst of your victorious pow- 
ers, 

The Asturias, and all Portugal, were 
ours. 

You have no right, except you force al- 
low; 

And if yours then was just, so ours is 
now. 
Boab. 'T is true from force the noblest 
title springs; 



I therefore hold from that, which first 

made kings. 
D. Arcos. Since then by force you prove 

your title true. 
Ours must be just, because we claim from 

you. 
When with your father you did jointly 

reign, 
Invading with your Moors the south of 

Spain, 
I, who that day the Christians did com- 
mand. 
Then took, and brought you bound to 

Ferdinand. 
Boab. I'll hear no more; defer what you 

would say : 
In private we '11 discourse some other 

day. 
D. Arcos. Sir, you shall hear, however 

you are loth. 
That, like a perjured prince, you broke 

your oath : 
To gain your freedom you a contract 

signed. 
By which your crown you to my king re- 

. signed, 
From thenceforth as his vassal holding it, 
And paying tribute such as he thought 

fit; 
Contracting, wdien your father came to 

die. 
To lay aside all marks of royalty. 
And at Purchena privately to live, 
Which, in exchange, king Ferdinand did 

give. 
Boab. The force used on me made that 

contract void. 
D. Arcos. Why have you then its benefits 

enjoyed"? 
By it you had not only freedom then. 
But, since, had aid of money and of men ; 
And, when Granada for your uncle held. 
You were by us restored, and he expelled. 
Since that, in peace we let you reap your 

grain, 
Recalled our troops, that used to beat 

your plain; 

And more 

Almanz. Yes, yes, you did with wondrous 

care. 
Against his rebels prosecute the war. 
While he secure in your protection slept; 
For him you took, but for yourselves you 

kept. 
Thus, as some fawning usurer does feed. 
With present sums, the unwary unthrift's 

need. 
You sold your kindness at a boundless 

rate, 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 429 



And then o'erpaid the debt from bis es- 
tate; 
Wbicb, mouldering piecemeal, in your 

bands did fall 
Till now at last you came to swoop it all. 
D. Arcos. Tbe wrong you do my king I 
cannot bear; 
Wbose kindness you would odiously com- 
pare. 
Tbe estate was bis; wbicb yet, since you 

deny. 
He's now content, in bis own wrong, to 
buy. 
Almanz. And be sball buy it dear wbat 
bis be calls — 
We will not give one stone from out 
tbese walls. 
Boah. Take tbis for answer, tben, — 
Wbate'er yowv arms bave conquered of 

my land, 
I will, for peace, resign to Ferdinand. 
To barder terms my mind I cannot bring; 
But, as I still bave lived, will die a king. 
D. Arcos. Since tbus you bave resolved, 
bencefortb prepare 
For all tbe last extremities of war: 
My king bis bope from beaven's assist- 
ance draws. 
Almanz. Tbe Moors bave beaven, and me, 
t' assist tbeir cause. 

{Exit Arcos.) 
{Enter Esperanza.) 

Esper. Fair Almabide, 

(Wbo did witb weeping eyes tbese dis- 
cords see. 
And fears tbe omen may unlucky be,) 
Prepares a zambra ^^ to be danced tbis 

nigbt. 
In bope soft pleasures may your minds 
unite. 
Bodb. My mistress gently cbides tbe fault 
I made: 
But tedious business bas my love de- 
layed, — 
Business, wbicb dares tbe joys of kings 
invade. 
Almanz. First let us sally out, and meet 

the foe. 
Ahdal. Led on by you, we on to triumph 

go. 
Boah. Tben witb tbe day let war and tu- 
mult cease; 
The nigbt be sacred to our love and 

peace : 
'T is just some joys on weary kings 

should wait; 
'T is all we gain by being slaves of state. 
{Exeunt omnes.) 

15 Festivity of dancing and music. 



ACT 11. 

{Ahdalla, Ahdelmelech, Ozmyn, Zulema, 
Ilamet, as returning from the sallij.) 

Ahdal. Tbis bappy day does to Granada 
bring 

A lasting peace, and triumphs to tbe 
king : 

Tbe two fierce factions will no longer jar, 

Since they bave now been brothers in tbe 
war. 

Those who, apart, in emulation fought, 

Tbe common danger to one body brought; 

And, to his cost, the proud Castilian 
finds 

Our Moorish courage in united minds. 
Abdelm. Since to each other's aid our 
lives we owe, 

Lose we tbe name of faction, and of foe ; 

Which I to Zulema can bear no more, 

Since Lyndaraxa's beauty I adore. 
Zul. I am obliged to Lyndaraxa's charms, 

Which gain the conquest I should lose by 
arms ; 

And wish my sister may continue fair, 

That I may keep a good. 

Of whose possession I should else de- 
spair. 
Ozm. While we indulge our common hap- 
piness. 

He is forgot, by whom we all possess ; 

The brave Almanzor, to wbose arms we 
owe 

All that we did, and all that we shall do ; 

Who, like a tempest, that outrides tbe 
wind. 

Made a just battle ere the bodies joined, 
Abdelm. His victories we scarce could 
keep in view, 

Or polish 'em so fast as be rough-drew. 
Ahdal. Fate, after him, below with pain 
did move. 

And victory could scarce keep pace 
above : 

Death did at length so many slain forget, 

And lost the tale, and took 'em by the 
great.^^ 
{To them Almanzor with the Duke of Ar- 
cos, prisoner.) 
Hamet. See, here he comes. 

And leads in triumph him wbo did com- 
mand 

The vanquished army of king Ferdinand. 
Almanz. {To the Duke of Areos.) Tbus 
far your master's arms a fortune 
find 

Below tbe swelled ambition of bis mind ; 

And Allah shuts a misbeliever's reign 

16 Lost count and took wholesale. 



430 



THE RESTORATION 



From out the best and goodliest part of 

Spain. 
Let Ferdinand Calabrian conquests make, 
And from tlie French contested Milan 

take; 
Let him new worlds discover to the old, 
And break up shining mountains, big 

with gold; 
Yet he shall iind this small domestic foe. 
Still sharp and pointed, to his bosom 

grow. 
B. Arcos. Of small advantages too much 

you boast; 
You beat the out-guards of my master's 

host: 
This little loss, in our vast body, shows 
So small, that half have never heard the 

news. 
Fame 's out of breath, ere she can fly so 

far, 
To tell 'em all that you have e'er made 

war. 
Almanz. It pleases me your army is so 

great ; 
For now I know there 's more to conquer 

yet. 
By heaven, I '11 see what troops you have 

behind : 
I'll face this storm, that thickens in the 

wind ; 
And, with bent forehead, full against it 

go, 
Till I have found the last and utmost foe. 
D. Arcos. Believe, you shall not long at- 
tend in vain : 
To-morrow's dawn shall cover all your 

plain ; 
Bright arms shall flash upon you from 

afar, 
A wood of lances, and a moving war. 
But I, unhappy, in my bands must yet 
Be only pleased to hear of your defeat. 
And with a slave's inglorious ease re- 
main. 
Till conquering Ferdinand has broke my 

chain. 
Almanz. Vain man, thy hopes of Ferdi- 
nand are weak ! 
I hold thy chain too fast for him to 

break. 
But since thou threaten'st us, I 'II set thee 

free. 
That I again may fight, and conquer 

thee. 
B. Arcos. Old as I am, I take thee at thy 

word, 
And will to-morrow thank thee with my 

sword. 



Almanz. I '11 go, and instantly acquaint 
the king. 
And sudden orders for thy freedom 

bring; 
Thou canst not be so pleased at liberty 
As I shall be to find thou dar'st be free. 
{Exeunt Almanzor, Arcos, and the rest, ex- 
cepting only Abdalla and Zulema.) 
Ahdal. Of all those Christians who in- 
fest ^^ this town, 
This Duke of Arcos is of most renown. 
Zul. Oft have I heard, that in your fa- 
ther's reign, 
His bold adventurers beat the neighbor- 
ing plain ; 
Then under Ponce Leon's name he fought. 
And from our triumphs many prizes 

brought ; 
Till in disgrace from Spain at length he 

went. 
And since continued long in banishment. 
Ahdal. But see, your beauteous sister does 
appear. 

{To them Lyndaraxa.) 
Zul. By my desire she came to find me 

here. 
{Zulema and Lyndaraxa whisper; then 
Zulema goes out, and Lyndaraxa is going 
after. ) 
Ahdal. Why, fairest Lyndaraxa, do you 

fly 

{Staying her.) 
A prince, who at your feet is proud to 
die? 
Lyndar. Sir, I should blush to own so 
rude a thing, 

{Staying.) 
As 't is to shun the brother of my king. 
Ahdal. In my hard fortune I some ease 
should find, 
Did your disdain extend to all mankind. 
But give me leave to grieve, and to com- 
plain. 
That you give others what I beg in vain. 
Lyndar. Take my esteem, if you on that 
can live ; 
For, frankly, sir, 't is all I have to give : 
If from my heart you ask or hope for 

more, 
I grieve the place is taken up before. 
Ahdal. My rival merits you. — 
To Abdelmelech T will justice do; 
For he wants worth, who dares not praise 
a foe. 
Lyndar. That for his virtue, sir, you make 
defence. 
Shows in your own a noble confidence. 
But him defending, and excusing me. 



17 Troul>i'> by attacks. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 431 



I know not what can your advantage be. 
Abdal. I fain would ask, ere I proceed in 
this, 
If, as by choice, you are by promise his? 
Lyndar. The engagement only in my love 
does lie. 
But that 's a knot which you can ne'er 
untie. 
Abdal. When cities are besieged, and treat 
to yield. 
If there appear relievers from the field, 
The flag of parley may be taken down, 
Till the success of those without be 
known. 
Lyndar. Though Abdelmelech has not yet 
possess'd. 
Yet I have sealed the treaty for my 
breast. 
Abdal. Your treaty has not tied you to a 
day ; 
Some chance might break it, would you 

but delay. 
If I can judge the secrets of your heart, 
Ambition in it has the greatest part ; 
And wisdom, then, will show some differ- 
ence 
Betwixt a private person and a prince. 
Lyndar. Princes are subjects still, — 
Subject and subject can small diff'renee 

bring : 
The diff'renee is 'twixt subjects and a 

king. 
And since, sir, you are none, your hopes 

remove ; 
For less than empire I '11 not change my 
love. 
Abdal. Had I a crown, all I should prize 
in it. 
Should be the power to lay it at your 
feet. 
Lyndar. Had you that crown which you 
but wish, not hope. 
Then I, perhaps, might stoop and take it 

up. 
But till your wishes and your hopes 

agree, 
You shall be still a private man with 
me. 
Abdal. If I am king, and if my brother 

die, 

Lyndar. Two if's scarce make one possi- 
bility. 
Abdal. The rule of happiness by reason 
scan ; 
You may be happy with a private man. 
Lyndar. That happiness I may enjoy, 't is 
true ; 
But then that private man must not be 
you. 



Where'er I love, I'm happy in my 

choice ; 
If I make you so, you shall pay my price, 
Abdal. Why would you be so great? 
Lyndar, Because I Ve seen. 

This day, what 't is to hope to be a queen. 
Heaven, how you all watched each mo- 
tion of her eye ! 
None could be seen while Almahide was 

by, 

Because she is to be Her Majesty ! — 
Why would I be a queen? Because my 

face 
Would wear the title with a better grace. 
If I became it not, yet it would be 
Part of your duty, then, to flatter me. 
These are not half the charms of being 

great ; 
I would be somewhat — that I know not 

yet: 
Yes ! I avow the ambition of my soul. 
To be that one, to live without control ! 
And that 's another happiness to me, 
To be so happy as but one can be. 
Abdal. Madam, — because I would all 

doubts remove, — 
Would you, were I a king, accept my 

love? 
Lyndar. I would accept it; and, to show 

'tis true. 
From any other man as soon as you. 
Abdal. Your sharp replies make me not 

love you less; 
But make me seek new paths to happi- 
ness. 
What I design, by time will best be seen : 
You may be mine, and yet may be a 

queen. 
WTien you are so, your word your love 

assures. 
Lyndar. Perhaps not love you, — but I will 

be yours. — 
(He offers to take her hand, and kiss it.) 
Stay, sir, that grace I cannot yet allow. 
Before you set the crown upon my 

brow. — 
That favor which you seek. 
Or Abdelmelech, or a king, must have ; 
When you are so, then you may be my 

slave. 
{Exit ; b^it looks smiling back on him.) 
Abdal. Howe'er imperious in her words 

she were. 
Her parting looks had nothing of severe ; 
A glancing smile allured me to command. 
And her soft fingers gently pressed my 

hand: 
I felt the pleasure glide through every 

part; 



432 



THE RESTORATION 



Her hand went through nie to my very 

heart. 
For such another pleasure, did he live, 
I could my father of a crown deprive. 
What did I say?— 
Father? — That imijious thought has 

shocked my mind : 
How bold our passions are, and yet how 

blind !— 
She's gone; and now, 
Methinks there is less glory in a crown : 
My boiling passions settle, and go down. 
Like amber chafed, when she is near, she 

acts; 
When farther off, inclines, but not at- 
tracts. 

(To him Zulema.) 
Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be 
That friend thou seem'st, assist me 

against me. 
Betwixt my love and virtue I am tossed; 
This must be forfeited, or that be lost. 
I could do much to merit thy applause ; 
Help me to fortify the better cause. 
My honor is not wholly put to flight, 
But would, if seconded, renew the fight. 
Zul. I met my sister, but I do not see 
Wliat difficulty in your choice can be : 
She told me all ; and 't is so plain a case. 
You need not ask what counsel to em- 
brace. 
Ahdal. I stand reproved, that I did doubt 

at all; 
My waiting vil-tue stayed but for thy 

call: 
'T is plain that she, who for a kingdom 

now 
Would sacrifice her love, and break her 

vow, 
Not out of love, but interest, acts alone, 
And would, even in my arms, lie thinking 

of a throne. 
Zul. Add to the rest this one reflection 

more : 
When she is married, and you still adore. 
Think then — and think what comfort it 

will bring — 
She had been mine. 
Had I but only dared to be a king ! 
Ahdal. I hope you only would my honor 

try; 
I'm loth to think you virtue's enemy. 
Zul. If, when a crown and mistress are 

in place, 
Virtue intrudes, with her lean holy face, 
Virtue 's then mine, and not I virtue's 

foe. 
Why does she come where she has nought 

to do? 



Let her with anchorites, not with lovers, 

lie; 
Statesmen and they keep better company. 
Ahdal. Reason was given to curb our 

headstrong will. 
Zul. Reason but shows a weak physician's 

skill; 
Gives nothing, while the raging fit does 

last, 
But stays to cure it, when the worst is 

past. 
Reason 's a staff for age, when nature 's 

gone; 
But youth is strong enough to walk 

alone. 
Ahdal. In eurs'd ambition I no rest should 

fuid. 
But must for ever lose my peace of mind. 
Zul. Methinks that peace of mind were 

bravely lost. 
A crown, whate'er we give, is worth the 

cost. 
Ahdal. Justice distributes to each man his 

right ; 
But what she gives not, should I take by 

might ? 
Zul. If justice will take all, and nothing 

give, 
Justice, methinks, is not distributive. 
Ahdal. Had fate so pleased, I had been 

eldest bom. 
And then, without a crime, the crown 

had worn. 
Zul. Would you so please, fate yet a way 

would find; 
Man makes his fate according to his 

mind. 
The weak low spirit fortune makes hef 

slave ; 
But she 's a drudge when hectored by the 

brave : 
If fate weaves common thread, he '11 

change the doom. 
And with new purple spread a nobler 

loom. 
Ahdal. No more! — I will usurp the royal 

seat; 
Thou, who hast made me wicked, make 

me great. 
Zul. Your way is plain : the death of 

Tarifa 
Does on the king our Zegrys' hatred 

draw; 
Though with our enemies in show we 

close, 
'T is but while we to purpose can be foes. 
Selin, who heads us, would revenge his 

son; 
But favor hinders justice to be done. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 433 



Proud Ozniyn with the king his power 
maintains, 

And in him each Abencerrago reigns. 
Abdal. What face of any title can I 

bring*? 
Zul. The right an ekiest son has to he 
king. 

Your father was at first a private man, 

And got your brother ere his reign be- 
gan : 

When, by his valor, he the crown had 
won, 

Then you were born, a monarch's eldest 
son, 
Abdal. To sharp-eyed reason this would 
seem untrue; 

But reason I through love's false optics 
view. 
Zul. Love's mighty power has led me cap- 
tive too; 

I am in it unfortunate as you. 
Abdal. Our loves and fortunes shall to- 
gether go ; 

Thou shalt be hajipy, when I first am so. 
Zul. The Zegrys at old Selin's house are 
met. 

Where, in close council, for revenge they 
sit: 

There we our common interest will unite ; 

You their revenge shall own, and they 
your right. 

One thing I had forgot which may im- 
port : 

I met Almanzor coming back from court. 

But with a discomi^osed and speedy pace, 

A hery color kindling all his face : 

The king his prisoner's freedom has de- 
nied, 

And that refusal has provoked his pride. 
Abdal. Would he were ours ! — 

I '11 try to gild the injustice of the cause, 

And court his valor with a vast applause. 
Zul. The bold are but the instruments o' 
the wise; 

They undertake the dangers we advise : 

And, while our fabric with their pains we 
raise. 

We take the profit, and pay them with 
praise. 

(Exeunt.) 

ACT III. 

Scene 1. 

(Almanzor and Ahdalla.) 

Almanz. That he should dare to do me 
this disgrace !-;- 
Is fool or coward writ upon my face? 



Refuse my prisoner! — I such means will 

use. 
He shall not have a prisoner to refuse. 
Abdal. He said you were not by your 

promise tied ; 
That he absolved your word, when he de- 
nied. 
Almanz. He break my promise and ab- 
solve my vow ! 
'T is more than Mahomet himself can do! 
The word which I have given shall stand 

like fate; 
Not like the king's, that weathercock of 

state. 
He stands so high, w'ith so mifised a 

mind, 
Two factions turn him with each blast of 

wind : 
But now, he shall not veer! My word is 

passed ; 
I '11 take his heart by the roots, and hold 

it fast. 
Abdal. You have your vengeance in your 

hand this hour; 
Make me the humble creature of your 

power : 
The Granadins will gladly me obey 
Tired with so base and impotent a sway; 
And, when I show my title, you shall see 
I have a better right to reign than he. 
Almanz. It is sufficient that you make the 

claim ; 
You wrong our friendship when your 

right you name. 
When for myself I fight, I weigh the 

cause. 
But friendship will admit of no such 

laws : 
That weighs by the lump; and, when the 

cause is light. 
Puts kindness in to set the balance right. 
True, I would w4sh my friend the juster 

side ; 
But, in the unjust, ray kindness more is 

tried : 
And all the opposition I can bring, 
Is that I fear to make you such a king. 
Abdal. The majesty of kings Ave should 

not blame, 
When royal minds adorn the royal name ; 
The vulgar, greatness too much idolize, 
But haughty subjects it too much despise. 
Almanz. I only speak of him. 

Whom pomp and greatness sit so loose 

about, 
That he wants majesty to fill 'em out. 
Abdal. Haste, then, and lose no time! — • 
The business must be enterprised this 

night : 



434 



THE RESTORATION 



We must surprise the court in its delight. 
Almanz. For you to will, for me 'tis to 
obey: 
But I would give a crown in open day ; 
And, when the Spaniards their assault 

begin, 
At once beat those without, and these 
within. 

{Exit Almanzor.) 
{Enter Abdelnielech.) 

Abdelm. Abdalla, hold! — There's some- 
what I intend 
To speak, not as your rival, but your 
friend. 
Ahdal. If as a friend, I am obliged to 
hear; 
And what a rival says I cannot fear. 
Abdelm. Think, brave Abdalla, what it is 
you do: 
Your quiet, honor, and our friendship 

too. 
All for a fickle beauty you forego. 
Think, and turn back, before it be too 

late. 
Behold in me the example of your fate: 
I am your sea-mark ; ^^ and, though 

wracked and lost, 
My ruins stand to warn you from the 
coast. 
Abdal Your counsels, noble Abdelnielech, 
move 
My reason to accept 'em, not my love. 
Ah, why did heaven leave man so weak 

defence. 
To trust frail reason with the rule of 

sense ! ^^ 
'T is overpoised and kicked up in the 

air, 
While sense weighs down the scale, and 

keeps it there ; 
Or, like a captive king, 't is borne 

away. 
And forced to countenance its own 
rebel's sway. 
Abdelm. No, no; our reason was not 
vainly lent ; 
Nor is a slave, but by its own consent : 
If reason on his subject's triumph wait, 
An easy king deserves no better fate. 
Abdal. You speak too late ; my empire 's 
lost too far: 
I cannot fight. 
Abdelm. Then make a flying war; 

Dislodge betimes before you are beset. 
Abdal. Her tears, her smiles, her every 
look 's a net. 
Her voice is like a Siren's of the land ; 

18 beacon. 



And bloody hearts lie panting in her 
hand. 
Abdelm. This do you know, aad tempt the 

danger still? 
Abdal. Love, like a lethargy, has seized 
my will. 
I 'm not myself, since from her sight I 

went; 
I lean my trunk that way, and there 

stand bent. 
As one who, in some frightful dream, 

would shun 
His pressing foe, labors in vain to run ; 
And his own slowness in his sleep be- 
moans. 
With thick short sighs, weak cries, and 

tender groans, 
So I— 
Abdelm. Some friend, in charity, should 
shake. 
And rouse, and call you loudly till you 

wake. 
Too well I know her blandishments to 

gain. 
Usurper-like, till settled in her reign; 
Then proudly she insults, and gives you 

cares 
And jealousies, short hopes and long de- 
spairs. 
To this hard yoke you must hereafter 

bow, 
Howe'er she shines all golden to you now. 
Abdal. Like him, who on the ice 

Slides swiftly on, and sees the water 

near. 
Yet cannot stop himself in his career, 
So am I carried. This enchanted place, 
Like Circe's isle, is peopled with a race 
Of dogs and swine; yet, though their fate 

I know, 
I look with i^leasure, and am turning too. 
{Lyndaraxa passes over the stage.) 
Abdelm.. Fly, fly, before the allurements 
of her face. 
Ere she return with some resistless grace, 
And with new magic covers all the place. 
Abdal. I cannot, will not, — nay, I would 
not fly: 
I 'II love, be blind, be cozened till I die; 
And you, who bid me wiser counsel take, 
I '11 hate, and, if I can, I '11 kill you for 
her sake. 
Abdelm. Even I, that counselled you, that 
choice approve : 
I '11 hate you blindly, and her blindly love. 
Prudence, that stemmed the stream, is out 

of breath ; 
And to go down it is the easier death. 

19 sensuous desire. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 435 



{Lyndaraxa re-enters, and smiles on 
Abdalla.) 
{Exit Abdalla.) 
Abdelm. That smile on Prince Abdalla 
seems to say, 
You are not in your killing mood to-day : 
Men brand, indeed, your sex with cruelty, 
But you 're too good to see poor lovers 

die. 
This godlike pity in you I extol ; 
And more, because, like heaven's, 't is 
general. 
Lyndar. My smile implies not that I grant 
his suit : 
'T was but a bare return of his salute. 
Abdelm. It said, you were engaged, and I 
in place ; -° 
But, to please both, you would divide the 
grace. 
Lyndar. You 've cause to be contented 
with your part, 
When he has but the look, and you the 
heart. 
Abdelm. In giving but that look, you give 
what 's mine : 
I '11 not one corner of a glance resign. 
All 's mine ; and I am covetous of my 

store : 
I have not love enough ; I '11 tax you 
more. 
Lyndar. I gave not love ; 't was but civil- 
ity: 
He is a prince ; that 's due to his degree. 
Abdelm. That prince you smiled on is my 
rival still. 
And should, if me you loved, be treated 
•ill. 
Lyndar. I know not how to show so rude 

a spite. 
Abdelm. That is, you know not how to 
love aright ; 
Or, if you did, you would more difference 

see 
Betwixt our souls, than 'twixt our quality. 
Mark, if his birth makes any difference. 
If to his words it adds one grain of sense. 
That duty which his birth can make his 

due 
I '11 pay, but it shall not be paid by you : 
For, if a prince courts her whom I adore. 
He is my rival, and a prince no more. 
Lyndar. And when did I my power so far 
resign, 
That you should regulate each look of 
mine? 
Abdelm. Then, when you gave your love, 

you gave that power. 
Lyndar. 'T was during pleasure, 't is re- 
voked this hour. 



Now call me false, and rail on woman- 
kind, — 

'T is all the remedy you 're like to find. 
Abdelm. Yes, there 's one more; 

I 'II hate you, and this visit is ray last. 
Lyndar. Do 't if you can ; you know I hold 
you fast : 

Yet, for your quiet, would you could re- 
sign 

Your love, as easily as I do mine. 
Abdelm. Furies and hell, how unconcerned 
she speaks ! 

With what indifference all her vows she 
breaks ! 

Curse on me, but she smiles! 
Lyndar. That smile's a part of love, and 
all 's your due : 

I take it from the prince, and give it you. 
Abdelm. Just heaven, must my poor heart 
your May-game prove. 

To bandy, and make children's play in 
love I 

{Half crying.) 

Ah ! how have I this cruelty deserved ? 

I, who so truly and so long have served ! 

And left so easily ! oh, cruel maid ! 

So easily ! 'T was too unkindly said. 

That heart which could so easily remove 

Was never fixed, nor rooted deep in 
love. 
Lyndar. You lodged it so uneasy in your 
breast, 

I thought you had been weary of the 
guest. 

First, I was treated like a stranger there ; 

But, when a household friend I did ap- 
pear. 

You thought, it seems, I could not live 
elsewhere. 

Then, by degrees, your feimied respect 
withdrew ; 

You marked my actions, and my guardian 
grew. 

But I am not concerned your acts to 
blame : 

My heart to yours but upon liking came ; 

And, like a bii'd whom prying boys 
molest. 

Stays not to breed where she had built her 
nest. 
Abdelm. I have done ill. 

And dare not ask you to be less dis- 
pleased ; 

Be but more angry, and my pain is eased. 
Lyndar. If I should be so kind a fool, to 
take 

This little satisfaction which you make, 

I know you would presume some other 
time 



20 in the way (a meaning not noticed by the Oxf. Diet.) 



436 



THE RESTORATION 



Upon my goodness, and repeat your 
crime. 
Ahdelm. Oh never, never, upon no pre- 
tence ; 
My life 's too short to expiate this offence. 
Lijndar. No, now I think un 't, 't is in vain 
to try ; 
'T is in your nature, and past remedy. 
You '11 still disquiet my too loving heart : 
Now we are friends, 't is best for both 
to part. 
Ahdelm. [taking her hand.) By this— will 

yon not give me leave to swear? 
Lyndar. You would be perjured if you 
should, I fear: 
And, when I talk with Prince Abdalla 

next, 
I with your fond -^ suspicions shall be 
vexed. 
Ahdelm. I cannot say I '11 conquer jeal- 
ousy. 
But, if you '11 freely pardon me, I '11 try. 
Lyndar. And, till you that submissive 
servant prove, 
I never can conclude you truly love. 
{To them the King, Almahide, Ahenamar, 

Esperanza, Guards, Attendants.) 
Booh. Approach, my Almahide, my charm- 
ing fair, 
Blessing of peace, and recompense of 

war. 
This night is yours; and may your life 

still be 
The same in joy, though not solemnity. 

SONG 



Beneath a myrtle shade. 
Which love for none but happy lovers 

made, 
I slept ; and straight my love before me 

brought ' 

Phyllis, the object of my waking thought. 
Undressed she came my flames to meet. 
While love strowed flowers beneath her 

feet; 
Flowers which, so pi'essed by her, became 

more sweet. 

II 

From the bright vision's head 
A careless veil of lawn was loosely spread : 
From her white temples fell her shaded 

hair, 
Like cloudy sunshine, not too brown nor 

fair; 
Her hands, her lips, did love inspire ; 



Her eveiy grace my heart did fire ; 
But most her eyes, which languished with 
desire. 

Ill 

"Ah, charming fair," said I, 
"How long can you my bliss and yours 

deny? 
By nature and by love this lonely shade 
Was for revenge of suffering lovers made. 
Silence and shades with love agree; 
Both shelter you and favor me : 
You cannot blush, because I cannot see." 



"No, let me die," she said, 
"Rather than lose the spotless name of 

maid !" 
Faintly, methought, she spoke; for all the 

while 
She bid me not believe her, with a smile. 
"Then die," said I : she still denied ; 
"And is it thus, thus, thus," she cried, 
"You use a harmless maid?" — and so she 

died! 



I waked, and straight I knew, 
I loved so well, it made my dream prove 

true : 
Fancy, the kinder mistress of the two, 
Fancy had done what Phyllis would not do ! 
Ah, cruel nymph, cease your disdain ; 
While I can dream, you scorn in vain, — 
Asleep or waking, you must ease my pain. 

{The Zamhra Dance.) 

[After the dance, a tumultuous noise of 

drums and trumpets.) 

{To them Osmi/n; his sioord draion.) 

Ozm.. Arm, quickly, arm; yet all, I fear, 

too late; 

The enemy 's already at the gate. 

Boah. The Christians are dislodged ; what 

foe is near? 
0.:m. The Zegrys are in arms, and almost 
here : 
The streets with torches shine, with shout- 
ings ring, 
And Prince Abdalla is proclaimed the 

king. 
What man could do, I have already done. 
But bold Almanzor fiercely leads 'em on. 
Ahen. The Alhambra yet is safe in my 
eom.mand ; 

{To the King.) 
Retreat you thither, while their shock we 
stand. 



21 foolish. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OP GRANADA 437 



Boob. I cannot meanly for my life pro- 
vide ; 
I '11 either perish in 't, or stem this tide. 
To guard the palace, Ozmyn, be your 

care : 
If they o'ercome, no sword will hurt the 

fair. 
Ozm. I '11 either die, or I '11 make good the 

place. 
Abdelm. And I with these will bold Al- 

manzor face. 
{Exeunt all but the Ladies. An alarm 
within. ) 
Almah. What dismal planet did my tri- 
umphs light ! 
Discord the day, and death does rule the 

night : 
The noise my soul does through my senses 

wound. 
Lyndar. Methinks it is a noble, sprightly 

sound, 
The trumpet's clangor, and the clash of 

arms ! 
This noise may chill your blood, but mine 

it warms. 
{Shouting and clashing of swords within.) 
We have already passed the Rubicon ; 
The dice are mine; now, fortune, for a 

throne ! 
{A shout within, and clashing of swords 
afar off.) 
The sound goes farther off, and faintly 

dies ; 
Curse of this going back, these ebbing 

cries ! 
Ye winds, waft hither sounds more strong 

and quick; 
Beat faster, drums, and mingle deaths 

more thick. 
I '11 to the turrets of the palace go. 
And add new fire to those that fight be- 
low: 
Thence, Hero-like,"- with torches by my 

side 
(Far be the omen, though) my love I'll 

guide. 
No ; like his better fortune I '11 appear. 
With open arms, loose veil, and flowing 

hair, 
Just flying forward from my rolling 

sphere : 
My smiles shall make Abdalla more than 

man ; 
Let him look up, and perish if he can. 
{Exit.) 
{An alarm nearer: then enter Almanror 
and Selin at the head of the Zegrys; 
Ozmyn, prisoner.) 



Almanz. We have not fought enough; they 
fly too soon; 
And I am grieved the noble sport is done. 
This only man, of all whom chance did 
bring 

{Pointing to Ozmyn.) 
To meet my arms, was worth the conquer- 
ing. 
His brave resistance did my fortune 

grace ; 
So slow, so threatening forward, he gave 

place. 
His chains be easy, and his usage fair. 
Selin. I beg you would commit him to my 

care. 
Almanz. Next, the brave Spaniard free 
without delay ; 
And with a convoy send him safe away. 
{Exit a Guard.) 
{To them Hamet and otliers.) 
Ilamet. The king by me salutes you ; and, 
to show 
That to your valor he his crown does 

owe. 
Would from your mouth I should the 

woi'd receive, 
And that to these you would your orders 
give. 
Almanz. He much o'errates the little I 

have done. 
{Almanzor goes to the door, and there seems 
to give out orders by sending people 
several ways.) 
Selin {to Ozmyn). Now, to revenge the 
murder of my son. 
To-morrow for thy certain death pre- 
pare; 
This night I only leave thee to despair. 
Ozmyn. Thy idle menaces I do not fear: 
My business was to die or conquer here. 
Sister, for you I grieve I could no more : 
My present state betrays my want of 

power ; 
But, when true courage is of force bereft, 
Patience, the noblest fortitude, is left. 
{Exit cum Selin.) 
Almah. Ah, Esperanza, what for me re- 
mains 
But death, or, worse than death, inglori- 
ous chains ! 
Esper. Madam, you must not to despair 
give place ; 
Heaven never meant misfortime to that 

face. 
Suppose there were no justice in your 

cause, 
Beauty 's a bribe that gives her judges 
laws. 



22 Hero set a light to guide her lover Leander in swimming the Hellespont. 



438 



THE RESTORATION 



That you are brought to this deplored 

estate, 
Is but the ingenious flattery of your fate ; 
Fate fears her succor like an alms to 

give; 
And would you, God-like, from yourself 
should live. 
Almah. Mark but how terrible his eyes 
appear ! 
And yet there 's something roughly noble 

there, 
Which, in unfashioned nature, looks di- 
vine, 
And, like a gem, does in the quarry shine. 
[Almanzor returns; site falls at his feet, 

being veiled.) 
Almah. Turn, mighty conqueror, turn 
your face this way, 
Do not refuse to hear the wretched pray ! 
Almam. What business can this woman 

have with me ? 
Almah. That of the afflicted to the Deity. 
So may your arms success in battles find ; 
So may the mistress of your vows be 

kind. 
If you have any; or, if you have none, 
So may your liberty be still your own ! 
Almanz. Yes, I w^ill turn my face, but not 
my mind : 
You bane and soft destruction of man- 
kind, 
What would you have with me "? 
Almah. I beg the grace 

(Unveiling.) 
You would lay by those terrors of your 

face. 
Till calmness to your eyes you first re- 
store, 
I am afraid, and I can beg no more. 
Almanz. (looking fixedly on her). Well; 
my fierce visage shall not murder 
you. 
Speak quickly, woman; I have much to 
do. 
Almah. Where should I find the heart to 
speak one word? 
Your voice, sir, is as killing as your 

sword. 
As you have left the lightning' of your 

eye. 
So would you please to lay your thunder 

Almanz. I 'm pleased and pained, since 
first her eyes I saw, 
As I were stung w^ith some tarantula. 
Arms, and the dusty field, I less admire, 
And soften strangely in some new desire ; 
Honor burns in me not so fiercely bright, 



But pale as fires when mastered by the 

light : 
Even while I speak and look, I change 

yet more. 
And now am nothing that I was before. 
I 'm numbed, and fixed, and scarce my 

eyeballs move ; 
I fear it is the lethargy of love ! 
'T is he; I feel him now in every part : 
Like a new lord he vaunts about my 

heart ; 
Surveys, in state, each corner of my 

breast. 
While poor fierce I, that was, am dispos- 
sessed. 
I 'm bound ; but I w'ill rouse my rage 

again ; 
And, though no hope of liberty remain, 
I '11 fright my keeper when I shake my 

chain. 

You are 

(Angrily.) 
Almah. I know I am your captive, sir. 
Almanz. You are — You shall — And I can 

scarce forbear 

Almah. Alas! 

Almanz. 'T is all in vain; it will not do: 
(Aside.) 
I cannot now a seeming anger show : 
My tongue against my heart no aid af- 
fords ; 
For love still rises up, and chokes my 

words. 
Almah. In half this time a tempest would 

be still. 
Almanz. 'T is you have raised that tem- 
pest in my will. 
I wonnot -^ love you; give me back my 

heart ; 
But give it, as you had it, fierce and 

brave. 
It was not made to be a woman's slave : 
But, lion-like, has been in deserts bred. 
And, used to range, will ne'er be tamely 

led. 
Restore its freedom to my fettered will, 
And then I shall have power to use you 

ill. 
Almah. My sad condition may your pity 

move; 
But look not on me with the eyes of 

love. — 
I must be brief, though I have much to 

say. 
Almanz. No, speak; for I can hear you 

now all day. 

\Sofny.) 
Her suing soothes me with a secret pride : 



23 wol (will) not, won't. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 439 



A suppliant beauty cannot be denied : 

{Aside.) 
Even while I frown, her charms and fur- 
rows seize ; 
And I 'm corrupted with the power to 
please. 
Almah. Though in your worth no cause of 
fear I see, 
I fear the insolence of victory ; 
As you are noble, sir, protect me then 
From the rude outrage of insulting men. 
Almanz. Who dares touch her I love"? 
I 'm all o'er love : 
Nay, I am Love; Love shot, and shot so 

fast. 
He shot himself into my breast at last. 
Almah. You see before you her who should 
be queen. 
Since she is promised to Boabdelin. 
Almanz. Are you beloved by him? O 
wretched fate, 
First, that I love at all; then, love too 

late ! 
Yet, I must love ! 
Almah. Alas, it is in vain; 

Fate for each other did not us ordain. 
The chances of this day too clearly show 
That heaven took care that it should not 
be so. 
Almanz. Would heaven had quite forgot 
me this one day! 

But fate 's yet hot 

I '11 make it take a bent another way. 
{He walks siciftly and discomposedly, 

studying. ) 
I bring a claim which does his right re- 
move; 
You 're his by promise, but you 're mine 

by love. 
'T is all but ceremony which is past ; 
The knot 's to tie which is to make you 

fast. 
Fate gave not to Boabdelin that power; 
He wooed you but as my ambassador. 
Almah. Our souls are tied by holy vows 

above. 
Almanz. He signed but his; but I will 
seal my love. 
I love you better, with more zeal than he. 
Almah. This day 

I gave my faith to him, he his to me. 
Almanz. Good heaven, thy book of fate 
before me lay. 
But to tear out the journal of this day: 
Or, if the order of the world below 
Will not the gap of one whole day allow. 
Give me that minute when she made her 
vow! 



"That minute, ev'n the happy from their 
bliss might give ; 

"And those, who live in grief, a shorter 
time would live.-* 

So small a link, if broke, the eternal chain 

Would, like divided waters, join again. — 

It wonnot be ; the fugitive is gone. 

Pressed by the crowd of following min- 
utes on : 

That precious moment 's out of nature 
fled. 

And in the heap of common rubbish laid. 

Of things that once have been, and are 
decayed. 
Almah. Your passion, like a fright, sus- 
pends my pain ; 

It meets, o'erpowers, and bears mine back 
again : 

But as, when tides against the current 
flow. 

The native stream runs its own course be- 
low, 

So, though your griefs possess the upper 
part. 

My own have deeper channels in my 
heart. 
Almanz. Forgive that fury which my soul 
does move ; 

'T is the essay of an untaught first love : 

Yet rude, unfashioned truth it does ex- 
press ; 

'T is love just peeping in a hasty dress. 

Retire, fair creature, to your needful 
rest; 

There 's something noble laboring in my 
breast : 

This I'aging fire which through the mass 
does move 

Shall purge my dross, and shall refine my 
love. 
{Exeunt Almahide and Esperanza.) 

She goes, and I like my own ghost ap- 
pear; 

It is not living- when she is not here, 
{To him Ahdalla as King, attended.) 
Abdal. My first acknowledgments to 
heaven are due ; 

My next, Almanzor, let me pay to you. 
Almanz. A poor surprise, and on a naked 
foe. 

Whatever you confess, is all you owe ; 

And I no merit own, or understand 

That fortune did you justice by my hand : 

Yet, if you will that little service pay 

With a great favor, I can show the way. 
Ahdal. I have a favor to demand of you; 

That is, to take the thing for which you 
sue. 



24 The quotation marks seem to be for emphasis, or ability for quotation, not to indicate a borrower. 

(Noyes). 



440 



THE RESTORATION 



Almanz. Then, briefly, thus: when I the 
Albayzin won, 
I found the beauteous Almahicle alone, 
Whose sad condition did my pity move; 
And that compassion did produce my 
love. 
Ahdal. This needs no suit; in justice, I 
declare. 
She is your captive by the right of war. 
Almanz. She is no captive then; I set her 
free; 
And, rather than I will her jailer be, 
I '11 nobly lose her in her liberty. 
Ahdal. Your generosity I much approve; 
But your excess of that shows want of 
love. 
Almanz. No, 't is the excess of love which 
mounts so high 
That, seen far off, it lessens to the eye. 
Had I not loved her, and had set her free, 
That, sir, had been my generosity; 
But 't is exalted passion, when I show 
I dare be Avretched, not to make her so : 
And, while another passion fills her 

breast, 
I '11 be all wretched rather than half blest. 
Ahdal. May your heroic act so prosperous 
be, 
That Almahide may sigh you set her free. 

{Enter Zulcma.) 

Zul. Of five tall towers which fortify this 

town. 
All but the Alhambra your dominion 

own: 
Now, therefore, boldly I confess a flame, 
Which is excused in Almahida's name. 
If you the merit of this night regard. 
In her possession I have my reward. 
Almanz. She your reward! why, she's a 

gift so great, 
That I myself have not deserved her yet ; 
And therefore, though I won her with my 

sword, 
I have, with awe, my sacrilege restored. 
Zul. What you deserve 

I '11 not dispute because T do not know ; 
This only I will say, she shall not go. 
Almanz. Thou, single, art not worth my 

answering: 
But take what friends, what armies thou 

canst bring; 
What worlds; and, when you are united 

all. 
Then I will thunder in your ears : "Slic 

shall !" 
Zul. I '11 not one tittle of my right re- 
sign. 



Sir, your implicit promise made her 

mine ; 
When I in general terms my love did 

show. 
You swore our fortunes should together 

go. 
Ahdal. The merits of the cause I '11 not 

decide. 
But, like my love, I would my gift di- 
vide. 
Your equal titles, then, no longer plead ; 
But one of you, for love of me, recede. 
Almanz. I have receded to the utmost 

line, 
When, by my free consent, she is not 

mine : 
Then let him equally recede with me, 
And both of us will join to set her free. 
Zul. If you will free your part of her, 

you may; 
But, sir, I love not your romantic way. 
Dream on, enjoy her soul, and set that 

free; 
I 'm pleased her person should be left for 

me. 
Almanz. Thou shalt not wish her thine; 

thou shalt not dare 
To be so impudent as to despair. 
Zul. The Zegiys, sir, are all concerned to 

see 
How much their merit you neglect in me. 
Hamet. Your slighting Zulema this very 

hour 
Will take ten thousand subjects from 

your power. 
Almanz. What are ten thousand subjects 

such as they? 
If I am scorned — I '11 take myself away. 
Ahdal. Since both cannot possess what 

both pursue, 
I grieve, my friend, the chance should fall 

on you; 
But when you hear what reasons I can 

urge 

Almanz. None, none that your ingratitude 

can purge. 
Reason 's a trick, when it no grant af- 
fords ; 
It stam]is the face of majesty on words. 
Ahdal. Your boldness to your services I 

give: 
Now take it, as your full reward — to live. 
Almanz. To live! 

If from thy hands alone my death can be, 

I am immortal, and a god, to thee. 

If I would kill thee now, thy fate 's so 

low, 
Tliat T must stoop ere I can give the 

blow; 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 441 



But mine is fixed so far above thy crown, 

That all thy men, 

Piled on thy back, can never pull it down. 

But at my ease thy destiny 1 send, 

By ceasing from this hour to be thy 

friend. 
Like heaven, I need but only to stand 

still. 
And, not concurring to thy life, I kill. 
Thou canst no title to my duty bring; 
I 'm not thy subject, and my soul 's thy 

king. 
Farewell. When I am gone, 
There 's not a star of thine dare stay with 

thee : 
I '11 whistle thy tame fortune after me ; 
And whirl fate with me wheresoe'er I fly, 
As winds drive storms before 'em in the 

sky. 

{Exit.) 
Zul. Let not this insolent unpunished go; 
Give your commands; your justice is too 

slow. 
{Zulema, Harriet, and oiliers are going 

after him.) 
Ahdal. Stay, and what pai't he pleases let 

him take : 
I know my throne 's too strong for him 

to shake. 
But my fair mistress I too long forget ; 
The crown I promised is not offered yet. 
Without her presence all my joys are 

vain. 
Empire a curse, and life itself a pain. 
(Exeunt.) 



ACT IV 

Scene 1. 
{Boabdelin, Abenamar, Guards.) 

Boah. Advise, or aid, but do not pity me : 

No monarch born can fall to that degree. 

Pity descends from kings to all below ; 

But can, no more than fountains, upward 
flow. 

Witness, just heaven, my greatest grief 
has been, 

I could not make your Almahide a queen. 
Aben. I have too long the effects of for- 
tune known. 

Either to trust her smiles, or fear her 
frown. 

Since in their first attempt you were not 
slain. 

Your safety bodes you yet a second reign. 

The people like a headlong torrent go. 

And every dam they break, or overflow; 



But, unopposed, they either lose their 

force. 
Or wind in volumes to their former 

course. 
Boah. In walls we meanly must our hopes 

enclose, 
To wait our friends, and weary out our 

foes: 
While Almahide 

To lawless rebels is exjDosed a prey, 
And forced the lustful victor to obey. 
Aben. One of my blood, in rules of virtue 

bred ! 
Think better of her, and believe she 's 

dead. 

{To them Almanzor.) 
Boab. We are betrayed, the enemy is here ; 
We have no f ai"ther room to hope or fear. 
Almanz. It is indeed Almanzor whom you 

see. 
But he no longer is your enemy. 
You were ungrateful, but your foes were 

more; 
What 5'our injustice lost you, theirs re- 
store. 
Make profit of my vengeance while you 

may ; 
My two-edged sword can cut the other 

way. — 
I am your fortune, but am swift like her, 
And tuni my hairy front if j'ou defer : 
That hour when you deliberate, is too 

late; 
I point you the white moment of your 

fate. 
Aben. Believe him sent as prince Abdalla's 

spy; 

He would betray us to the enemy. 
Almanz. Were I, like thee, in cheats of 

state grown old 
(Those public markets, where for foreign 

gold 
The poorer prince is to the richer sold), 
Then thou mightst think me fit for that 

low part ; 
But I am yet to learn the statesman's art. 
My kindness and my hate unmasked I 

wear ; 
For friends to trust, and enemies to fear. 
My heart 's so plain 
That men on every passing thought may 

look. 
Like fishes gliding in a crystal brook; 
When troubled most, it does the bottom 

show ; 
'T is weedless all above, and roekless all 

below. 
Aben. Ere he be trusted, let him first be 

tried : 



442 



THE RESTORATION 



He may be false, who once has changed 
his side. 
Almanz. In that you more accuse your- 
selves than me ; 

None who are injured can unconstant be. 

You were unconstant, you, who did the 
wrong-.; 

To do me justice does to me belong. 

Great souls by kindness only can be tied ; 

Injured again, again I '11 leave your side. 

Honor is what myself, and friends, I owe ; 

And none can lose it who forsake a foe. 

Since, then, your foes now happen to be 
mine, 

Though not in friendship, we '11 in inter- 
est join : 

So while my loved revenge is full and 
high, 

I '11 give you back your kingdom by the 
by. 
Boab. {Embracing him.) That I so long 
delayed what you desire, 

Was not to doubt your worth, but to 
admire. 
Almanz. This counsellor an old man's cau- 
tion shows, 

Who fears that little he has left to lose : 

Age sets to -* fortune; while youth boldly 
throws. 

But let us first your drooping soldiers 
cheer ; 

Then seek out danger, ere it dare appear : 

This hour I fix your crown u^Don your 
brow ; 

Next hour fate gives it, but I give it now. 
{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. 

{Lyndarara alone.) 

Lyndar. 0, could I read the dark decrees 
of fate, 
That I might once know whom to love, or 

hate!' 
For I myself scarce my own thoughts can 
guess, 
• So much I find 'em varied by success. 
As in some weatlier-giass, my love I hold ; 
Which falls or rises with tlie heat or cold. 
I will be constant yet, if Fortune can ; 
I love the king, — let her but name the 
man. 

(To her TJali/ma.) 
Hal. Madam, a gentleman, to me unknown. 
Desires that he may speak with you 
alone. 



from the 



king. 



Lyndar. Some message 

Let him appear. 
{To her Abdelmelechj who entering throws 

ojf his disguise. She starts.) 
Abdelm. I see you are amazed that I am 
here : 
But let at once your fear and wonder 

end. 
In the usurper's guard I found a friend. 
Who led me to you safe in this disguise. 
Lyndar. Your danger brings this trouble 
in my eyes. 
But what affair this venturous visit 
drew f 
Abdelm. The greatest in the world, — the 

seeing you. 
Lyndar. The courage of your love I so 
admire 
That, to preserve you, you shall straight 
retire. 
{She leads him to the door.) 
Go, dear! each minute does new dangers 

bring; 
You will be taken ; I expect the king. 
Abdelm. The king! — the poor usurper of 
an hour: 
His empire 's but a dream of kingly 

power. — 
I warn you, as a lover and a friend, 
To leave him ere his short dominion end : 
The soldier I suborned will wait at night, 
And shall alone be conscious of j'our 
flight. 
Lyndar. I thank you that you so much 
care bestow; 
But, if his reign be short, I need not go. 
For why should I expose my life and 

yours 
For what, you say, a little time assm'es? 
Abdelm. My danger in the attempt is very 
small ; 
And, if he loves you, yours is none at all. 
But, though his ruin be as sure as fate, 
Your proof of love to me would come too 

late. 
This trial I in kindness would allow; 
'T is easy ; if you love me, show it now. 
Lyndar. It is because I love you, I refuse ; 
For all the world my conduct would ac- 
cuse, 
If I should go with him I love away : 
And, therefore, in strict virtue I will stay. 
Abdelm. You would in vain dissemble love 
to me; 
Through that thin veil yoi;r artifice I see. 
You would expect the event, and then de- 
clare ; 
But do not, do not drive me to despair: 



24 "Gambles (raethodicnlly) against" (?) (Noyes.) 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 443 



For, if you now refuse with me to fly, 
Rather than love you after this, I '11 die ; 
And therefore weigh it well before you 

speak ; 
My king is safe, his force within not 
weak. 
Lyndar. The counsel you have given me 
may be wise ; 
But, since the affair is great, I will advise. 
Abdelm. Then thc^t delay I for denial take. 

{Is going.) 
Lyndar. Stay ; you too swift an exposition 
make. 
If I should go, since Zuleraa will stay, 
I should my brother to the king betray. 
Ahdclm. There is no fear; but, if there 
were, I see 
You value still your brother more than 

me. 
Fai-ewell! some ease I in your falsehood 

find; 
It lets a beam in that will clear my mind : 
My former weakness I with shame con- 
fess, 
And, when I see you next, shall love you 
less. 

[Is going again.) 
Lyndar. Your faithless dealing you may 
blush to tell ; 

( Weeping. ) 
This is a maid's reward, who loves too 
well. — 

{lie looks hack.) 
Remember that I drew my latest breath 
In charging your unkindness with my 
death. 
Ahdelm. {coming hack). Have I not an- 
swered all you can invent. 
Even the least shadow of an argument ? 
Lyndar. You want not cunning what you 
please to prove, 
But my poor heart knows only how to 

love; 
And, finding this, you tyrannize the more : 
'T is plain, some other mistress you 

adore ; 
And now, with studied tricks of subtilty. 
You come prepared to lay the fault on 
me. 

{Wringing her hands.) 
But, 0, that I should love so false a man ! 
Ahdelm. Hear me, and then disprove it, 

if you can. 
Lyndar. I '11 hear no more ; your breach of 
faith is plain : 
You would with wit your want of love 

maintain. 
But, by my own experience, I can tell, 
They who love truly cannot argue well. — 



Go, faithless man ! 

Leave me alone to mourn my misery; 
I cannot cease to love you, but 1 '11 die. 
{Leans her head on his arm.) 
Ahdelm. What man but I so long un- 
moved could hear 

{Weeping.) 
Such tender passion, and refuse a tear! 
But do not talk of djdng any more, 
Unless you mean that I should die before. 
Lyndar. I fear your feigned repentance 
comes too late ; 
I die, to see you still thus obstinate : 
But yet, in death my truth of love to 

show. 
Lead me; if I have strength enough, I '11 
go. 
Abdelm. By heaven, you shall not go! I 
will not be 
O'ercome in love or generosity. 
All I desire, to end the unlucky strife, 
Is but a vow that you will be my wife. 
Lyndar. To tie me to you by a vow is 
hard; 
It shows my love you as no tie regard. 
Name anything but that, and I '11 agree. 
Ahdelm. Swear, then, you never will my 

rival's be. 
Lyndar. Nay, pr'ythee, this is harder than 
before. 
Name anything, good dear, but that thing 
more. 
Ahdelm. Now I too late perceive I am 
undone ; 
Living and seeing, to my death I run. 
I know you false, yet in your snares I 

fall; 
You grant me nothing, and I grant you 
all. 
Lyndar. I would grant all; but I must 
curb my will. 
Because I love to keep you jealous still. 
In your suspicion I your passion find ; 
But I will take a time to cure your 
mind. 
Ilalyma. 0, madam, the new king is draw- 
ing near! 
Lyndar. Haste quickly hence, lest he 

should find you here ! 
Ahdelm. How much more wretched" than I 
came, I go ! 
I more my weakness and your falsehood 

know ; 
And now must leave you with my great- 
est foe! 

{Exit Abdelm.) 
Lyndar. Go! — How I love thee, heaven 
can only tell : 
And yet I love thee, for a subject, well. — 



444 



THE RESTORATION 



Yet, whatsoever charms a crown can 

bring, 
A subject's greater than a little king. 
I will attend till time this throne secure; 
And, when I climb, my footing sliall be 

sure. — 

{3Ii(sic without.) 
Music! and, I believe, addressed to me. 

SONG 



Wherever I am, and whatever I do, 
My Phj'llis is still in my mind ; 

When angry, I mean not to Phyllis to go. 
My feet, of themselves, the way find; 

Unknown to myself I am just at her door. 

And, when I would rail, I can bring out no 
more, 
Than, "Phyllis too fair and unkind !" 

II 

When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my 
breast. 
And the love I would stifle is shown ; 
But asleep, or awake, I am never at rest, 

When from my eyes Phyllis is gone. 
Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad 

mind ; 
But, alas ! when I wake, and no Phyllis I 
find, 
How I sigh to myself all alone ! 

Ill 

Should a king be my rival in her I adore. 
He should offer his treasure in vain. 

0, let me alone to be happy and poor, 
And give me my Phyllis again ! 

Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, 

I could to a desert with her be confined, 
And envy no monarch his reign. 

IV 

Alas ! I discover too much of my love, 

And she too well knows her own power! 
She makes me each day a new martyrdom 
prove, 
And makes me gi'ow jealous eacli hour: 
But let her each minute torment my poo^ 

mind, 
I had rather love Phyllis, both false and un- 
kind, 
Than ever be freed from her power. 

(Ahdalla enters, with Guards.) 

Ahdal. Now, madam, at your feet a king 
you see; 



Or, rather, if you please, a sceptred 

slave : 
'Tis just you should possess the power 

you gave. 
Had love not made me yours, I yet had 

been 
But the first subject to Boabdelin. 
Thus heaven declares the crown I bring 

your due; 
And had forgot my title, but for you. 
Lyndar. Heaven to your merits Avill, I 

hope, be kind ; 
But, sir, it has not yet declared its mind. 
'T is true, it holds the crown above your 

head ; 
But does not fix it till your brother 's 

dead. 
Ahdal. All but the Alhambra is within 

my power; 
And that my forces go to take this hour. 
Lyndar. When, with its keys, your broth- 

ei*'s head you bring, 
I shall believe you are indeed a king. 
Ahdal. But since the events of all tilings 

doubtful are, 
And, of events, most doid^tful those of 

war; 
I beg to know before, if fortune frown, 
Must I -then lost your favor with my 

crown ? 
Lyndar. You '11 soon return a conqueror 

again ; 
And, therefore, sir, your 'question is in 

vain. 
Ahdal. I think to certain victory I move; 
But you may more assure it by your 

love. 
That grant will make my arms invincible. 
Lyndar. My i^rayers and wishes your suc- 
cess foretell. — 
Go then, and fight, and think yo u fight for 

me; 
I wait but to reward your victory. 
Ahdal. But if I lose it, musiit I lose you 

too"? 
Lyndar. You are too curious^, if you more 

would know. 
I know not wi^;?.! my future tlioughts will 

be: 
Poor women's thoughts arr^^Ml extempore. 
Wise men, indeed, ,^ ^ 

Beforehand a long chain 62 thoughts pro- 
duce; 
But ours are only for oixr present use. 
Ahdal. Those thoughts, you will not know, 

too well declare 
You mean to wait the final doom '•f war. 
Lyndar. 1 find you come to quarrel Tyith 

me now; 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 445 



Would you know more of me than I 

allow "? 
Whence are you grown that great divinity 
That with such ease into my thoughts can 

pry? 
Indulgence does not with some tempers 

suit ; 
I see I must bect)me more absolute. 
Abdal. I must submit, 

On what hard terms soe'er my peace be 
bought. 
Ljjndar. Submit ! — you speak as you were 
not in fault. 
'T is evident the injury is mine; 
For why should you my secret thoughts 
divine? 
Abdal. Yet if we might be judged by rea- 
son's laws ! — 
Lynda): Then you would have your reason 
judge my cause ! — 
Either confess your fault, or hold your 

,. tongue ; 
For I am sure I 'm never in the wrong. 
Abdal. Then I acknowledge it. 
Lyndar. Then I forgive. 

Abdal. Under how hard a law poor lovers 
live ! 
Who, like the vanquished, must their 

right release, 
And with the loss of reason buy their 
peace. — 

(Aside.) 
Madam, to show that you my power com- 
mand, 
I put my life and safety in your hand. 
Dispose of the Albayzin as you please. 
To your fair hands I here resign the keys. 
Lyndar. I take your gift, because your 
love it shows, 
And faithful Selin for Alcalde ^^ choose. 
Abdal. Selin, from her alone your orders 
take. 
This one request, yet, madam, let me 

make. 
That from those turrets you the assault 

will see; 
And crown, once more, my arms with vic- 
tory. 

(Leads her out.) 
(Selin remains ivith Gazul and Reduan, Ms 

servants.) 
Selin. Gazul, go tell my daughter that I 
wait. 
You, Reduan, bring the prisoner to his 
fate. 

(Exeunt Gaz. and Red.) 
Ere of my charge T will possession take, 
A bloody sacrifice I mean to make : 

25 magistrate (three syllables). 



The manes-" of my son shall smile this 

day. 
While I, in blood, my vows of vengeance 

pay. 

(Enter at one door Benzayda, with Gazul; 
at the other, Ozmyn bound, with Reduan.) 

Selin. 1 sent, Benzayda, to glad your eyes : 
These rites we owe your brother's obse- 
quies. — 
You two (to Gaz. and Red.) the accurst 

Abencerrago bmd : 
You need no more to instruct you in my 
mind. 
(They bind him to one corner of the stage.) 
Benz. In what sad object am I called to 
share ? 
Tell me, what is it, sir, you here prepare? 
Selin. 'T is what your dying brother did 
bequeath : 
A scene of vengeance, and a pomp of 
death ! 
Benz. The horrid spectacle my soul does 
fright ; 
I want the heart to see the dismal sight. 
Selin. You are my principal invited guest. 
Whose eyes I would not only feed, but 

feast : 
You are to smile at his last groaning 

breath. 
And laugh to see his eyeballs roll in 

death ; 
To judge the lingering soul's convulsive 

strife, 
When thick short breath catches at part- 
ing life. 
Benz. And of what marble do you think 

me made? 
Selin. What ! can you be of just revenge 

afraid? 
Benz. He killed my brother in his own 
defence. 
Pity his youth, and spare his innocence. 
Selin. Art thou so soon to pardon murder 
won? 
Can he be innocent, who killed my son? 
Abenamar shall mourn as well as I; 
His Ozmyn, for my Tarifa, shall die. 
But since thou plead'st so boldly, I will 

see 
That justice thou wouldst hinder done by 
thee. 

(Gives her his sword.) 
Here — take the sword, and do a sister's 

part: 
Pierce his, fond girl, or I will pierce thy 
heart. 

26 ghost. 



446 



THE RESTORATION 



Ozm. To bis commands I join my own re- 
quest ; 
All wounds from you are welcome to my 

breast : 
Think only, when your hand this act has 

done, 
It has but finished what your eyes begun. 
I thought with silence to have scorned my 

doom; 
But now your noble pity has o'erconie; 
Which I acknowledge Avith my latest 

breath, — 
The first whoe'er began a love in death. 
Benz. (to Selin). Alas, what aid can my 
weak hand afford? 
You see I tremble when I touch a sword : 
The brightness dazzles me, and turns my 

sight ; 
Or, if I look, 't is but to aim less right. 
Ozm. I '11 guide the hand which must my 
death convey ; 
My leaping heart shall meet it half the 
wa3^ 
Selin {to Benz.). Waste not the precious 

time in idle breath. 
Benz. Let me resign this instrument of 

death. 
{Giving the sword to her father, and then 
pulling it hack.) 
Ah, no ! I was too hasty to resign : 
'T is in your hand more mortal than in 
mine. 

{To them Hamet.) 
Hamet. The king is from the Alhambra 
beaten back. 
And now preparing for a new attack; 
To favor which, he wills that instantly 
You reinforce him with a new supply. 
Selin {to Benz.). Think not, although my 
duty calls me hence, 
That with the breach of yours I will dis- 
pense. 
Ere my return see my commands you do : 
Let me find Ozmyn dead, and killed by 

you.— 
Gazul and Reduan, attend her still ; 
And, if she dares to fail, perform my 
will. 
(Exeunt Selin and Hamet.) 
(Benzayda looks languishing on him, with 
her sword down; Gazul and Reduan 
standing ivith drawn swords by her.) 
Ozm. Defer not, fair Benzayda, my death : 
Looking for you, 

I should but "live to sigh away my breath. 
My eyes have done the work they had to 

■ (io: 
I take your image with rne, which they 
drew; 



And, when they close, I shall die full of 

you. 
Benz. When parents their commands un- 
justly lay, 
Children are privileged to disobey; 
Yet from that breach of duty I am clear, 
Since I submit the penalt}' to bear. 
To die, or kill you, is the alternative; 
Rather than take your life, I will not live. 
Ozm. This shows the excess of generosity ; 
But, madam, you have no pretence to die. 
I should defame the Abencerrages' race, 
To let a lady suffer in my place. 
But neither could that life you would be- 
stow, 
Save mine; nor do you so much pity owe 
To me, a stranger, and your house's foe. 
Benz. From Avhencesoe'er their hate our 

houses drew, 
I blush to tell you, I have none for you. 
'T is a confession which I should not 

make. 
Had I more time to give, or you to take : 
But, since death 's near, and runs with so 

much force, 
We must meet first, and intercept his 

course. 
Ozm. 0, how unkind a comfort do you 

give! 
Now I fear death again, and wish to live. 
Life were worth taking, could I have it 

now; 
But 't is more good than heaven can e'er 

allow 
To one man's portion, to have life and 

you. 
Benz. Sure, at our births. 

Death with our meeting planets danced 

above, 
Or we wei'e wounded by a mourning love ! 
(Shouts within.) 
Bed. The noise returns, and doubles from 

behind ; 
It seems as if two adverse armies 

joined. — 
Time presses us. 
Gaz. If longer you delay. 

We must, though loth, your father's will 

obey. 
Ozm. Haste, madam, to fulfil his hard 

commands. 
And rescue me from their ignoble hands. 
Let me kiss yours, when you my wound 

begin. 
Then easy death will slide with pleasure 

in. 
Benz. Ah, gentle soldiers, some short time 

allow ! 

(To Gaz. and Red.) 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 447 



My father has repented him ere now; 
Or will repent him, when he finds me 

dead. 
My clue of life is twined with Ozmyn's 
thread. 
Red. 'T is fatal to refuse her, or obey. 
But where is our excuse? what can we 
say? 
Benz. Say anything — 

Say that to kill the guiltless you were 

loth; 
Or if you did, say I would kill you 
both. 
Gaz. To disobey our orders is to die. — 

I '11 do 't : who dare oppose it ? 
Red. That dare I. 

(Reduan stands before Ozmyn, and fights 
with Gazul. Benzayda unbinds Ozmyn, 
and gives him her sword.) 
Benz. Stay not to see the issue of the 
fight; 

{Red. kills Gaz.) 
But haste to save yourself by speedy 
flight. 
Ozm. {kneeling to kiss her hand) Did all 
mankind against my life conspire, 
Without this blessing I would not retire. 
But, madam, can I go and leave you 

here? 
Your father's anger now for you I fear : 
Consider, you have done too much to 
stay. 
Benz. Think not of me, but fly yourself 

away. 
Red. Haste quickly hence ; the enemies are 
nigh! 
From every part I see our soldiers fly. 
The foes not only our assailants beat, 
But fiercely sally out on their retreat, 
And, like a sea broke loose, come on 
amain. 
{To them Abenamar, and a party with their 
swords drawn, driving in some of the 
enemies.) 
Aben. Traitors, you hope to save your- 
selves in vain ! 
Your forfeit lives shall for your treason 

pay; 

And Ozmyn's blood shall be revenged this 

day. 
Ozm. {kneeling to his father). No, sir, 

your Ozmyn lives; and lives to own 
A father's piety to free his son. 
Aben. {embracing him). My Ozmyn! — 0, 

thou blessing of my age ! 
And art thou safe from their deluded 

rage ! — 
Whom must I praise for thy deliverance ? 
Was it thy valor, or the work of chance? 



Ozm. Nor chance, nor valor, could deliver 
me; 

But 't was a noble pity set me free. 

My liberty, and life. 

And what your happiness you 're pleased 
to call. 

We to this charming beauty owe it all. 
Aben. {to her). Instruct me, visible divin- 
ity! 

Instruct me by what name to worship 
thee! 

For to thy virtue I would altars raise, 

Since thou art much above all human 
praise. 

But see 



{Enter Almanzor, hissword bloody, leading 
in Almahide, attended by Esperanza.) 

My other blessing, Almahide, is here ! 
I '11 to the king, and tell him she is near : 
You, Ozmyn, on your fair deliverer wait, 
And with your private joys the public 

celebrate. 

{Exeunt.) 
Almanz. The work is done; now, madam, 

you are free; 
At least, if I can give you liberty : 
But you have chains which you yourself 

have chose; 
And, 0, that I could free you too from 

those ! 
But you are free from force, and have 

full power 
To go, and kill my hopes and me, this 

hour. 
I see, then, you will go; but yet my toil 
May be rewarded with a looking-while. 
Almah. Almanzor can from every subject 

raise 
New matter for our wonder and his 

praise. 
You bound and freed me ; but the differ- 
ence is, 
That showed your valor; but your virtue 

this. 
Almanz. Madam, you praise a funeral 

victory, 
At whose sad pomp the conqueror must 

die. 
Almah. Conquest attends Almanzor ev- 
erywhere ; 
I am too small a foe for him to fear: 
But heroes still must be opposed by some, 
Or they would want occasion to o'ereome. 
Almanz. Madam, I cannot on bare praises 

live ; 
Those who abound in praises seldom give. 
Almah. While I to all the world your 

worth make known, 



448 



THE RESTORATION 



May heaven reward the pity you have 

shown ! 
Almanz. My love is hiuguishing, and 

starved to death ; 
And would you give me charity — in 

breath^ 
Prayers are the alms of churchmen to the 

poor : 
They send to heaven's, but drive us from 

their door. 
Almah. Cease, cease a suit 

So vain to you, and troublesome to me. 
If you will have me think that I am free. 
If I am yet a slave, my bonds I '11 bear ; 
But what I eamiot grant, I will not hear. 
Almanz. You wonnot hear! You must 

both hear and grant ; 
For, madam, there 's an impudence in 

want. 
Almah. Your way is somewhat strange to 

ask relief; 
You ask with threatening, like a begging 

thief. 
Once more, Almanzor, tell me, am I free *? 
Almanz. Madam, you are, from all the 

world, — but me ! 
But as a pirate, when he frees the prize 
He took from friends, sees the rich mer- 
chandise. 
And, after he has freed it, justly buys; 
So, when I have restored your liberty — 
But then, alas, I am too poor to buy! 
Almah. Nay, now you use me just as 

pirates do : 
You free me ; but expect a ransom too. 
Almanz. You 've all the freedom that a 

prince can have; 
But greatness cannot be without a slave. 
A monarch never can in private move, 
But still is haunted with officious love. 
So small an inconvenience you may bear; 
'T is all the fine Fate sets upon the fair. 
Almah. Yet princes may retire whene'er 

they please. 
And breathe free air from out ^'^ their 

palaces : 
They go sometimes unknown, to shun 

their state; 
And then 'tis manners not to know or 

wait. 
Almanz. If not a subject, then a ghost 

I'll be; 
And from a ghost, you know, no place is 

free. 
Asleep, awake, I '11 haunt you every- 
where ; 
From my white shroud groan love into 

your ear: 



When in your lover's arms you sleep at 

night, 
I '11 glide in cold betwixt, and seize my 

right : 
And is 't not better, in your nuptial bed, 
To have a living lover than a dead? 
Almah. I can no longer bear to be ac- 
cused. 
As if, what I could grant you, I refused. 
My father's choice I never will dispute; 
And he has chosen ere you moved your 

suit. 
You know my case; if e(iual you can be, 
Plead for yourself, and answer it for 
me. 
Almanz. Then, madam, in that hope you 
bid me live; 
I ask no more than you may justly give: 
But in strict justice there may favor be, 
And may I hope that you have that for 
me? 
Almah. Why do you thus my secret 
thoughts pursue. 
Which, known, hurt me, and cannot profit 

you? 
Your knowledge but new troubles does 

prepare, 
Like theirs who curious in their fortunes 

are. 
To say, I could with more content be 

yours. 
Tempts you to hope; but not that hope 

assures. 
For since the king has right, 
And favored by my father in his suit. 
It is a blossom which can bear no fruit. 
Yet, if you dai'e attempt so hard a task, 
May you succeed; you have my leave to 
ask. 
Almanz. I can with courage now my 
hopes pursue, 
Since I no longer have to combat you. 
That did the greatest difficulty bring; 
The rest are small, a father and a king! 
Almah. Great souls discern not when the 
leap 's too wide. 
Because they only view the farther side. 
Whatever you desire, you think is near; 
But, with more reason, the event I fear. 
Almanz. No ; there is a necessity in fate, 
Why still the brave bold man is fortu- 
nate: 
He keeps his object ever full in sight, 
And that assurance holds him firm and 

right. 
True, 't is a narrow path that leads to 

bliss. 
But right before there is no precipice: 



27 outside of. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 449 



Fear makes men look aside, and then 
their footing miss. 
Almah. I do your merit all the right I 
can; 

Admiring virtue in a private man; 

1 only wish the king may grateful be. 

And that my father with my eyes may 
see. 

Might I not make it as my last request, — 

Since humble carriage suits a sujDpliant 
best, — 

That you would somewhat of your fierce- 
ness hide — 

That inborn hre — I do not call it pride? 
Alman2. Born, as I am, still to command, 
not sue, 

Yet you shall see that I can beg for you; 

And if your father will require a crown, 

Let him but name the kingdom, 't is his 
own. 

I am, but while I please, a private man ; 

I have that soul which empires first be- 
gan. 

From the dull crowd, which every king 
does lead, 

I will jnok out whom I wall choose to 
head : 

The best and bravest snuls I can select, 

And on tlieir conquered necks my throne 
erect. 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT V. 

SCEKE 1. 

(Abdalla alone, under tlie walls of the 
Alhayzin.) 

Abdal. While she is mine, I have not yet 
lost all, 
But in her arms shall have a gentle fall : 
Blest in my love, although in war o'er- 

come, 
I fly, like Antony from Actium, 
To meet a better Cleopatra here. — 
You of the watch! you of the watch! 
appear. 
Sold. (Above.) Who calls below? 

What 's vour demand? 
Abdal. ^ 'Tis I: 

Open the gate with speed; the foe is nigh. 
Sold. What orders for admittance do you 

bring? 
Abdal. Slave, my own orders: look, and 

know the king. 
Sold. I knoAv you ; but my charge is so 
severe 
That none, without exception, enter here. 



Abdal. Traitor, and rebel! thou shalt 
shortly see 
Thy orders are not to extend to me. 
Lyndar. (Above.) What saucy slave so 
rudely does exclaim, 
And brands my subject with a rebel's 
name? 
Abdal. Dear Lyndaraxa, haste; the foes 

pursue. 
Lyndar. Mv lord, the Prince Abdalla, is 
it you? 
I scarcely can believe the words I hear; 
Could you so coarsely treat my officer? 
Abdal. He forced me; but the danger 
nearer draws : 
When I am entered, you shall know the 
cause. 
Lyndar. Entered! Why, have you any 

business here? 
Abdal. I am pursued, the enemy is near. 
Lyndar. Are you joursned, and do you 
thus delay 
To save yourself? Make haste, my lord, 
away. 
Abdal. Give me not cause to think you 
mock ray grief: 
What place have I, but this, for my re- 
lief? 
Lyndar. This favor does your handmaid 
much oblige, 
But we are not provided for a siege : 
My subjects few; and their provision 

thin ; 
The foe is strong without, we weak 

within. 
This to my noble lord may seem un- 
kind, 
But he will weigh it in his princely mind ; 
And pardon her, wdio does assurance 

want 
So much, she blushes when she cannot 
grant. 
Abdal. Yes, you may blush; and v'ou have 
cause to weep. 
Is this the faith you promised me to 

keep? 
Ah yet, if to a lover you will bring 
No succor, give your succor to a king. 
Lyndar. A king is he, whom nothing can 
withstand ; 
Wlio men and money can wdtli ease com- 
mand. 
A king is he, whom fortune still does 

bless ; 
He is a king, who does a crown possess. 
If vou would have me think that you are 

" he. 
Produce to view your marks of sover- 
eignty; 



450 



THE RESTORATION 



But if yourself alone for proof you 

bring, 
You 're but a single person, not a king. 
Abdal. Ingrateful maid, did I for this 
rebel? 
I say no more ; but I have loved too well. 
Lyndar. Who but yourself did that re- 
bellion move? 
Did I e'er promise to receive your love? 
Is it my fault you are not fortunate? 
I love a king, but a poor rebel hate. 
Abdal. Who follow fortune, still are in 
the right; 
But let me be protected here this night. 
Lyndar. The place to-morrow will be cir- 
cled round; 
And then no way will for your flight be 
found. 
Abdal. I hear my enemies just coming on ; 
(Trampling within.) 
Protect me but one hour, till they are 
gone. 
Lyndar. They '11 know you have been here ; 
it cannot be; 
That veiy hour you stay, will ruin me : 
For if the foe behold our interview, 
I shall be thought a rebel too, like you. 
Haste hence; and that your flight may 

prosperous prove, 
I '11 recommend you to the powers above. 
(Exit Lynd. from above.) 
Abdal. She 's gone ! Ah, faithless and in- 
grateful maid ! 
I hear some tread ; and fear I am be- 
trayed. 
I'll to the Spanish king; and try if he, 
To countenance his own right, will succor 

me : 
There is more faith in Christian dogs, 
than thee. 

[Exit.) 



Scene 2. 

[Ozmyn, Benzayda, Abenamar.) 

Benz. I wish 

(To merit all these thanks) I could have 

said. 
My pity only did his virtue aid ; 
'T was pity, but 't was of a love-sick 

maid. 
His manly suffering my esteem did move ; 
That bred compassion, and compassion 
love. 
Ozm. blessing sold me at too cheap a 
rate! 

(To his father.) 
My danger was the benefit of fate. 



But that you may my fair deliverer 
know, 

She was not only born our house's foe. 

But to my death by powerful reasons 
led; 

At least, in justice, she might wish me 
dead. 
Aben. But why thus long do you her name 

conceal? 
Ozm. To gain belief for what I now re- 
veal: 

Even thus prepared, you scarce can think 
it true, 

The saver of my life from Selin drew 

Her birth ; and was his sister whom I 
slew. 
Aben. No more; it cannot, was not, must 
not be: 

Upon my blessing, say not it was she. 

The daughter of the only man I hate ! 

Two contradictions twisted in a fate ! 
Ozm. The mutual hate, which you and 
Selin bore, 

Does but exalt her generous pity more. 

Could she a brother's death forgive to 
me. 

And cannot you forget her family? 

Can you so ill requite the life I owe, 

To reckon her, who gave it, still your 
foe? 

It lends too great a lustre to her line, 

To let her virtue ours so much outshine. 
Aben. Thou giv'st her line the advantage 
which they have, 

By meanly taking of the life they gave. 

Grant that it did in her a pity show ; 

But would my son be pitied by a foe? 

She has the glory of thy act defaced : 

Thou killedst her brother; but she tri- 
umphs last : 

Poorly for us our enmity would cease ; 

When we are beaten, we receive a peace. 
Benz. If that be all in which you dis- 
agree, 

I must confess 't was Ozmyn conquered 
me. 

Had I beheld him basely beg his life, 

I should not now submit to be liis wife ; 

But when I saw his courage death con- 
trol, 

I paid a secret homage to his soul ; 

And thought my cruel father much to 
blame. 

Since Ozmyn's virtue his revenge did 
shame. 
Aben. Wliat constancy canst thou e'er 
hope to find 

In that unstable, and soon conquered 
mind ? 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, ORf THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 451 



What piety canst thou expect from her, 

Who could forgive a brother's murderer'? 

Or, what obedience hop'st thou to be 
paid, 

From one who first her father disobeyed 1 
Ozm. Nature, that bids us parents to obey, 

Bids parents their commands by reason 
weigh ; 

And you her virtue by your praise did 
own. 

Before you knew by whom the act was 
done. 
Ahen. Your reasons speak too much of in- 
solence ; 

Her birth 's a crime past pardon or de- 
fence. « 

Know, that as Selin was not won by thee. 

Neither will I by Selin's daughter be. 

Leave her, or cease henceforth to be my 
son : 

This is my will ; and this I will have done. 
{Exit Ahen.) 
Ozm. It is a murdering will. 

That whirls along with an impetuous 
sway, 

And, like chain-shot, sweeps all things in 
its way. 

He does my honor want of duty call ; 

To that, and love, he has no right at all. 
Benz. No, Ozmyn, no; it is a much less 
ill 

To leave me, than dispute a father's will : 

If I had any title to your love. 

Your father's gi-eater right does mine re- 
move : 

Your vows and faith I give you back 
again, 

Since neither can be kept without a sin. 
Ozm. Nothing but death my vows can give 
me back : 

They are not yours to give, nor mine to 
take. 
Benz. Nay, think not, though I could your 
vows resign. 

My love or virtue could dispense with 
mine. 

I would extinguish your unlucky fire. 

To make you happy in some new desire : 

I can preserve enough for me and you. 

And love, and be unfortunate, for two. 
Ozm. In all that 's good and great 

You vanquish me so fast, that in the end 

I shall have nothing left me to defend. 

From every post you force me to remove ; 

But let me keep my last retrenchment, 
love. 
Benz. Love then, my Ozmyn; I will be 
content 

{Giving her hand.) 



To make you wretched by your own con- 
sent: 

Live poor, despised, and banished for my 
sake. 

And all the burden of my sorrows take; 

For, as for me, in whatsoe'er estate. 

While I have you, I must be fortunate. 
Ozm. Thus then, secured of what we hold 
most dear, 

(Each other's love) we'll go — I know not 
where. 

For where, alas, should we our flight be- 
gin? 

The foe's without; our parents are 
within. 
Benz. I'll fly to you, and you shall fly 
to me; 

Our flight but to each other's arms shall 
be. 

To providence and chance permit the 
rest; 

Let us but love enough, and we are blest. 
{Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. 

{Enter Boahdelin, Ahenamar, Abdehnelech, 
Guard: Zulema and Ilamet, prisoners.) 

Ahdelm. They 're Lyndaraxa's brothers ; 
for her sake, 
Their lives and pardon my request I 
make. 
Bodb. Then, Zulema and Hamet, live; but 
know. 
Your lives to Abdelmelech's suit you owe. 
Zul. The grace received so much my hope 
exceeds 
That words come weak and short to an- 
swer deeds. 
You've made a venture, sir, and time 

must show 
If this great mercy you did well bestow. 
Boah. You, Abdehnelech, haste before 'tis 
night. 
And close pursue my brother in his flight. 
{Exeunt Ahdelmelech, Zulema, Ilamet. 
Enter Almanzor, Almahide, and 
Esperanza.) 

But see, with Almahide 

The brave Almanzor comes, whose con- 
quering sAvord 

The crown, it once took from me, has 
restored. 

How can I recompense so great desert ! 
Almanz. I bring you, sir, performed in 
every part, 

My promise made; your foes are fled or 
slain ; 



452 



THE RESTORATION 



Without a rival, absolute you reign. 

Yet though, iu justice, this enough may 
be, 

It is too little to be done by me: 

I beg to go, 

Where my own courage and your fortune 
calls, 

To chase these misbelievers from our 
walls. 

I cannot breathe Avithin this narrow 
space ; 

My heart 's too big, and swells beyond 
the place. 
Boob. You can perform, brave warrior, 
what you please; 

Fate listens to your voice, and then de- 
crees. 

Now I no longer fear the Spanish pow- 
ers; 

Already we are free, and coufiuerors. 
Almanz. Accept, great king, to-morrow, 
from my hand, 

The captive head of conquered Ferdi- 
nand. 

You shall not only what you lost regain, 

But o'er the Biscayn mountains to tlie 
main, 

Extend your sway, where never Moor did 
reign. 
Aben. AVhat, in another, vanity would 
seem. 

Appears but noble confidence in him ; 

No haughty boasting, but a manly pride; 

A soul too fieiy, and too great to guide : 

He moves eccentric, like a wandering 
star, 

Whose motion 's just, though 't is not 
regular. 
Boab. It is for yon, brave man, and only 
you, 

Greatly to speak, and yet moi'e greatly 
do. 

But, if your benefits too far extend, 

I must be left ungrateful in the end : 

Yet somewhat I would pay, 

Before my debts above all reckoning 
grow, 

To keep me from the shame of what I 
owe. 

But you 

Are conscious to yourself of such de- 
sert, 

That of your gift I fear to offer part. 
Almanz. When I shall have declared my 
high request, 

So much presumption there will be con- 
fessed, 

That you will find your gifts I do not 
shun. 



But rather much o'er-rate the service 
done. 
Boab. Give wing to your desires, and let 
'em lly, 
Secure they cannot mount a pitch too 

high. 
So bless me, Allah, both in peace and 

wai', 
As I accord whate'er your wishes are. 
Almanz. Emboldened by the promise of a 
prince, 
{Putting one knee on the ground.) 
I ask this lady now with confidence. 
Boab. You ask the only thing I cannot 

grant. 
{The King and Abcnamar look amazedly 
on each other.) 
But, as a stranger, you are ignorant 
Of what by public fame my subjects 

know ; 
She is my mistress. 
Aben. — And my daughter too. 

Almanz. Believe, old man, that I her fa- 
ther knew: 
What else should niake Almanzor kneel 

to you? 
Nor doubt, sir, but your right to her was 

known : 
For had you had no claim but love alone, 
I could produce a better of my own. 
Almah. {Softlg to him.) Almanzor, you 
forget my last request : 
Your words have too nuich haughtiness 

expressed. 
Is this the humble way you were to 
move *? 
Almanz. {To her.) I was too far trans- 
ported by my love. 
Forgive me; for I had not learned to sue 
To anything before, but heaven and 

you,— 
Sir, at your feet, I make it my request — 
{To the King.) 
(First line kneeling: second, rising, and 
boldly.) 
Though, without boasting, I deserve her 

best ; 
For you her love with gaudy titles 

sought. 
But I her heart with blood and dangers 
bought. 
Boab. The blood which you have shed in 
her defence 
Shall have in time a fitting reeompence: 
Or, if you think your services delayed. 
Name but your price, and you shall soon 
be paid. 
Almanz. My price! Why, king, you do 
not think you deal 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 453 



With one who sets his services to sale? 

Reserve your gifts for those vi^ho gifts 
regard ; 

And know, I thuik myself above reward. 
Boab. Then sure you are some godhead; 
and our care 

Must be to come with incense and with 
prayer. 
Almanz. As little as you think yourself 
obliged, 

You would be glad to do 't, when next 
besieged. 

But I am pleased there should be noth- 
ing due; 

For what I did was for mj'self, not you. 
Boab. You with contempt on meaner gifts 
look down; 

And, aiming at my Cjueen, disdain my 
crown. 

That crown, restored, deserves no recom- 
pense. 

Since you would rob the fairest jewel 
thence. 

Dare not henceforth ungrateful me to 
call; 

Whate'er I owed you, this has cancelled 
all. 
Almanz. I '11 call thee thankless, king, and 
perjured both: 

Thou swur'st by Allah, and hast broke 
thy oath. 

But thou dost well; thou tak'st the cheap- 
est way; 

Not to own services thou canst not pay. 
Boab. My patience more than pays thy 
service past; 

But know this insolence shall be thy last. 

Hence from my sight ! and take it as a 
grace. 

Thou liv'st, and art but banished from 
the place. 
Almanz. Where'er I go, there can no exile 
be; 

But from Almanzor's sight 1 banish thee : 

I will not now, if thou wouldst beg me, 
stay; 

But I will take my Almahide away. 

Stay thou with all thy subjects here; but 
know. 

We leave thy city empty when we go. 
(Takes Almahide's hand.) 
Boab. Fall on; take; kill the traitor. 
(The Guards fall on him; he makes at the 

King through the midst of them, and 

falls upon him; they disarm him, and 

rescue the King.) 
Almanz. — Base and poor, 

Blush that thou art Almanzor's con- 
queror. 



(Almahide wrings her hands, then turns 
and veils her face.) 
Farewell, my Almahide! 
Life of itself will go, now thou art 

gone, 
Like tlies in winter, when they lose the 
sun. 
(Abenamar whispers the King a little, then 

speaks aloud.) 
Aben. Revenge, and taken so secure a 
way, 
Are blessings which heaven sends not 
every day. 
Boab. I will at leisure now revenge my 
wrong; 
And, traitor, thou shall feel my venge- 
ance long: 
Thou shalt not die just at thy own de- 
sire, 
But see my nuptials, and with rage ex- 
pire. 
Almanz. Thou darest not marry her while 
I 'm in sight : 
With a bent brow thy priest and thee I '11 

fright ; 
And in that scene 
Which all thy hopes and wishes should 

content. 
The thought of me shall make thee im- 
potent. 

(lie is led off by Guards.) 
Boab. (To Almah.) As some fair tulip, 
by a storm opjiresscd. 
Shrinks up. and folds its silken arms to 

rest ; 
And, bending to the blast, all pale and 

dead. 
Hears from within the wind sing round 

its head; 
So, shrouded up, your beauty disap- 
pears : 
Unveil, my love, and lay aside your 

fears. 
The storm that caused your fright is 
passed and done. 
(Almahide unveiling, and looking round 

for Almanzor.) 
Almali. So flowers peep out too soon, and 
miss the sun. 

(Turning from him.) 
Boab. What mystery in this strange be- 
havior lies'? 
Almah. Let me for ever hide these guilty 
eyes 
Which lighted my Almanzor to his tomb; 
Or, let 'em blaze, to show me there a 
room. 
Boab, Heaven lent their lustre for a 
nobler end ; 



454 



THE RESTORATION 



A thousand torches must their light at- 
tend, 

To lead you to a temple and a crown. 

Why does my fairest Almahida tVown? 

Am I less pleasing than 1 was before, 

Or is the insolent Alnianzor more'? 
Almah. I justly own that I some pity 
have, 

Not for the insolent, but for the brave. 
Ahen. Though to your king your duty 
you neglect, 

Know, Almahide, I look for more re- 
spect : 

And, if a parent's charge your mind can 
move, 

Receive the blessing of a monarch's love. 
Almah. Did he my freedom to his life 
prefer, 

And shall I wed Almanzor's murderer? 

No, sir; I cannot to your will submit; 

Your way 's too rugged for my tender 
feet. 
Ahen. You must be driven where you re- 
fuse to go; 

And taught, by force, your happiness to 
know. 
Almah. {Smiling scornfully.) To force 
me, sir, is much unworthy you, 

And, when you would, impossible to do. 

If force could bend me, you might think, 
with shame. 

That I debased the blood from whence I 
came. 

My soul is soft, which you may gently 
lay 

In your loose palm ; but, when 't is 
pressed to stay. 

Like water, it deludes your grasp .and 
slips away. 
Boab. I find I must revoke what I de- 
creed : 

Almanzor's death my nuptials must pre- 
cede. 

Love is a magic which the lover ties ; 

But charms still end when the magician 
dies. 

Go ; let me hear my hated rival 's dead ; 
{To his Guards.) 

And, to convince my eyes, bring back his 
head. 
Almah. Go on : I wish no other way to 
prove 

That I am worthy of Almanzor's love. 

We will in death, at least, united be: 

I '11 show you I can die as well as he. 
Boab. What should I do! when equally I 
dread 

Almanzor living and Almanzor dead ! — 

Yet, by your promise, you are mine alone. 



Almah. How dai-e you claim my faith, 

and break your own? 
Ahen. This for your virtue is a weak de- 
fence : 

No second vows can with your first dis- 
pense. 

Yet, since the king did to Almanzor 
swear. 

And in his death ingrateful may ap^Dear, 

He ought, in justice, first to spare his 
life, 

And then to claim your promise as his 
wife. 
Almah. Whate'er my secret inclinations 
be. 

To this, since honor ties me, I agree : 

Yet I declare, and to the world will own. 

That, far from seeking, I would shun the 
throne. 

And with Almanzor lead a humble life: 

There is a private greatness in his wife. 
Boah. That little love I have, I hardly 
buy ; 

You give my rival all, while you deny : 

Yet, Almahide, to let you see your power. 

Your loved Almanzor shall be free this 
hour. 

You are obeyed ; but 't is so great a grace. 

That I could wish me in my rival's place. 
{Exeunt King and Ahenamar.) 
Almah. How blest was I before this fatal 
day. 

When all I knew of love, was to obey ! 

'T was life becalmed, without a gentle 
breath ; 

Though not so cold, yet motionless as 
death. 

A heavy, quiet state; but love, all strife. 

All rapid, is the hurricane of life. 

Had love not shown me, I had never 
seen 

An excellence beyond Boabdelin. 

I had not, aiming higher, lost my rest; 

But with a vulgar good been dully blest : 

But, in Almanzor, having seen what 's 
rare. 

Now I have learnt too sharply to com- 
pare; 

And, like a favorite qiuckly in disgi'ace, 

Just know the value ere I lose the place. 
{To her Almanzor, hound and guarded.) 
Almanz. I see the end for which I'm 
hither sent, 

{Looking down.) 

To double, by your sight, my punish- 
ment. 

There is a shame in bonds I cannot bear; 

Far more than death, to meet your eyes 
I fear. 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, 

Almah. {Unbinding him.) That shame of 

long contmuance shall not be: 

The king, at uiy entreaty, sets you free. 

Almanz. The king ! my wonder 's greater 

than before; 
How did he dare my freedom to restore? 
He like some captive lion uses me; 
He runs away before he sets me free, 
And takes a sanctuary in his court: 
I '11 rather lose my life than thank him 

for 't. 
Almah. If any subject for your thanks 

there be, 
The king expects 'em not; you owe 'em 

me. 
Our freedoms through each other's hands 

have passed ; 
You give me my I'evenge in winning last. 
Almanz. Then fate commodiously for me 

has done; 
To lose mine there where I would have it 

won. 
Almah. Almanzor, you too soon will un- 
derstand. 
That what I win is on another's hand. 
The king (who doomed you to a cruel 

fate) 
Gave to my prayers both his revenge and 

hate; 
But at no other price would rate your 

life. 
Than my consent and oath to be his wife. 
Almanz. Would you, to save my life, my 

love betray? 
Here; take me; bind me; carry me away; 
Kill me ! I '11 kill you if you disobey. 
(To the Guards.) 
Almah. That absolute command your love 

does give, 
I take, and charge you by that power to 

live. 
Almanz. When death, the last of com- 
forts, you refuse. 
Your power, like heaven upon the 

damned, you use ; 
You force me in my being to remain, 
To make me last, and keep me fresh for 

pain. 
When all my joys are gone, 
What cause can I for living longer give, 
But a dull, lazy habitude to live? 
Almah. Rash men, like you, and impotent 

of will, 
Give Chance no time to turn, but urge 

her still ; 
She would repent ; you push the quarrel 

on, 
And once because she went, she must be 

gone. 



THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 455 

Almanz. She shall not turn; what is it she 
can do, 

To recompense me for the loss of you? 
Almah. Heaven will reward your worth 
some better way : 

At least, for me, you have but lost one 
day. 

Nor is 't a real loss which you deplore ; 

You sought a heart that was engaged be- 
fore. 

'T was a swift love which took you in his 
way; 

Flew only through your heart, but made 
no stay: 

'T was but a dream, where truth had not 
a place ; 

A scene of fancy, moved so swift a pace, 

And shifted, that you can but think it 
was; 

Let, then, the short vexatious vision pass. 
Almanz. My joys, indeed, are dreams; but 
not my pain : 

'T was a swift ruin, but the marks re- 
main. 

When some fierce fire lays goodly build- 
ings waste. 

Would you conclude 

There had been none, because the burn- 
ing 's past ? 
Almah. It was your fault that fire seized 
all your breast; 

You should have blown up some to save 
the rest : 

But 't is, at worst, but so consumed by 
fire. 

As cities are, that by their falls rise 
higher. 

Build love a nobler temple in my place; 

You '11 find the fire has but enlarged 
your space. 
Almanz. Love has undone me; I am 
grown so poor, 

I sadly view the ground I had before, 

But want a stock, and ne'er can build it 
more. 
Almah. Then say what charity I can al- 
low; 

I would contribute if I knew but how. 

Take friendship; or, if that too small 
appear, 

Take love which sisters may to brothers 
bear. 
Almanz. A sister's love ! that is so palled 
a thing, 

What pleasure can it to a lover bring? 

'T is like thin food to men in fevers 
spent ; 

Just keeps alive, but gives no nourish- 
ment. 



456 



THE RESTORATION 



What hopes, what fears, what transports 

can it move? 
'T is but the ghost of a departed love. 
Almdh. You, like some greedy cormorant, 

devour 
All my whole life can give you, in an 

hour. 
What more I can do for you is to die, 
And that must follow, if you this deny. 
Since I gave up my love, that you might 

live, 
You, in refusing life, my sentence give. 
Almanz. Far from ray breast be sucli an 

impious thought ! 
Your death would lose the quiet mine had 

sought. 
I '11 live for you, in spite of misery ; 
But you shall grant that I had rather 

die. 
I '11 be so wretched, filled with such de- 
spair. 
That you shall see to live Avas more to 

dare. 
Almah. Adieu, then, my soul's far bet- 
ter part! 
Your image sticks so close. 
That the blood follows from my rending 

heart. 
A last farewell ! 
For, since a last must come, the rest are 

vain. 
Like gasps in death, which but prolong 

our pain. 
But, since the king is now a part of mc. 
Cease from henceforth to bo his enemy. 
Go now, for pity go ! for, if you stay, 
I fear T shall have something still to say. 
Thus — I for ever shut you from my 

sight. 

{Veils.) 
Almanz. Like one thrust out in a cold 

winter's night, 
Yet shivering underneath your gate I 

stay; 
One look — I cannot go before 't is day. — 

{She beckons him to he gone.) 
Not one — Farewell : Whate'er my suf- 
ferings be 
Within, I '11 speak farewell as loud as 

she: 
I will not be outdone in constancy. — 

{She turns her hack.) 
Then like a dying conqueror I go; 
At least I have looked last i;pon my 

foe. 
I go — but if too heavily T move, 
T walk encumbered with a weight of love. 
Fain T would leave the thought of you 

behind, 



But still, the more I cast you from my 

mind. 
You dash, like water, back, when thrown 
against the wind. 
(Exit.) 
{As he goes o//", the King meets him with 
Abcnamur; tlicy stare at each other with- 
out saluting.) 
Boob. With him go all my fears. A 
guard there wait, 
And see him safe without the city gate. 

{To them Abclelmelech.) 
Now, Abdelmelech, is my brother dead 1 
Ahdelm. The usurper to the Christian 
camp is fled ; 
Whom as Granada's lawful king they 

own. 
And vow, by force, to seat him in the 

throne. 
IMeantime the rebels in the Albayzin rest ; 
Which is in Lyndaraxa's name possessed. 
Boab. Haste and reduce it instantly by 

force. 
Ahdelm. First give me leave to prove a 
milder course. 
She will, perhaps, on summons yicM the 
place. 
Bodb. We cannot to your suit refuse her 
grace. 

{One enters hastily, and whispers Ahen- 
amar.) 

Aben. How fortune persecutes this hoaiy 
head! 

My Ozmyn is with Selin's daughter fled. 

But he 's no more my son : 

My hate shall like a Zegry him pursue, 

Till I take back what blood from me he 
drew. 
Boah. Let war and vengeance be to-mor- 
row's care; 

But let us to the temple now repair. 

A thousand torches make the mosque 
more bright : 

This must be mine and Almahida's night. 

Hence, ye importunate affairs of state. 

You should not tyrannize on love, but 
wait. 

Had life no love, none would for busi- 
ness live ; 

Yet still from love the largest part we 
give; 

And must be forced, in empii'e's weary 
toil. 

To live long wretched, to be pleased a 
while. 

(Exeunt.) 



ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 457 



EPILOGUE 

Success, which can no more than beauty 

last, 
Makes our sad poet niouni your favors 

past : 
For, since without desert he got a name. 
He fears to lose it now with gi'eater shame. 
Fame, like a little mistress of the town. 
Is gained with ease, but then she 's lost as 

soon : . 
For, as those tawdry misses, soon or late, 
Jilt such as keep 'em at the highest rate ; 
(And oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown, 
Gets what is hid in the loose-bodied 

gown ) , — 
So, Fame is false to all that keep her longj 
And turns up to the fop that 's brisk and 

young. 
Some wiser poet now would leave Fame 

first ; 
Rut elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed : 
Who, when the vigor of their youth is 

spent. 
Still grow more fond, as they grow impo- 
tent. 
This, some years hence, our poet's case may 

prove : 
But yet, he hopes, he 's young enough to 

love. 
When forty comes, if e'er he live to see 

2S "This apparently alludes to the lapse of a year since the production of Dryden's last play." (Noyes.) 
Nell Gwyn, who played Almahide, had borne a son to Charles II in May, 1670. 



That wretched, fumbling age of poetry, 
'T will be high time to bid his Muse adieu : 
Well he may please himself, but never you. 
Till then, he '11 do as well as he began, 
And hopes you will not find him less a man. 
Think him not duller for this year's de- 
lay; ^s 

He was j^repared, the women were away; 

And men, without their parts, can hardly 
play. 

If they, through sickness, seldom did ap- 
pear. 

Pity the virgins of each theatre : 

For at both houses 't was a sickly year ! 

And pity us, your servants, to whose cost. 

In one such sickness, nine whole months 
are lost. 

Their stay, he fears, has ruined what he 
writ : 

Long waiting both disables love and wit. 

They thought they gave him leisure to do 
well; 

But, when they forced him to attend, he 
fell! 

Yet, though he much has failed, he begs, 
to-day. 

You will excuse his unperforming play: 

Weakness sometimes great passion does ex- 
press ; 

He had pleased better, had he loved you 
less. 



THOMAS OTWAY 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



Thomas Otway (1652-1685) led a cbec- 
quered and stormy life. Rejected by an act- 
ress wliom he long loved, he fought in the 
Low Countries in 1678-9. After failing as 
an actor, he had taken to writing plays with 
remarlcable fertility, at first in the manner of 
Dryden and the seventeenth-century French 
dramatists. His comedies are not highly 
thought of; but two of his tragedies. The 
Orphan (1680), and tlie present one (first 
acted in 1682), rise to the higliest excellence. 

Venice Preserved is of a style less pe- 
culiar to the Restoration period than 'i'he 
Conquest of Granada, is a more normal and 
to us more interesting phiy, and nearer the 
regular line of dramatic development. It is 
at once more Elizabethan and more modern. 
The student can hardly overlook certain 
Shakespearean reminiscences, or the induence 
of Fletcher, especially on tlie characteriza- 
tion and the verse. The cliief sign tliat it 
dates from the Restoration period is that the 
dramatist observes the three unities, of 
action, time, and place. Accordingly, the 
action is single, admitting no side-issue or 
" sub-plot," and takes place within twenty- 
four hours, and within the limits of one city. 
These rules were partly drawn from Aris- 
totle's Poetics and from the practice of the 
ancients, but were first laid down as a strict 
law (as stated earlier) by Castelvetro in 
1570. Founded on an error as to the na- 
ture of dramatic illusion, they hampered the 
drama for centuries, and exacted heavy sac- 
rifices from freedom and naturalness. In 
this play, however, as occasionally else- 
where, there is no conspicuous loss in their 
observance, and they may even be thought 
to have lieightened the intensity. 

With this classical body, a body at least 
which a classicist could hardly censure, the 
spirit of the play is thoroughly romantic. 
We have not only such imposing circum- 
stances as the tolling bell, the rising ghosts, 
the madness of Belvidera, the violent action 
and bloodshed on the stage; the emotional 
pitch of the play is soft, pathetic, and almost 
sentimental. Except in the figure of Pierre, 
there is nothing sturdy about it. It strives 
to melt us. llie sentimental tragedy for 
which Otway is known has its analogues in 
the Elizabi'than drama (as in that of Fletcher 
and Ford) ; it also looks forward to the senti- 
mentalism of the eighteenth century, as in 
the comedies of Steele and Cumberland. We 
miss the strong, truer emotions of the greater 



Elizabethans. In this soft emotionality we 
may perhaps see something characteristic of 
the age. This play, like The' Conquest of 
Uranada, sets at nought the feeling of patri- 
otism, and reminds us that it was written in 
an age when England was full of discord, 
and when the very sovereign had sold himself 
and was ready to sell his coimtry to a foreign 
prince. 

The sentimentalism is not in what is s?id, 
its vehicle in the later comedy, but is perhaps 
only half conscious, springing from Otway's 
own gentle soul, and appearing in the sort 
of characters with whom he felt sympathy. 
The characterization is at once a source of 
strength and weakness in the play. Jaffeir, 
structurally the hero, excites pity abundantly, 
but little respect and no admiration. A 
private wrong, inflicted by an individual sena- 
tor, makes him join a band of irresponsible 
traitors, largely foreigners at that (we are 
nowhere told that he was a foreigner). His 
own trustful carelessness for his wife puts 
him in a position where lie betrays their se- 
cret to her. And he makes haste to justify 
the worst suspicions of the hateful Renault. 
Another private wrong, threatened by an in- 
dividual conspirator, and his first realization 
of the horrors which would follow the suc- 
cess of the plot, lead him to betray them to 
the Council of Ten, with tlie childish ex- 
pectation that their lives will be spared. 
He is a lifelike but unattractive figure of a 
weak emotional character at the mercy of 
circumstance, of his own feelings, and even 
of every last speaker, capable of instantaneous 
but not of sustained courage and resolution. 
He excites, not terror like a tragic hero, but 
only pity, like a sentimental one. We toler- 
ate him for the sake of his friend and his 
wife. Pierre is admirably contrasted with 
Jalfeir, a fine example of cheerful devil-may- 
care generosity and loyalty. "Revenge!" 
cries Jaffeir, when lie lias joined the con- 
spirators. 

Pierre. And liberty! 

Jaff. Revenge! revenge! ' [Exeunt. 

Few heroines surpass Belvidera, unintellect- 
ual, but courageous, tender, with an infinite 
capacity for strong love, and a woman's con- 
servatism and dread of sedition, privy con- 
spiracy, and rebellion. Otway's women are 
always better done than his men; with good 
reason Collins in his Ode to Pity pays a 
tribute to " gentlest Otway," who " sung the 
female heart." It is notable, however, that 



458 



THOMAS OTWAY 



459 



the emotional interest has no aid from the 
uncertainties of a romantic love-affair; the 
love is either married or bought love. 

Well done as they are, Otway's strength is 
less in his characters than in the situations 
and the action. In this play the construc- 
tion is admirable. Clear as crystal, simple 
and single, with no assistance from a sub- 
action to maintain the interest, and with no 
cheap devices, the play holds the reader, still 
more the spectator, without slackening. A 
most notable means is the skillful use of sus- 
pense. In the fourth act the conspiracy is 
betra.yed and the plotters all seized; no 
visible hope remains for either it or them. 
As in the fourth act of Jonson's Alchemist, 
we wonder what can remain for a fifth. But 
presently the only two senators whom we 
know are won over to mercy, the one by his 
daughter, the other by his self-sacrificing 
mistress. In the following scene of poignant 
pathos between the married lovers, broken in 
upon by the gloomy tolling bell, we begin to 
fear all is in vain, but arc not sure of it till 
the end. Even the silly and distasteful scenes 
between the senator Antonio (a repulsive por- 
trait of the Earl of Shaftsbury) and his 
" Nacky," poorly done as they are, and in- 
deed disproportionate and needless, have pre- 
pared for this moment of hope. Nothing 
could surpass the death-scene of Jaffeir and 
Pierre, completely surprising yet completely 
satisfying. 

For all the intensity of interest in the play, 
the power of holding us, and the compassion 
we feel for the characters, there is a certain 
aloofness in the emotion it excites. This is 
because we cannot perfectly give our sym- 
pathy to either side. On the one hand, our 
human feelings are all for the conspirators. 
Yet, unlovely as are the two officials whom 



we see, Priuli with his cowardice and hard- 
ness, Antonio witli his impotent senility, our 
indignation goes out against the attempt by 
a gang of foreigners to wreck a great his- 
toric state. The very title of the play be- 
speaks our support for this side. At the mo- 
ment when he is about to join the conspira- 
tors, 

Hell! hell! why sleepest thou? 

cries the desperate Jaffeir, and then with 
great dramatic effectiveness enters the uncon- 
scious Pierre muttering, 

Sure I have stayed too long! 

The plotters have not been injured enough to 
win even our temporary approval. There re- 
sults a state of mind somewhat like that ex- 
cited by Macbeth, in which we feel deeply for 
persons who we know should and will be pun- 
ished. With all our painful interest, we 
look down with a certain intellectual 
serenity. A tragedy of this sort has a fine 
and unusual character of its own. 

Tlie play is founded on the Abbe St. Real's 
Conjuration des espagnols contre la Venise en 
161S, probably through an English transla- 
tion (1675). The groundwork tlierefore is 
historical, but Otway has made great changes, 
raising Jaffeir and Pierre to importance and 
introducing the character of Belvidera. It 
has been one of the most popular of post- 
Elizabethan tragedies, having been trans- 
lated and acted in various European lan- 
guages, and having held tlie English stage 
until well into the nineteenth century (re- 
vived in 1904), with the help of such actors 
as Betterton, Garrick, J. P. Kemble, and 
Macready, and of such actresses as Mrs. 
Barry, Mrs. Siddons, and Miss O'Neill. 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 

A TRAGEDY 
By THOMAS OTWAY 



PROLOGUE 

In these distracted times,^ when each man 

dreads 
The bloody stratagems of busy heads; 
When we have feared three years we know 

not what, 
Till witnesses begin to die o' th' rot, 
What made our poet meddle with a plot? 
Was 't that he fancied, for the very sake 

1 Otway, a strong Popish plot of ous allusions to 2 imaginary evi- 

Tory, ridicules the 1678. The later contemporary in- dence (such as 

Whig excitement part of the pro- cidents and per- would be got by 

over the supposed logue makes vari- sonages. pretending to see 



And name of plot, his trifling play might 
take? 

For there 's not in 't one inch-board evi- 
dence,^ 

But 't is, he says, to reason plain and sense,^ 

And that he thinks a plausible defence. 

Were truth by sense and reason to be 
tried, 

Sure, all our swearers might be laid aside : 

No, of such tools our author has no need, 

through a board 
an inch thick). 
3 perception. 



460 



THE RESTORATION 



To make bis plot, or [make] his play suc- 
ceed ; 
He, of black bills, has no prodigious tales, 
Or Spanish ijilgrims cast ashore in Wales; 
Here 's not one murthered magistrate at 

least. 
Kept rank like ven'son for a city feast, 
Grown four days stiff, the better to pre- 
pare 
And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair : 
Yet here 's an army raised, though under 

ground, 
But no man seen, nor one commission 

found ; 
Here is a traitor too, that 's very old. 
Turbulent, subtle, mischievous, and bold, 
Bloody, revengeful, and to crown his 
part, 



Loves fumbling with a wench, with all his 

heart ; 
Till after having many changes passed. 
In spite of age (thanks Heaven) is hanged 

at last: 
Next is a senator that keeps a whore,* ' 
In Venice none a higher otfice bore; 
To lewdness every night the lecher ran, 
Show me, all London, such another man, 
Match him at Mother Creswold's if you 

can. 
O Poland, Poland ! had it been thy lot, 
T' have heard in time of this Venetian 

plot, 
Thou surely chosen hadst one king from 

thence. 
And honored them, as thou hast England 

since. 



PERSON^E DRAMATIS 



Conspirators. 



Duke of Vknice. 

Pbiuli, Father to Bclvidera, a Senator. 

Antonio, a Fine Speaker in the Senate. 

Jaffeir, 

Pierre, 

Renault, 

Bedamar, 

Spinosa, 

Theodore, 

Eliot, 

Revillido, 

DURAND, 

Mezzana, 
Bra [in] VEIL, 
Ternon, 
[Ri:trosi] 
Brabe, 

ACT L 

Scene 1. 

{Enter Priuli and Jaffeir.) 

Priu. No more! I'll hear no more; be- 
gone and leave. 
Jaff. Not hear me! by my sufferings but 
you shall ! 
My lord, my lord ! I 'm not that abject 

wretch 
You think me : patience ! Avhere 's the dis- 
tance throws 
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak 
In right, though proud oppression will 
not hear me ! 
Prill. Have you not wronged mef 



Jaf. 



Could mv nature e'^v 



Belvidera. 

Aquilina. 

Two Women, Attendants on Bclvidera. 

Two Women, Servants to Aquilina. 

The Council of Ten.s 

Officer. 

Guards. 

Friar. 

Executioner and Rabble. 



Have brooked injustice or the doing 
wrongs, 

I need not now thus low have bent my- 
self 

To gain a hearing from a cruel father ! 

Wronged you? 
Prill. Yes! wronged me, in 

the nicest point : 

The honor of my house; you have done 
me wrong; 

You may remember (for I now will 
speak, 

And urge its baseness) : when you first 
came home 

From travel, with such hopes as made 
you looked on 

By all men's eyes, a youth of expecta- 
tion ; 



4 Antonio is a fero- 
cious portrait of 
the dissolute eld- 
erly Earl of 
Shaftsbury, who 



schemed to secure 
the crown of Po- 
land. 

From the 1 tth 
century a part of 



the Venetian ma- 
chinery of ROV- 
prnment; orifri- 
nally executive, af- 
terwards also ju- 



dicial, and in the 
17th century the 
chief power in 
the state. In TV, 
ii, the poet seems 



to err in making 
the DoRe a mem- 
ber of it. 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



461 



Pleased with your growing virtue, I re- 
ceived you : 

Courted, and sought to raise you to your 
merits : 

My house, uiy table, nay my fortune too. 

My very self, was yours ; you might have 
used me 

To your best service; like an open friend, 

I treated, trusted you, and thought you 
mine; 

When, in requital of my best endeavors. 

You treacherously practised ^ to undo 
me. 

Seduced the weakness of my age's 
darling, 

My only child, and stole her from my 
bosom : 

Oh Belvidera ! 
Jalf. 'T is to me you owe her. 

Childless you had been else, and in the 
grave 

Your name extinct, nor no more Priuli 
heard of. 

You may remember, scarce five years are 
past, 

Since in your brigandine you sailed to see 

The Adriatic wedded bj^ our Duke,'' 

And I was with you : your unskilful pilot 

Dashed us upon a rock; when to your 
boat 

You made for safety; entered first your- 
self; 

The affrighted Belvidera following next. 

As she stood trembling on the vessel side. 

Was by a wave washed off into the deep. 

When instantly I plunged into the sea. 

And buffeting the billows to her rescue. 

Redeemed her life with half the loss of 
mine ; 

Like a rich conquest in one hand I bore 
her. 

And with the other dashed the saucy 
waves, 

That thronged and pressed to rob me of 
my prize : 

I brought her, gave her to your despair- 
ing arms : 

Indeed you thanked me ; but a nobler 
gratitude 

Rose in her soul : for from that hour she 
loved me, 

Till for her life she paid me with her- 
self. 
Priu. You stole her from me; like a thief 
you stole her, 

At dead of night; that cursed hour you 
chose 

To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 



May all your joys in her prove false like 

mine ; 
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed, 
A.ttend you both; continual discord make 
Your days and nights bitter and gTiev- 

ous: still 
May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
Oppress, and grind you; till at last you 

find 
The curse of disobedience all your por- 
tion. 
Jaff. Half of your curse you have be- 
stowed in vain ; 
Heaven has already crowned our faithful 

loves 
With a young boy, sweet as his mother's 

beauty. 
May he live to prove more gentle than 

his grandsire. 
And happier than his father! 
Priu. Rather live 

To bait thee for his bread, and din your 

ears 
With hungry cries; whilst his unhapjiy 

mother 
Sits down and weeps in bitterness of 

want. 
Jaff. You talk as if it would please you. 
Priu. 'T would, by Heaven. 

Once she was clear indeed; the drops that 

fell 
From my sad heart, when she forgot her 

duty, 
The fountain of my life was not so pre- 
cious : 
But she is gone, and if I am a man 
I will forget her. 
Jaff. Would I were in my grave ! 
Priu. And she too with thee; 

For, living here, you 're but my curst 

remembrancers 
I once was happy. 
Jaff. You use me thus, because you know 

my soul 
Is fond of Belvidera: you perceive 
My life feeds on her, therefore thus you 

treat me ; 
Oh ! could my soul ever have known 

satiety, 
Were I that thief, the doer of such 

wrongs 
As you upbraid me with, what hinders 

me. 
But I might send her back to you with 

contumely. 
And court my fortune where slie would 

be kinder! 
Priu. You dare not do 't 



6 plotted. 7 The Doge annually "wedded" the Adriatic by dropping a ring into it, in token ot dominion. 



462 



THE RESTORATION 



Jaff. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. 

My heart that awes me is too much my 
master : 

Three years are past since first our vows 
were plighted. 

During which time, the world must bear 
me witness, 

I have treated Belvidera like your daugh- 
ter, 

The daughter of a senator of Venice; 

Distinction, place, attendance and observ- 
ance, 

Due to her birth, she always has com- 
manded ; 

Out of my little fortune I have done this ; 

Because (though hopeless e'er to win 
your nature) 

The world might see, I loved her for her- 
self. 

Not as the heiress of the great Priuli 

Priu. No more! 

Jaff. Yes ! all, and then adieu for ever. 

There 's not a wretch that lives on com- 
mon charity 

But 's happier than me : for I have 
known 

The luscious sweets of plenty; every 
night 

Have slept with soft content about my 
head, 

And never waked but to a joyful morn- 
ing; 

Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, 

Whose blossom scaped, yet 's withered in 
the ripening. 
Priu. Home and be humble, study to re- 
trench ; 

Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall. 

Those pageants of thy folly. 

Reduce the glittering trappings of thy 
wife 

To humble weeds, fit for thy little state; 

Then to some suburb cottage both retire ; 

Drudge, to feed loathsome life : get brats, 
and starve — 

Home, home, I say. 

{Exit Priuli.) 
Jaff. Yes, if my heart would let me — 

This proud, this swelling heart : home I 
would go. 

But that my doors are hateful to my 
eyes. 

Filled and dammed up with gaping 
creditors, 

Watchful as fowlers when their game 
will spring; 

I have now not fifty ducats in the world, 

Yet still I am in love, and pleased with 
ruin. 



Belvidera! oh, she [i]s my wife — 
And we will bear our wayward fate to- 
gether. 

But ne'er know comfort more. 

{Enter Pierre.) 

Pierr. My friend, good morrow ! 

How fares the honest partner of my 

heart? 
What, melancholy! not a word to spare 

me"? 
Ja^. I 'm thinking, Pierre, how that 

damned starving quality. 
Called honesty, got footing in the world. 
Pierr. Why, powerful villainy first set it 

up. 
For its own ease and safety : honest men 
Are the soft easy cushions on which 

knaves 
Repose and fatten. Were all mankind 

villains. 
They 'd starve each other ; lawyers would 

want practice, 
Cut-throats rewards ; each man would kill 

his brother 
Himself, none would be paid or hanged 

for murder. 
Honesty was a cheat invented first 
To bind the hands of bold deserving 

rogues. 
That fools and cowards might sit safe in 

power, 
And lord it uncontrolled above their bet- 
ters. 
Jaf. Then honesty is but a notion. 
Pierr. Nothing else. 

Like wit, much talked of, not to be de- 
fined : 
He that pretends to most, too, has least 

share in 't ; 
'T is a ragged virtue : honesty ! no more 

on 't. 
Jaf. Sure thou art honest ? 
Pierr. So indeed men think me ; 

But they're mistaken, Jaffeir: I am a 

rogue 
As well as they ; 
A fine gay bold-faced villain, as thou 

seest me; 
'T is true, I pay my debts when they 're 

contracted ; 

1 steal from no man; would not cut a 

throat 
To gain admission to a great man's 

purse. 
Or a whore's bed; I'd not betray my 

friend. 
To get his place or fortune: I scorn to 

flatter 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



463 



A blown-up fool above me, or crush the 
wretch beneath ine, 

Yet, Jaffeir, for all this, I am a villain ! 

Jaff. A villain 

Pierr. Yes, a most notorious villain : 

To see the sutf' rings of my fellow-crea- 
tures, 

And own myself a man : to see our sena- 
tors 

Cheat the deluded people with a show 

Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must 
taste of; 

They say, by them our hands are free 
from fetters, 

Yet whom they please they lay in basest 
bonds ; 

Bring whom they please to infamy and 
sorrow ; 

Drive us like wracks down the rough tide 
of power. 

Whilst no hold 's left to save us from 
destruction ; 

All that bear this are villains ; and I one, 

Not to rouse up at the great call of na- 
ture. 

And check the growth of these domestic 
spoilers. 

That makes us slaves and tells us 't is our 
charter. 
Jaff. Aquilina ! friend, to lose such 
beauty, 

The dearest purchase of thy noble labors ; 

She was thy right by conquest, as by love. 
Pierr. Jaffeir! I'd so fixed my heart 
upon her. 

That wheresoe'er I framed a scheme of 
life 

For time to come, she was my only joy 

With which I wished to sweeten future 
cares ; 

I fancied pleasures, none but one that 
loves 

And dotes as I did can imagine like 
'em: 

When in the extremity of all these hopes. 

In the most charming hour of expecta- 
tion, 

Then when our eager wishes soar the 
highest, 

Ready to stoop and grasp the lovely 
game, 

A haggard owl, a worthless kite of prey, 

With his foul wings sailed in and spoiled 
my quariy. 
Jaff. I know the wretch, and scorn him 

as thou hat'st him. 
Pierr. Curse on the common good that 's 
so protected, 



Where every slave that heaps up wealth 

enough 
To do much wrong, becomes a lord of 

right ! 
I, who believed no ill could e'er come near 

me. 
Found in the embraces of my Aquilina 
A wretched, old but itching senator; 
A Avealthy fool, that had bought out my 

title, 
A rogue, that uses beauty like a lambskin, 
Barely to keep him warm: that filthy 

cuckoo too 
Was in my absence crept into my nest, 
And spoiling all my brood of noble plea- 
sure. 
Jaff. Didst thou not chase him thence? 
Pierr. I did; and drove 

The rank old bearded Hirco * stinking 

home : 
The matter was complained of in the 

Senate, 
I summoned to appear, and censured 

basely, 
For violating something they call privi- 
lege — 
This was the recomiDense of [all] my 

service : 
Would I 'd been rather beaten by a cow- 
ard! 
A soldier's mistress, Jaffeir, 's his re- 
ligion ; 
When that 's profaned, all other ties are 

broken ; 
That even dissolves all former bonds of 

service. 
And from that hour I think myself as 

free 
To be the foe as e'er the friend of 

Venice. — 
Nay, dear Revenge, whene'er thou call'st 

I 'm ready. 
Jaf. I think no safety can be here for 

virtue. 
And grieve, my friend, as much as thou 

to live 
In such a wretched state as this of 

Venice ; 
Where all agree to spoil the public 

good. 
And villains fatten Avith the brave man's 

labors. 
Pierr. We have neither safety, unity, nor 

peace, 
For the foundation 's lost of common 

good ; 
Justice is lame as well as blind amongst 

us; 



8 goat (Spanish, apparently; Lat. hircus). 



4G4 



THE RESTORATION 



The laws (corrupted to their ends' that 
make 'em) 

Serve but for instruments of some new 
tyranny, 

That every day starts up to enslave us 
deeper : 

Now could this glorious cause but find 
out friends 

To do it right ! Jaffeir ! then might'st 
thou 

Not wear these seals of woe upon thy 
face, 

The proud Priuli should be taught hu- 
manity. 

And learn to value such a son as thou art. 

I dare not speak! But my heart bleeds 
this moment ! 
Jaff. Curst be the cause, though I thy 
friend be part on 't : 

Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom. 

For I am used to misery, and perhaps 

May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. 
Pierr. Too soon it will reach thy knowl- 
edge 

Jaff. ^ Then from thee 

Let it proceed. There 's virtue in thy 
friendship 

Wovald make the saddest tale of sorrow 
pleasing. 

Strengthen my constancy, and welcome 
ruin. 
Pierr. Then thou art ruined ! 
Jaff. That I long since knew, 

I and ill-fortune have been long acquaint- 
ance. 
Pierr. I passed this very moment by thy 
doors, 

And found them guarded by a troop of 
villains ; 

The sons of public rapine were destroy- 
ing: 

They told me, by the sentence of the law 

They had commission to seize all thy for- 
tune, 

Nay more, Priuli's cruel hand hath signed 
it. 

Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face 

Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, 

Tumbled into a heap for public sale: 

There was another making villainous 
jests 

At tiiy undoing; he had ta'en possession 

Of all thy ancient most domestic orna- 
ments, 

Rich hangings, intermixed and wrought 
with gold ; 

The very bed, which on thy wedding- 
night 

Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, 



The scene of all thy joys, was violated 
By the coarse hands of filtliy dungeon 

villains. 
And thrown amongst the common lumber. 

Jaff. Now, thanks. Heaven 

Pierr. Thank Heaven! for what? 

Jaff. That I am not worth a ducat. 

Pierr. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse 

fate of A'enice, 
Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all 

are false; 
Where there 's no trust, no tnith ; where 

innocence 
StoojDS under vile oppression, and vice 

lords it. 
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last 
Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch 
That 's doomed to banishment, came 

weeping forth. 
Shining through tears, like April suns in 

showers 
That labor to o'ercome the cloud that 

loads 'em. 
Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms 

she leaned. 
Kindly looked uj:), and at her grief grew 

sad, 
As if they eatehed the sorrows that fell 

from her ! 
Even the lewd rabble that were gathered 

round 
To see the sight, stood mute when they 

beheld her; 
Governed their roaring throats and grum- 
bled pity: 
I could have hugged the greasy rogues; 

they pleased me. 
Joff. I thank thee for this story, from 

my soul. 
Since now I know the worst that can be- 
fall me : 
Ah, Pierre! I have a heart, that could 

have borne 
The roughest wrong my fortune could 

have done me; 
But when I think what Belvidera feels, 
The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, 
I own myself a coward : bear my weak- 
ness, 
If throwing thus my arms about thy 

neck, 
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. 
Oh ! i shall drown thee with my sorrows ! 
Pierr. Burn ! 

First burn, and level Venice to thy ruin. 
What ! starve like beggars' brats in frosty 

weather. 
Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to 

death I 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



465 



Thou, or thy cause, shall never want as- 
sistance. 
Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve 

thee ; 
Command my heart : thou art every way 
its master. 
Jaff. No ; there 's a secret pride in bravely 

dying. 
rierr. Rats die in holes and comers, dogs 
run mad ; 
Man knows a braver remedy for sor- 
row: 
Revenge! the attribute of gods, they 

stamped it 
With their great image on our natures; 

die! 
Consider well the cause that calls upon 

thee, 
And if thou 'rt base enough, die then. 

Remember 
Thy Belvidera suffers ; Belvidera ! 
Die ! — damn first ! — what ! be decently in- 
terred 
In a churchyai'd, and mingle thy brave 

dust 
With stinking rogues that rot in dirty 

winding-sheets, 
Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' 
th' soil. 
Jaff. Oh ! 
Pierr. Well said, out with it, swear a 

little 

Jaff. Swear ! 

By sea and air! by earth, by heaven and 

hell, 
I will revenge my Belvidera's tears ! 
Hark thee, my friend — Priuli — is — a sen- 
ator ! 
Pierr. ' A dog! 
Jaff. Agreed. 

Pierr. Shoot him. 

Jaff. With all my heart. 

No more : where shall we meet at night '? 
Pierr. I '11 tell thee ; 

On the Rialto ® eveiy night at twelve 
I take my evening's walk of meditation, 
Tliere we two will meet, and talk of pre- 
cious 

Mischief 

Jaff. Farewell. 
Pierr. At twelve. 

Jaff. At any hour, my plagues 

Will keep me waking. 

{Exit Pierre.) 
Tell me why, good Heaven, 
Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the 

spirit, 
Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires 

9 The celebrated bridge over the Grand Canal. 



That fill the happiest man? Ah! rather 
why 

Didst thou not form me sordid as my 
fate. 

Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry bur- 
dens? 

Why have I sense ^^ to know the curse 
that 's on me? 

Is this just dealing. Nature? Belvidera! 
(Enter Belvidera.) 

Poor Belvidera ! 
Belv. Lead nie, lead me, my virgins, 

To that kind voice. My lord, my love, 
my refuge ! 

Happy my eyes, when they behold thy 
face : 

My heavy heart will leave its doleful beat- 
ing 

At sight of thee, and 1)ound with spright- 
ful joys. 

O smile, as when our loves were in their 
spring, 

And cheer my fainting soul. 
Jaff. As when our loves 

Wei'e in their spring? has then my for- 
tune changed? 

Art thou not Belvidera, still the same, 

Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first 
found thee? 

If thou art altered, where shall I have 
harbor ? 

Where ease my loaded heart? Oh! 
where complain ? 
Belv. Does this api^ear like change, or 
love decaying? 

When thus I throw myself into thy 
bosom, 

With all the resolution of a strong truth : 

Beats not my heart, as 'twould al[a]rum 
thine 

To a new charge of bliss? I joy more in 
thee, 

Than did thy mother when she hugged 
thee first. 

And blessed the gods for all her travail 
past. 
Jaff. Can there in women be such glori- 
ous faith? 

Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false ; 

woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made 
thee 

To temper man : we had been brutes with- 
out you ; 

Angels are painted fair, to look like you ; 

There 's in you all that we believe of 
heaven, 

Amazing brightness, purity and truth, 

Eternal joy, and everlasting love. 

10 perception. 



466 



THE RESTORATION 



Belv. It love be treasure, we '11 be won- 
drous rich; 

I have so much, my heart will surely 
break with 't ; 

Vows cannot express it ; when I would de- 
clare 

How great 's my joy, I am dumb with the 
big thought'; 

I swell, and sigh, and labor with my long- 
ing. 

lead me to some desert wide and wild, 

Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul 

May have its vent : where I may tell aloud 

To the high heavens, and every listening 
planet. 

With what a boundless stock my bosom 's 
fraught ; 

Where I may throw my eager arras about 
thee, 

Give loose to love with kisses, kindling 
joy, 

And let off all the fire that's in my 
heart. 
Jaf. Belvidera! double I am a beggar, 

Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee; 

Want ! worldly want ! that hungry meagre 
fiend 

Is at my heels, and chases me in view. 

Canst thou bear cold and hunger'? Can 
these limbs. 

Framed for the tender offices of love. 

Endure the bitter gripes of smarting pov- 
erty*? 

When banished by our miseries abroad 

(As suddenly we shall be), to seek out 

(In some far climate where our names 
are strangers) 

For charitable succor f wilt thou then, 

When in a bed of straw we shrink to- 
gether. 

And the bleak winds shall whistle round 
our heads, 

Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt 
thou then 

Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with 
love? 
Belv. 0, I will love thee, even in mad- 
ness love thee. 

Though my distracted senses should for- 
sake me, 

I 'd find some intervals, when my poor 
heart 

Should suage itself and be let loose to 
thine. 

Though the bare earth be all our resting- 
place, 

Its roots our food, some elift our habita- 
tion, 

I '11 make this arm a pillow for thy head ; 



And as thou sighing liest, and swelled 
with sorrow. 

Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of 
love 

Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest; 

Then praise our God, and watch thee till 
the morning. 
Jaff. Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder 
how you made her ! 

Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the 
world. 

Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know 

Tranquility and happiness like mine ; 

Like gaudy shij^s, the obsequious billows 
fall 

And rise again, to lift you in your pride ; 

They wait but for a storm and then de- 
vour you : 

I, in my private bark, already wrecked, 

Like a poor merchant driven on unknown 
land. 

That had by chance packed up his choic- 
est treasure 

In one dear casket, and saved only that. 

Since I must wander further on the shore, 

Thus hug my little, but my precious 
store ; 

Resolved to scom, and trust my fate no 
more. 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT II 

Scene 1. 
{Enter Pierre and Aquilina.) 

Aquil. By all thy wrongs, thou 'rt dearer 

to my arms 
Than all the Avealth of Venice: prithee 

stay, 
And let us love to-night. 
Pierr. No : there 's fool, 

There 's fool about thee : when a woman 

sells 
Her flesh to fools, her beauty 's lost to 

me; 
They leave a taint, a sully where they 've 

past. 
There 's such a baneful quality about 'em. 
Even spoils complexions with their own 

nauseousness. 
They infect all they touch ; I cannot think 
Of tasting anything a fool has palled. 
Aquil. I loathe and scorn that fool thou 

mean'st, as much 
Or more than thou canst ; but the beast 

has gold 
That makes him necessary; power too, 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



467 



To qualify my character, and poise me 
Equal with peevish ^^ virtue, that beholds 
My liberty with envy ; in their hearts 
Are loose as I am ; but an ugiy power 
Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures 

from 'em. 
Pierr. Much good may 't do you, madam, 

with your senator. 
Aquil. My senator! why, canst thou think 

that wretch 
E'er filled thy Aquilina's arms with pleas- 
ure? 
Think'st thou, because I sometimes give 

him leave 
To foil himself at what he is unfit for ; 
Because I force myself to endure and 

suffer him, 
Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the 

joys 
Thou ever gav'st me, his presence is my 

penance ; 
The worst thing an old man can be 's a 

lover, 
A mere memento mori to poor woman. 
I never lay by his decrepit side. 
But all that night I pondered on my 

grave. 
Pierr. Would he were well sent thither ! 
Aquil. That 's my wish too : 

For then, my Pierre, I might have cause 

with pleasure 
To play the hypocrite. Oh ! how I could 

weep 
Over the dying dotard, and kiss him 

too, 
In hopes to smother him quite ; then, 

when the time 
Was come to j^ay my sorrows at his 

funeral. 
For he has already made me heir to 

treasures, 
Would make me out-act a real widow's 

whining : 
How could I frame my face to fit my 

mourning ! 
With wringing hands attend him to his 

grave. 
Fall swooning on his hearse: ^- take mad 

possession 
Even of the dismal vault where he lay 

buried ; 
There like the Ephesian matron ^^ dwell, 

till thou, 
My lovely soldier, com'st to my deliver- 
ance: 



Then throwing up my veil, with open 
arms 

And laughing eyes, run to new dawning 
joy. 
Pierr. No more! I have friends to meet 
me here to-night, 

And must be private. As you prize my 
friendship, 

Keep up your coxcomb:^* let him not 
pry nor listen 

Nor fisk ^^ about the house as I have seen 
him, 

Like a tame mumping '^^ squirrel with a 
bell on ; 

Curs will be abroad to bite him if you do. 
Aquil. What friends to meet? may I not 

be of your council? 
Pierr. How! a woman ask questions out 
of bed? 

Go to your senator, ask him what passes 

Amongst his brethren, he '11 hide nothing 
from you 

But pump not me for politics. No more ! 

Give order that whoever in my name 

Comes here, receive admittance: so good- 
night. 
Aquil. Must we ne'er meet again! Em- 
brace no more ! 

Is love so soon and utterly forgotten ! 
Pierr. As you hencefonvard treat your 

fool, i '11 think on 't. 
Aquil. Curst be all fools, and doubly curst 
myself. 

The worst of fools — I die if he forsakes 
me; 

And now to keep him, heaven or hell in- 
struct me. 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. The Rialto. 
(Enter Jaffeir.) 

Jaff. I am here, and thus, the shades of 

night around me, 
I look as if all hell were in my heart. 
And I in hell. Nay, surely 'tis so with 

me; — 
For every step I tread, methinks some 

fiend 
Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be 

quiet : 
I 've heard, how desperate wretches, like 

myself, 
Have wandered out at this dead time of 

night 



11 ill-humored. 

12 Framework sup- 
porting lights, 
etc., on which a 
coffin rested be- 



fore burial, 
13 The allusion is 
to the widesprend 
cynical story of 
the Widow of 



Ephesus, who in- 
trigued with the 
soldier set to 
watch her dead 
husband, and 



even mutilated 16 munching, nib- 
the corpse. bling ( ?) ; grim- 

14 restrain vour acing (?). 
fool. 

15 scamper, whisk. 



468 



THE RESTORATION 



To meet the foe of mankind in his walk : 
Sure I 'm so curst, tliat, tho' of Heaven 

forsaken, 
No minister of darkness cares to tempt 

me. 
Hell ! hell ! why sleepest thou ? 

{Enter Pierre.) 

Pierr. Sure I have stayed too long: 

The clock has struck, and I may lose my 

proselyte. 
Speak, who goes there? 
Jaff. A dog, that comes to howl 

At yonder moon : what 's he that asks the 
question ? 
Pierr. A friend of dogs, for they are hon- 
est creatures 
And ne'er betray their masters; never 

fawn 
On any that they love not. Well met, 

friend : 
Jaff eir ! 
Jaff. The same. Pierre ! thou art come 
in season, 
I was just going to pray. 
Pierr. Ah, that 's mechanic. 

Priests make a trade on 't, and yet starve 

by it too : 
No praying, it spoils business, and time 's 

precious ; 
Where 's Belvidera 1 
Jaff. For a day or two 

I 've lodged her privately till I see farther 
What fortune will do with me. Prithee, 

friend, 
If thou wouldst have me fit to hear good 
counsel, 

Speak not of Belvidera 

Pierr. Speak not of her*? 

Jaff. Oh no ! 

Pierr. Nor name her? May be I 

wish her well, 
Jaff. Who well? 

Pierr. Thy Avife, thy lovely Belvidera ; 

I hope a man may wish his friend's wife 

well. 
And no harm done ! 
Jaff. Y' are merry, Pierre ! 

Pierr. I am so : 

Thou shalt smile too, and Belvidera 

smile ; 
We '11 all rejoice ; here 's something to 

buy pins, 
Marriage is chargeable. 
Jaff. I but half wished 

To see the Devil, and he 's here already. 
Well ! 

What must this buy, rebellion, murder, 
treason? 



Tell me which way I must be damned for 
this. 
Pierr. When last we parted, we had no 
qualms like these. 
But entertained each other's thoughts like 

men 
Whose souls were well acquainted. Is 

the world 
Reformed since our last meeting? What 

new miracles 
Have happened? Has Priuli's heart re- 
lented? 
Can he be honest? 
Jaff. Kind Heaven ! let heavy curses 

Gall his old age; cramps, aches, rack his 

bones; 
And bitterest disquiet wring his heart ; 
Oh, let him live till life become his bur- 
don ! 
Let him groan under 't long, linger an 

age 
In the worst agonies and pangs of death, 
And find its ease but late ! 
Pierr. Nay, couldst tliou not 

As well, my friend, have stretched the 

curse to all 
The Senate round, as to one single vil- 
lain ? 
Jaff. But curses stick not : could I kill 
with cursing. 
By Heaven, I know not thirty heads in 

Venice 
Should not be blasted ; senators should 

rot 
Like dogs on dunghills; but their wives 

and daughters 
Die of their own diseases. Oh, for a 

curse 
To kill with ! 
Pierr. Daggers, daggers, are much better! 
Jaff. Ha !' ^ 
Pierr. Daggers. 

Jaff. But where are they ? 

Pierr. Oh, a thousand 

May be disposed in honest hands in 
Venice. 
Jaff. Thou talk'st in clouds. 
Pierr. But yet a heart half wronged 

As thine has been, would find the mean- 
ing, Jaff eir. 
Jaff. A thousand daggers, all in honest 
hands ; 
And have not I a friend will stick one 
here? 
Pierr. Yes, if I thought thou wert not to 
be choinshed 
To a nobler purpose, I 'd be that friend. 
But thou hast better friends, friends, 
whom thy wi-ongs 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



469 



Have made thy friends; friends worthy 
to be called so ; 

I'll trust thee with a secret: there are 
spirits 

This hour at work. But as thou art a 
man, 

Whom I have picked and chosen from 
the world, 

Swear, that thou wilt be true to what I 
utter. 

And when I have told thee, that which 
only gods 

And men like gods are privy to, then 
swear, 

No chance or change shall wrest it from 
thy bosom. 
Jajf. When thou wouldst bind me, is there 
need of oaths'? 

(Greensickness^^ girls lose maidenheads 
with such counters) 

For thou 'rt so near my heart, that thou 
mayst see 

Its bottom, sound its strength, and firm- 
ness to thee : 

Is coward, fool, or villain, in my face? 

If I seem none of these, I dare believe 

Thou wouldst not use me in a little cause, 

For I am fit for honor's toughest task; 

Nor ever yet found fooling was my prov- 
ince; 

And for a villainous inglorious enterprise, 

I know thy heart so well, I dare lay mine 

Before thee, set it to what jjoint thou 
wilt. 
Pierr. Nay, it 's a cause thou wilt be fond 
of, Jaffeir. 

For it is founded on the noblest basis, 

Our liberties, our natural inheritance; 

There 's no religion, no hypocrisy in 't ; 

We '11 do the business, and ne'er fast and 
pray for 't : 

Openly act a deed, the world shall gaze 

With wonder at, and envy when it is done. 
Jajf. For liberty ! 
Pierr. For liberty, my friend ! 

Thou shall be freed from base Priuli's 
tyranny. 

And thy sequestered fortunes healed 
again. 

I shall be freed from opprobrious wrongs, 

That jiress me now, and bend my spirit 
dowuAvard : 

All Venice free, and every growing merit 

Succeed to its just right ; fools shall be 
pulled 

From wisdom's seat; those baleful un- 
clean birds, 

Those lazy owls, who (perched near For- 
tune's top) 



Sit only watchful with their heavy wings 
To cuff down new-fiedged virtues, that 

would rise 
To nobler heights, and make the grove 

harmonious. 
Jaff. What can I do 7 

Pierr. Canst thou not kill a senator"? 

Jajf. Were there one wise or honest, I 

could kill him 
For herding with that nest of fools and 

knaves. 
By all my wrongs, thou talk'st as if re- 
venge 
Were to be had, and the brave story 

warms me. 
Pierr. Swear, then ! 

Jaff. I do, by all those glittering stars 

And yond great ruling planet of the 

night ! 
By all good powers above, and ill below ! 
By love and friendship, dearer than my 

life! 
No power or death shall make me false 

to thee. 
Pierr. Here we embrace, and I '11 unlock 

my heart. 
A council 's held hard by, where the de- 
struction 
Of this sreat empire's hatching: there 

I '11 lead thee ! 
But be a man, for thou art to mix with 

men 
Fit to disturb the peace of all the world, 

And rule it when it 's wildest • 

Jajf. I give thee thanks 

For this kind warning : yes, I will be a 

man, 
And chai'ge thee, Pierre, whene'er thou 

seest my fears 
Betray me less, to rip this heart of mine 
Out of my breast, and show it for a 

coAvard's. 
Come, let 's begone, for from this hour I 

chase 
All little thoughts, all tender humane 

follies 
Out of my bosom : vengeance shall have 

room : 
Revenge ! 
Pierr. And libei'ty ! 

Jajf. Revenge ! revenge ! 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. The Scene changes to Aquilina's 
house, the Greek Courtesan. 



(Enter Renault.) 



17 an£emic. 



470 



THE RESTORATION 



Renault. Why was my choice ambition, 
the first ground 

A wretch can build on f It 's indeed at 
distance 

A good i^rospect, tempting to the view, 

The height delights us, and the mountain 
top 

Looks beautiful, because it 's nigh to 
heaven. 

But we ne'er think how sandy 's the foun- 
dation, 

What storm will batter, and what tempest 
shake us ! 

Wto's there? 

{Enter Spinosa.) 

Spin. Renault, good morrow ! for by 

this time 
I think the scale of night has turned the 

balance. 
And weighs up morning: has the clock 

struck twelve? 
Ben. Yes, clocks will go as they are set. 

But man, 
Irregular man 's ne'er constant, never 

certain : 
I 've spent at least three precious hours 

of darkness 
In waiting dull attendance ; 't is the curse 
Of diligent virtue to be mixed like mine, 
With giddy tempers, souls but half re- 
solved. 
Spin. Hell seize that soul amongst us it 

can frighten ! 
Ren. What 's then the cause that I am here 

alone? 
Why are we not together? 

{Enter Eliot.) 

sir, welcome ! 
You are an Englishman : when treason 's 

hatching 
One might have thought you 'd not have 

been behindhand. 
In what whore's lap have you been loll- 
ing? 
Give but an Englishman his whore and 

ease. 
Beef and a sea-coal fire, he's yours for 
ever. 
Eliot. Frenchman, you are saucy. 
Ren. How ! 

{Enter Bedamar the Ambassador, Theodore, 
Brainveil, Durand, Brahe, Rev[i]llido, 
Mezzana, Ternon, Retrosi, Conspirators.) 

Beda. At diiTerence, fie! 

Is this a time for quarrels? Thieves and 
rogues 



Fall out and brawl: should men of your 

high calling, 
Men separated by the choice of Provi- 
dence 
From the gross heap of mankind, and set 

here 
In this great assembly as in one great 

jewel. 
To adorn the bravest purpose it e'er 

smiled on, — 

Should you like boys wrangle for trifles? 

Ren. Boys ! 

Beda. Renault, thy hand ! 

Ren. I thought I 'd given my heart 

Long since to every man that mingles 

here ; 
But grieve to find it trusted with such 

tempers. 
That can't forgive my froward age its 

weakness. 
Beda. Eliot, thou once hadst virtue; I 

have seen 
Thy stubborn temper bend with godlike 

goodness, 
Not half thus courted : 't is thy nation's 

gloiy. 
To hug the foe that offers brave alliance. 
Once more embrace, my friends — we '11 

all embrace — 
United thus, we are the mighty engine 
Must twist this rooted empire from its 

basis ! 
Totters it not already? 
Eliot. Would it were tumbling! 

Beda. Nay, it shall down : this night we 

seal its ruin. 

{Enter Pierre.) 

Pierre ! thou art welcome ! 

Come to my breast, for by its hopes thou 

look'st 
Lovelily dreadful, and the fate of Venice 
Seems on thy sword already. my 

Mars ! 
The poets that first feigned a god of war 
Sure prophesied of thee. 
Pierr. Friends ! was not Brutus, 

(I mean that Brutus who in open senate 
Stabbed the first C^sar that usurped the 

world ) 
A gallant man? 
Ben. Yes, and Catiline too; 

Though story wrong his fame ; for he con- 
spired 
To prop the reeling gloiy of his country : 
His cause was good. 
Beda. And ours as much above it. 

As, Renault, thou art superior to Cethe- 
gus, 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



471 



Or Pierre to Cassius. 
Pierr. Then to what we aim at, 

When do we start? or must we talk for 
ever? 
Beda. No, Pierre, the deed 's near birth : 
fate seems to have set 

The business up, and given it to our care ; 

I hope there 's not a heart nor hand 
amongst us 

But is firm and ready. 
All. AU ! We '11 die with Bedamar. 

Beda. men, 

Matchless, as will your glory be here- 
after ! 

The game is for a matchless prize, if won ; 

If lost, disgraceful ruin. 
Ren. What can lose it? 

The public stock 's a beggar ; one Vene- 
tian 

Trusts not another. Look into their 
stores 

Of general safety; empty magazines, 

A tattered fleet, a murmuring unpaid 
army. 

Bankrupt nobility, a harassed common- 
alty, 

A factious, giddy, and divided Senate, 

Is all the strength of Venice. Let's de- 
stroy it; 

Let 's fill their magazines with arms to 
awe them, 

Man out their fleet, and make their trade 
maintain it ; 

Let loose the murmuring army on their 
masters. 

To pay themselves with plunder; lop 
their nobles 

To the base roots, whence most of 'em 
first sprung; 

Enslave the rout, whom smarting will 
make humble; 

Turn out their droning Senate, and pos- 
sess 

That seat of emjoire which our souls were 
framed for. 
Pierr. Ten thousand men are armed at 
your nod, 

Commanded all by leaders fit to guide 

A battle for the freedom of the world ; 

This wretched state has starved them in 
its service, 

And by your bounty quickened, they're 
resolved 

To ser\'e your glory, and revenge their 
own ! 

Th' have all their different quarters in 
this city. 

Watch for the alarm, and grumble 't is so 
tardy. 



Beda. I doubt not, friend, but thy un- 
wearied diligence 

Has still kept waking, and it shall have 
ease. 

After this night it is resolved we meet 

No more, till Venice own us for her lords. 
Pierr. How love[li]ly the Adriatic whore, 

Dressed in her flames, will shine ! devour- 
ing flames ! 

Such as shall burn her to the watery bot- 
tom 

And hiss in her foundation. 
Beda. Now if any 

Amongst us that owns this glorious cause 

Have friends or interest he 'd wish to 
save. 

Let it be told ; the general doom is sealed ; 

But I 'd forego the hopes of a world's em- 
pire, 

Rather than wound the bowels of my 
friend. 
Pierr. I must confess, you thei'e have 
touched my weakness, 

I have a f I'iend ; hear it, such a friend ! 

My heart was ne'er shut to him : nay, I '11 
tell you. 

He knows the very business of this hour ; 

But he rejoices in the cause, and loves it; 

We 've changed a vow to live and die to- 
gether, 

And he 's at hand to ratify it here. 
Ren. How! all betrayed? 

Pierr. No — I 've dealt nobly with you ; 

I 've brought my all into the public stock ; 

I had but one friend, and him I'll share 
amongst you ! 

Receive and cherish him : or if, when seen 

And searched, you find him worthless, as 
my tongue 

Has lodged this secret in his faithful 
breast, 

To ease your fears I wear a dagger here 

Shall rip it out again, and give you rest. 

Come forth, thou only good I e'er could 
boast of. 

{Enter Jaffeir with a dagger.) 
Beda. His presence bears the show of 

manly virtue. 
Jaff. I know you '11 wonder all, that thus 
uncalled, 

I dare approach this place of fatal coun- 
sels; 

But I 'm amongst you, and by Heaven it 
glads me, 

To see so many virtues thus united, 

To restore justice and dethrone oppres- 
sion. 

Command this sword, if you would have 
it quiet. 



472 



THE RESTORATION 



luto this breast; but if you think it 

worthy 
To cut tlie throats of reverend rogiies in 

robes, 
Send me into the curst assembled Senate ; 
It shrinks not, though I meet a father 

there. 
Would you behold this city flaming'? 

Here 's 
A hand shall bear a lighted torch at 

noon 
To the arsenal, and set its gates on fire. 
Ren. You talk this well, sir. 
Jaff. Nay — by Heaven I '11 do this. 

Come, come, I read distrust in all your 

faces; 
You fear me a villain, and indeed it 's 

odd 
To hear a stranger talk thus at first meet- 
ing, 
Of matters, that have been so well de- 
bated ; 
But I come ripe with wrongs as you with 

counsels, 
I hate this Senate, am a foe to Venice; 
A friend to none, but men resolved like 

me, 
To push on mischief; oh, did you but 

know me, 
I need not talk thus! 
Beda. Pierre ! I must embrace him, 

My heart beats to this man as if it knew 

him. 
Ben. I never loved these buggers. 
Jajf. Still I see 

The cause delights me not. Your friends 

survey me. 
As I were dangerous — but I come armed 
Against all doubts, and to your trust will 

give 
A pledge, worth more than all the world 

can pay for. 
My Belvidera! Ho! My Belvidera! 
Beda. What wonder next *? 
Jaf. Let me entreat you, 

As I have henceforth hopes to call ye 

friends, 
That all but the ambassador, [and] this 
Grave guide of councils, with my friend 

that owns me, 
WithdraAv a while to spare a woman's 

blushes. 
{Exeunt all hut Bedamar, Bcnault, Jaffeir, 

Pierre.) 
Beda. Pierre, whither will this ceremony 

lead US'? 
Jaff. My Belvidera ! Belvidera ! 

(Enter Belvidera.) 



Belv. Who? 

Who calls so loud at this late peaceful 

hour? 
That voice was wont to come in gentler 

whispei's, 
And fill my ears with the soft breath of 

love : 
Thou hourly image of my thoughts, where 

art thou? 
Jaff. Indeed, 't is late. 
Belv. Oh ! I have slept and dreamt, 

And dreamt again. Where hast thou 

been, thou loiterer? 
Though my eyes closed, my arms have 

still been opened; 
Stretched eveiy way betwixt my broken 

slumbers. 
To search if thou wert come to crown my 

rest; 
There 's no rej^ose without thee. Oh, the 

day 
Too soon will break, and wake us to our 

sorrow ; 
Come, come to bed, and bid thy cares 

good-night. 
Ja/f. Belvidera ! we must change the 

scene 
In which the past delights of life were 

tasted : 
The poor sleep little, we must learn to 

watch 
Our labors late, and early every mom- 

Midst winter frosts, thin clad and fed 
with sparing. 

Rise to our toils, and drudge away the 
day. 
Belv. Alas ! where am I ? Avhithcr is 't you 
lead me? 

Methinks I read disti'action in your face. 

Something less gentle than the fate you 
tell me : 

You shake and tremble too ! your blood 
runs cold L 

Heavens guard my love, and bless his 
heart with patience ! 
Jaf. That I have patience, let our fate 
bear witness, 

Who has ordained it so, that thou and I, 

(Thou the divinest good man e'er pos- 
sessed. 

And I the wretched'st of the race of 
man) 

This very hour, without one tear, must 
part. 
Belv. Part ! must we part? ! am I then 
forsaken ? 

Will my love cast me off? have my mis- 
fortunes 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



473 



Offended him so highly, that he '11 leave 
me? 

Why drag you from me ; whither are you 
going? 

My dear ! my life ! my love ! 
Jalf. Oh friends! 

Belv. Speak to me. 
Jalf. Take her from my heart ; 

She '11 gain such hold else, I shall ne'er 
get loose. 

I charge thee take her, but with tenderest 
care 

Relieve her trouljlos and assuage her sor- 
rows. 
Ren. Rise, madam ! and command amongst 

your servants ! 
Jrt/f. To you, sirs, and your honors, I be- 
queath her, 

And with her this, when I prove un- 
worthy — 

{Gives a dagger.) 

You know the rest — then strike it to her 
heart ; 

And tell her, he, who three whole happy 
years 

Lay in her arms, and each kind night re- 
peated 

The passionate vows of still-increasing 
love. 

Sent that reward for all her truth and 
sufferings. 
Belv. Nay, take my life, shice he has sold 
it cheaply; 

Or send me to some distant clime your 
slave. 

But let it be far off, lest my complain- 
ings 

Should reach his guilty ears, and shake 
his peace. 
Jaff. No, Belvidera, I 've contrived thy 
honor. 

Trust to my faith, and be but fortune 
kind 

To me, as I '11 preserve that faith un- 
broken. 

When next we meet, I '11 lift thee to a 
height. 

Shall gather all the gazing world about 
thee, 

To wonder what strange vii'tue placed 
thee there. 

But if we ne'er meet more 

Belv. thou unkind one. 

Never meet more? have I deserved this 
from you? 

Look on me, tell me, tell me, speak, thou 
dear deceiver, 

Why am T separated from thy love? 

If I am false, accuse me ; but if true. 



Don't, prithee, don't in poverty forsake 

me. 
But pity the sad heart, that 's torn with 
parting. 

Yet hear me ! yet recall me 

{Exeunt Renault, Bedamar, and Belvidera.) 

Jaff. O my eyes ! 

Look not that way, but turn yourselves 

awhile 
Into my heart, and be weaned all to- 
gether. 
My friend, where art thou ? 
Pierr. Here, my honor's brother. 

Jaff. Is Belvidera gone? 
Pierr. Renault has led her 

Back to her own apartment; but, by 

Heaven ! 
Thou must not see her more till our 
work 's over. 
Jaff. No? 

Pierr. Not for your life. 
Jaff. Pierre, wert thou but she, 

How I could pull thee down into my 

heart, 
Gaze on thee till my eye-strings cracked 

with love, 
Till all my sinews with its fire extended 
Fixed me upon the rack of ardent long- 
ing; 
Then swelling, sighing, raging to be blest. 
Come like a panting turtle to thy breast. 
On thy soft bosom, hovering, bill ,and 

Confess the cause why last I fled away; 
Own 't was a fault, but swear to give it 

o'er 
And never follow false ambition more. 
{Exeunt amho.) 



ACT III 

Scene 1. 
{Enter Aqnilina and her Maid.) 

Aquil. Tell him I am gone to bed : tell him 
I am not at home ; tell him I 've better 
company with me, or any thing; tell him, 
in short, I will not see him, the eternal, 
troublesome, vexatious fool: he's worse 
company than an ignorant physician — 
T '11 not be disturbed at these unseason- 
able hours. 

Maid. But madam ! He 's here already, 
just entered the doors. 

Aquil. Turn him out again, you unneces- 
saiy, useless, giddy-brained ass! If he 
will not be gone, set the house a-fire and 
burn us both ; I had rather meet a toad in 



474 



THE RESTORATION 



my dish than that old hideous animal in 
my chamber to-night. 

{Enter Antonio.) 

Ante. Naeky, Nacky, Nacky — how dost do, 
Naeky? Huriy durry. I am come, lit- 
tle Nacky; j^ast eleven o'clock, a late 
houi-; time in all conscience to go to bed, 
Nacky — Nacky, did I say? Ay Nacky; 
Aquilina, Una, lina, quilina, quilina, qui- 
lina, Aquilina, Naquilina, Naquilina, 
Acky, Acky, Nacky, Nacky, Queen Naeky 
— come let 's to bed — you iubbs, you pugg 
you — you little puss — purree tuzzey — I 
am a senator. 

Aquil. You are a fool, I am sure. 

Anto. May be so too, sweetheart. Never 
the worse senator for all that. Come 
Naeky, Nacky, let 's have a game at 
rump, Nacky. 

Aquil. You would do well, signior, to be 
troublesome here no longer, but leave me 
to myself; be sober and go home, sir. 

Anto. Home, Madonna ! 

Aquil. Ay, home, sir. Who am I? 

Anto. Madonna, as I take it, you are my 
— you are — thou art my little Nicky 
Nacky— that 's all ! 

Aquil. I find you are resolved to be 
troublesome, and so to make short of the 
matter in few words, I hate you, detest 
you, loathe you, I am weai-y of you, sick 
of you — hang you, you are an old, silly, 
impertinent, impotent, solicitous coxcomb, 
crazy in your head, and lazy in your body, 
love to be meddling with everything, and 
if you had not money, you are good for 
nothing. 

Anto. "Good for nothing!" Hurry durry, 
I '11 try that presently. Sixty-one years 
old, and good for nothing: that's brave! 
{To the Maid.) Come, come, come, Mis- 
tress Fiddle-faddle, turn you out for a 
season ; go turn out, I say, it is our will 
and pleasure to be private some moments 
— out, out when you are bid to — {Puts 
her out and locks the door.) "Good for 
nothing," you say. 

Aquil. Why, what are you good for'? 

Anto. In the first place, madam, I am old, 
and consequently very wise, very wise. 
Madonna, d'ye mark thaf? in the second 
place, take notice, if you please, that I am 
a senator, and when I think fit can make 
speeches, Madonna. Hurry duriy, I can 
make a speech in the Senate-house now 
and then — would make your hair stand on 
end, Madonna. 

Aquil. What care I for your speeches in 



the Senate-house"? If you would be si- 
lent here, I should thank you. 

Anto. Why, I can make speeches to thee 
too, my lovely Madonna; for example — 
my cruel fair one, {takes out a purse of 
gold and at every pause shakes it), since 
it is my fate, that you should with your 
servant angry prove ; tho' late at night — 
I hope 't is not too late with this to gain 
reception for my love — there 's for thee, 
my little Nicky Nacky — take it, here take 
it — I say take it, or I '11 throw it at your 
head — how now, rebel! 

Aquil. Truly, my illustrious Senator, I 
must confess your honor is at present 
most profoundly eloquent indeed. 

Anto. Very well ; come, now let 's sit do\vn 
and tliink upon 't a little — come sit I say 
— sit down by me a little, my Nicky 
Nacky, ha! — {Sits down.) Hurry durry 
"good for nothing!" 

Aquil. No, sir, if you please, I can know 
my distance and stand. 

Anto. Stand: howl Nacky up and I 
down ! Nay, then, let me exclaim with 
the poet. 

Show me a case more pitiful who can, 
A standing woman, and a falling man. 
Hurry durry — not sit down — see this, ye 
gods — You won't sit down ? 

Aquil. No, sir. 

Anto. Then look you now, suppose me a 
bull, a Basan-buU, the bull of bulls, or 
any bull. Thus up I get and with my 
brows thus bent — I broo, I say I broo, I 
broo, I broo. Y"ou won't sit down, will 
you? — I broo- 



{Belloics like a hull, and drives her about.) 

Aquil. Well, sir, I must endure this. {She 
sits down.) Now your honor has been a 
bull, pray what beast will your worship 
please to be next? 

Anto. Now I '11 be a senator again, and 
thy lover, little Nicky Nacky! {He sits 
hy her.) Ah toad, toad, toad, toad! spit 
in my face, a little, Nacky — spit in my 
face prithee, spit in my face, never so 
little : spit but a little bit — spit, spit, spit, 
spit, when you are bid, I say ; do prithee 
spit — now, now, now, spit : what, you 
won't spit, will you? Then I '11 be a dog. 

Aquil. A dog, my lord? 

Anto. Ay, a dog — and I '11 give thee this 
t'other purse to let me be a dog — and to 
use me like a dog a little. Hurrj' durry — 
I will — here 't is. 

{Gives the purse.) 

Aquil. Well, with all my heart. But let 
me beseech your dogship to play your 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



475 



tricks over as fast as you can, that you 
may come to stinking the sooner, and be 
turned out of doors as you deserve. 

Anto. Ay, ay — no matter for that— that — 
{He gets under the table.) — shan't move 

me Now, bow wow, wow, bow 

wow . . . 

{Barks like a dog.) 

Aquil. Hold, hold, hold, sir, I beseech you: 
what is 't you do? If curs bite, they 
must be kicked, sir. Do you see, kicked 
thus? 

Anto. Ay, with all my heart : do kick, kick 
on, now I am under the table, kick again 
— kick harder — harder yet, bow wow 
wow, wow, bow — 'od, I '11 have a snap at 
thy shins — bow wow wow, wow, bow — 
'od, she kicks bravely. 

Aquil. Nay, then I '11 go another way to 
work with you ; and I think here 's an in- 
strument fit for the purpose. {Fetches a 
whip and hell.) What, bite your mis- 
tiness, sirrah ! out, out of doors, you dog, 
to kennel and be hanged — bite your mis- 
tress by the legs, you rogue 

{She whips him.) 

Anto. Nay, prithee, Nacky, now thou art 
too loving: hurry durry, 'od I'll be a 
dog no longer. 

Aquil. Nay, none of your fawning and 
grinning : but be gone, or here 's the disci- 
pline : what, bite your mistress by the 
legs, you mongrel? out of doors — hout, 
hout, to kennel, sirrah ! go. 

Anto. This is very barbarous usage, 
Nacky, very barbarous : look you, I will 
not go — I will not stir from the door, that 
I resolve — huriy durry, what, shut me 
out? 

{She whips him out.) 

Aquil. Ay, and if you come here any more 
to-night I '11 have my footman lug you, 
you cur: what, bite your poor mistress 
Nacky, sirrah ! 

{Enter Maid.) 

Maid. Heavens, madam ! What 's the 
matter? 

{He howls at the door like a dog.) 

Aquil. Call my footmen hither presently. 
{Enter two Footmen.) 

Maid. They are here already, madam, the 
house is all alarmed with a strange noise, 
that nobody knows what to make of. 

Aquil. Go all of you and turn that trouble- 
some beast in the next room out of my 
house — if I ever see him within these 
walls again, without my leave for his ad- 
mittance, you sneaking rogues, I '11 have 



you poisoned all, poisoned like rats ; every 
corner of the house shall stink of one of 
you; go, and learn hereafter to know my 
pleasure. So now for my Pierre : 
Thus when godlike lover was displeased. 
We sacrifice our fool and he 's appeased. 
{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. 

{Enter Belvidera.) 

Belv. I 'm sacrificed ! I am sold ! be- 
trayed to shame ! 
Inevitable ruin has inclosed me ! 
No sooner was I to my bed repaired 
To weigh, and (weeping) ponder my con- 
dition, 
But the old hoary wretch, to whose false 

care 
My peace and honor was entrusted, came 
(Like Tarquin) ghastly with infernal 
lust. 

thou, Roman Lucrece! Thou couldst 

find friends 
To vindicate thy wrong; 

1 never had but one, and he 's proved 

false ; 

He that should guard my virtue has be- 
trayed it ; 

Left me! undone me! that I could 
hate him ! 

Where shall I go? whither, whither 
wander ? 

{Enter Jaffeir.) 

Jaff. Can Belvidera want a resting place. 
When these poor arms are open to re- 
ceive her? 
Oh, 't is in vain to struggle with desires 
Strong as my love to thee; for every mo- 
ment 
I am from thy sight, the heart within my 

bosom 
Moans like a tender infant in its cradle 
Whose nurse has left it; come, and with 

the songs 
Of gentle love persuade it to its peace. 
Belv. I fear the stubborn wanderer will 
not own me, 
'T is grown a rebel to be ruled no longer, 
Scorns the indulgent bosom that first 

lulled it, 
And like a disobedient child disdains 
The soft authority of Belvidera. 

Jaff. There was a time 

Belv. Yes, yes, there was a time 

Wlien Belvidera's tears, her cries, and 
sorrows, 



476 



THE RESTORATION 



Were not despised ; when if she chanced 

to sigh, 
Or look but sad — there was indeed a time 
When Jaffeir would have ta'en her in his 

arms, 
Eased her declining' head upon his breast, 
And never left her till he found the cause. 
But let her now weep seas, 
Cry, till she rend the earth; sigh till she 

burst 
Her heart asunder; still he bears it all; 
Deaf as the wind, and as the rocks un- 
shaken. 
Jaff. Have I been deaf? am I that rock 

unmoved. 
Against whose root tears beat and sighs 

are sent? 
In vain have I beheld thy sorrows calmly ! 
Witness against me. Heavens, have I 

done this? 
Then bear me in a whirlwind back again, 
And let that angry dear one ne'er forgive 

me! 

thou too rashly censnrest of my love ! 
Couldst thou but think how I have spent 

this night. 

Dark and alone, no pillow to my head. 

Rest in my eyes, nor quiet in my heart, 

Thou wouldst not, Belvidera, sure thou 
wouldst not 

Talk to me thus, but like a pitying an- 
gel, 

Spreading thy wings, come settle on my 
breast. 

And hatch warm comfort there, ere sor- 
rows freeze it. 
Belv. Why, then, poor mourner, in what 
baleful comer 

Hast thou been talking with that witch 
the Night? 

On what cold stone hast thou been 
sti'etched along, 

Gathering the gi'umbling winds about thy 
head. 

To mix with theirs the accents of thy 
woes! 

Oh, now I find the cause my love foi'- 
sakes me ! 

1 am no longer fit to bear a share 

In his concernments : my weak female 

virtue 
Must not be trusted ; 't is too frail and 

tender. 
Joff. O Portia ! Portia ! what a soul was 

thine! 
Belv. That Portia was a woman, and when 

P>rutus, 
Big with the fate of Rome (Heaven 

guard thy safety!), 



Concealed from her the labors of his 
mind. 

She let him see her Ijluod was great as 
his, 

Flowed from a sjiring as noble, and a 
heart 

Fit to partake his troubles, as his love. 

Fetch, fetch that dagger back, the dread- 
ful dower 

Thou gavest last night in parting with 
me ; strike it 

Here to my heart; and as the blood flows 
from it. 

Judge if it run not pure as Cato's daugh- 
ter's. 
Ja/]'. Thou art too good, and I indeed un- 
worthy. 

Unworthy so much virtue : teach me how 

I may deserve such matchless love as 
thine. 

And see with what attention I '11 obey 
thee. 
Belv. Do not despise me: that's the all 
I ask. 

Jafj\ Despise thee ! Hear me 

Belv. Oh, thy charming tongue 

Is but too well acquainted with my weak- 
ness. 

Knows, let it name but love, my melting 
heart 

Dissolves within my breast ; till with 
closed eyes 

I reel into tliv arms, and all 's forgotten. 
Ja/J\ What shall I do? 
Belv. Tell me ! be just, and tell me 

Why dwells that busy cloud upon thy 
'face? 

Why am I made a stranger? why that 
sigh, 

And I not know the cause? Why, when 
the world 

Is wrapt in rest, why chooses then my 
love 

To wander up a)id down in horrid dark- 
ness, 

Loathing his bed, and these desiring 
arms? 

Why are these eyes bloodshot with tedi- 
ous watching? 

Why starts he now? and looks as if he 
wished 

His fate were finished? Tell me, ease 
my fears ; 

Lest, when we next lime meet, I wan I the 
])ower 

To search into tlie sickness of thy mind. 

But talk as wildly then as thou look'st 
now. 
■Ta/f. Belvidera ! 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



477 



Belv. Why was 1 last niijlit deliveretl to a 

villain? 
Jajf. Ha, a villain ! 

Bclv. Yes! to a villain ! Why at such an 
hour 

Meets that assembly all made up of 
wretches 

That look as hell had drawn 'em into 
league ? 

Why, I in this hand, and in that a dag- 
ger, 

Was I delivered with such dreadful cere- 
monies'? 

"To you, sirs, and to your honor I be- 
queath her, 

And with her this : whene'er I prove un- 
worthy — 

You know the rest, — then strike it to her 
heart f 

Oh! why's that rest concealed from me? 
Must I 

Be made the hostage of a hellish trust? 

For such I know I am ; that 's all my 
value ! 

T>nt by the love and loyalty I owe thee, 

I '11 free thee from the bondage of these 
slaves ; 

Straight to the Senate, tell 'em all I know, 

All that I think, all that my fears inform 
me! 
Jaff. Is this the Roman virtue ! this the 
blood 

That boasts its purity with Cato's daugh- 
ter ! 

Would she have e'er betrayed her Brutus? 
Bclv. No : 

For Brutus trusted her: wert thou so 
kind, 

Wliat would not Belvidera suffer for 
thee? 
Jaff. I shall undo myself, and tell thee all. 
Belv. Look not upon me, as I am a woman. 

But as a bone,^^ thy wife, thy friend, 
who long 

Has had admission to thy heart, and there 

Studied the virtues of thy gallant na- 
ture ; 

Thy constancy, thy courage and thy 
truth, 

Have been my daily lesson : I have learnt 
them, 

Am bold as thou, can suffer or despise 

The worst of fates for thee, and with 
thee share them. 
Jaff. Oh you divinest powers! look down 
and hear 

My prayers! instruct me to reward this 
virtue ! 



Yet think a little ere thou tempt me fur- 
ther : 

Think I have a tale to tell, will shake thy 
nature. 

Melt all this boasted constancy thou 
talk'.st of 

Into vile tears and despicable sorrows : 

Then if thou shouldst betray me ! 
Belv. Shall I swear? 

Jajf. No: do not swear: I would not vio- 
late 

Thy tender nature with so rude a bond : 

But as thou hojoest to see me live my 
days, 

And love thee long, lock tliis within thy 
breast ; 

I've bound niy^clf by all the strictest 
sacraments 

Divine and human 

Belv. S]^eak! 

Jaf. To kill thy father 

Belv. My father! 

Jaff. Nay, the tln-oats of the whole Senate 

Shall bleed, my Belvidera : he amongst us 

That spares his father, brother, or his 
friend. 

Is damned. How rich and beauteous 
wall the face 

Of ruin look, when these wide streets run 
blood ; 

I and the glorious partners of my for- 
tune 

Sliouting, and striding o'er the prostrate 
dead. 

Still to new waste; whilst thou, far off 
in safety 

Smiling, shalt see the wonders of our 
daring; 

And when night comes, with praise and 
love receive me ! 
Bclv. Oh! 

JajJ. Have a care, and shrink not even 
in thought ! 

For if thou dost 

Belv. I know it, thou vdlt kill me. 

Do, strike thy sword into this bosom : 
lay me 

Dead on the earth, and then thou wilt be 
safe: 

Murder my father! though his cruel na- 
ture 

Has persecuted me to my undoing. 

Driven me to basest wants, can I behold 
him. 

With smiles of vengeance, butchered in 
his age? 

The sacred fountain of my life de- 
stroyed ? 



18 i. e. "bone of thy bone, flesh of thy flesh." 



478 



THE RESTORATION 



And canst thou slied the blood that gave 

me being? 
Nay, be a traitor too, and sell thy coun- 
try ? 
Can tiiy great heart descend so vilely 

low, 
Mix with hired slaves, braves, and com- 
mon stabbers, 
Nose-slitters, alley-lurking villains? join 
With such a crew and take a ruffian's 

wages 
To cut the throats of wretches as they 

sleep ? 
Jaff. Thou wrong'st me, Belvidera ! I 've 

engaged 
With men of souls, fit to reform the 

ills 
Of all mankind : there 's not a heart 

amongst them. 
But 's stout as death, yet honest as the 

nature 
Of man first made, ere fraud and vice 

were fashions. 
Belv. What 's he, to whose curst hands 

last night thou gav'st me? 
Was that well done ! Oh ! I could tell a 

story 
Would rouse thy lion-heart out of its 

den, 

And make it rage with terrifying fury. 

Jaff. Speak on, I charge thee! 

Belv. my love! if e'er 

Thy Belvidera's peace deserved thy care. 

Remove me from this place: last night, 

last night 

Jaff. Distract me not, but give me all the 

truth. 
Belv. No sooner wert thou gone, and I 

alone, 
Left in the power of that old son of mis- 
chief ; 
No sooner was 1 lain on my sad bed, 
But that vile wretch approached me, 

loose, unbuttoned, 
Ready for violation: then my heart 
Throbbed with its fears: oh, how I wept 

and sighed 
And shrunk and trembled; wished in 

vain for him 
That should protect me. Thou, alas! 

wert gone! 
Jaff. Patience, sweet Heaven, till I make 

vengeance sure ! 
Belv. He drew the hideous dagger forth 

thou gav'st him, 
And with upbraiding smiles, he said, 

"Behold it; 
This is the pledge of a false husband's 

love:" 



And in my arms then pressed, and would 

have clasped me; 
But with my cries I scared his coward 

heart, 
Till he withdrew, and muttered vows to 

hell. 
These are thy friends! with these thy 

life, thy honor, 
Thy love, all 's staked, and all will go to 

ruin. 
Jaff. No more: I charge thee keep this 

secret close; 
Clear up thy sorrows, look as if thy 

wrongs 
Were all forgot, and treat him like a 

friend. 
As no complaint were made. No more; 

retire. 
Retire, my life, and doubt not of my 

honor; 
I '11 heal its failings, and deserve thy 

love. 
Belv. Oh, should I part with thee, I fear 

thou wilt 
In anger leave me, and return no 

more. 
Jaff. Return no more! I would not live 

without thee 

Another night, to purchase the creation. 

Belv. When shall we meet again? 

Jaff. Anon at twelve ! 

I '11 steal myself to thy expecting arms, 

Come like a travelled dove and bring 

thee peace. 
Belv. Indeed ! 
Jaff. By all our loves! 

Belv. 'T is hard to part : 

But sure no falsehood e[v]er looked so 

fairly. 
Farewell — remember twelve. 
{Exit Belvidera.) 
Jaff. Let Heaven forget me 

When I remember not thy truth, thy 

love. 
How curst is my condition ! tossed and 

justled 
From every corner; fortune's common 

fool, 
The jest of rogues, an instrumental ass 
For villains to lay loads of shame 

upon. 
And drive about just for their ease and 

scorn. 

{Enter Pierre.) 

Pierr. Jaffeir ! 

JafJ\ Who calls? 

Pierr. A friend, that could have wished 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



479 



To have found tliee otherwise employed : 

what, hunt 
A wife on tlie dull foil ! ^'^ sure a staunch 

husband 
Of all hounds is the dullest! Wilt thou 

never, 
Never be weaned from caudles and con- 
fections ? 
What feminine tale hast thou been lis- 
tening to. 
Of unaired shirts; catarrhs and tooth- 
ache got 
By thin-soled shoes ? Damnation ! that 

a fellow 
Chosen to be sharer in the destruction 
Of a whole people, should sneak thus in 

corners 
To ease his fulsome lusts, and fool liis 

mind ! 

May not a man then trifle out an 

hour 
With a kind woman and not wrong his 

calling ? 
Pierr. Not in a cause like ours. 
Jaff. Then, friend, our cause 

Is in a damned condition : for I '11 tell 

thee. 
That canker-worm called lechery has 

touched it; 
'T is tainted vilely : wouldst thou think 

it, Renault 
(That mortified, old, withered, winter 

rogue) 
Loves simple fornication like a priest; 
I found him out for watering at my 

wife: 
He visited her last night like a kind 

guardian : 
Faith, she has some temptations, that 's 

the truth on 't. 
Pierr. He durst not wrong his trust ! 
Jajf. 'T was something late, though, 

To take the freedom of a lady's chamber. 
Pierr. Was she in bed? 
Jaff. Yes, faith, in virgin sheets 

White as her bosom, Pierre, dished 

neatly up. 
Might tempt a weaker appetite to taste. 
Oh, how the old fox stunk, I warrant 

thee, 
When the rank fit was on him ! 
Pierr. Patience guide me ! 

He used no violence? 
Jaff. No, no ! out on 't, violence ! 

Played with her neck, brushed her with 

his grey-beard, 
Struggled and towzed, tickled her till she 

squeaked a little, 

19 The track of a hunted animal. 



May be, or so — but not a jot of vio- 
lence 

Pierr. Damn him ! 

Jaff. Ay, so say I: but hush, no more 
on 't; 
All hitherto is well, and I believe 
Myself no monster ^^ yet : though no man 

knows 
What fate he 's born to : sure 't is near 

the hour 
We all should meet for our concluding 

orders : 
Will the ambassador be here in person? 
Pierr. No; he has sent commission to that 
villain, 
Renault, to give the executing charge. 
I 'd have thee be a man, if possible. 
And keep thy temper; for a brave re- 
venge 
Ne'er comes too late. 
Jaff. Fear not, I 'm cool as patience : 

Had he completed my dishonor, rather 
Than hazard the success our hopes are 

ripe for, 
I 'd bear it all with mortifying virtue. 
Pierr. He 's yonder coming this way 
through the hall; 
His thoughts seem full. 
Jaff. Prithee retire, and leave me 

With him alone : I '11 put him to some 

trial, 
See how his rotten part will bear the 
touching. 
Pierr. Be careful, then. 

{Exit Pierre.) 
Jaff. Nay, never doubt, but trust me. 

What, be a devil ! take a damning oath 
For shedding native blood! can there be 

a sin 
In merciful repentance? this villain! 

{Enter Renault.) 

Ren. Perverse ! and peevish ! what a slave 
is man ! 
To let his itching flesh thus get the better 

of him! 
Despatch the tool her husband — that 

were well. 
Who 's there ! 
Jaff. A man. 

Ren. My friend, my near ally! 

The hostage of your faith, my beau- 
teous charge. 
Is very well. 
Jaff. Sir, are you sure of that? 

Stands she in perfect health? beats her 

pulse even ? 
Neither too hot nor cold? 

29 1. e, A cuckold (supposed to wear horns). 



480 



THE RESTORATION 



Ben. What means that question? 

Jaff. Oh, women have fantastic consti- 
tutions, 
Inconstant as their wishes, always 

wavering, 
And ne'er fixed ; was it not boldly done 
Even at first sight to trust the thing 

I loved 
(A tempting treasure too!) with youth 

so fierce 
And vigorous as thine? but thou art 
honest. 
Ben. Who dares accuse me? 
Jaff. Curst be him that doubts 

Thy virtue: I have tried it, and declare, 
Were I to choose a guardian of my 

honor, 
I 'd put it into thy keeping ; for I know 
thee. 
Ben. Know me ! 

Jaff. Ay, know thee : there "s 

no falsehood in thee. 
Thou look'st just as thou art: let us 

embrace. 
Now wouldst tliou cut my throat or I 
cut thine? 
Ben. You dare not do 't. 
Jaff. You lie, sir. 

Ben. How ! 

Jaff. No more. 

'T is a base world, and must reform, 
that 's all. 

[Enter Spinosa, Theodore, Eliot, Bevillido, 
Durand, Brainveil, and the rest of the 
Conspirators.) 

Ben. Spinosa, Theodore ! 

Spin. The same. 

Ben. You are welcome ! 

Spin. You are trembling, sir. 

Ben. 'T is a cold night indeed, I am aged, 

Full of decay and natural infinnities; 

We shall be warm, my friend, I hope, 
to-morrow. 

(Pierre re-enters.) 

Pierr. (aside). 'T was not well done, 
thou shouldst have stroked him 
And not have galled him. 
Jaff. (aside). Damn him, let 

him chew on 't. 
Heaven! where am I? beset with cursed 

fiends. 
That wait to damn me : what a devil's 
man, 



L A French spell- 
ins; (derived 
from the French 
source) for Zee- 



en ; the mint, just 
off the Piazza of 
St. Mark. 



22 This is a mis- 
print for Pronir- 
atie, two palace^ 



When he forgets his nature — hush, my 
heart. 
Ben. My friends, 'tis late: are we as- 
sembled all ? 
Where 's Theodore ? 
Theo. At hand. 

Ben. Si^inosa. 

Spin. Here. 

Ben. Bra [in] veil. 
Brain. I 'm ready. 
Ben. Durand and Brabe, 

Dur. Command us. 

We are both prepared ! 
Ben. Mezzana, Revillido, 

Ternon, Retrosi; oh, you are men, I find, 
Fit to behold your fate, and meet her 

summons. 
To-morrow's rising sun must see you all 
Decked in your honors ! Are the sol- 
diers ready? 
Omn. All, all. 

Ben. You, Durand, with your thousand 
must possess 
St. Mark's; you, captain, know your 

charge already : 
'T is to secure tlie Ducal Palace: you, 
Brabe, Avitli a hundred more must gain 

the Secque.-^ 
With the like number Brainveil to the 

Procuralle.-- 
Be all this done with the least tumult 

possible, 
Till in each place you post sufficient 

guards : 
Then sheathe your swords in every 
breast you meet. 
Jaff. (aside). reverend cruelty! damned 

bloody villain ! 
Ben. During this execution, Durand, you 
Must in the midst keep your battalia 

fast. 
And, Theodore, be sure to plant the can- 
non 
That may command the streets; whilst 

Revillido, 
Mezzana, Ternon, and Retrosi, guard 

you. 
This done, we '11 give the general alarm. 
Apply petards, and force the arsenal 

gates ; 
Then fire the city round in several places, 
Or with our cannon, if it dare resist, 
Batter it to ruin. But above all I 

charge you 
Shed blood enough, spare neither sex 
nor age, 

center," once the 
residences of the 
nine procurators, 
financial officers. 



on the Piazza of 
St. Mark, the 
Venetian "civic 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



481 



Name nor condition; if there live a sen- 
ator 

After to-morrow, though the dullest 
rogue 

That e'er said nothing, we have lost our 
ends; 

If possible, let 's kill the very name 

Of senator, and bury it in blood. 
Jaff. (aside). Merciless, horrid slave! — 
Ay, blood enough ! 

Shed blood enough, old Renault: how 
thou charm'st me ! 
Ben. But one thing more, and then fare- 
well till fate 

Join us again^ or separate us ever: 

First, let 's embrace. Heaven knows 
who next shall thus 

Wing ye together : but let 's all remem- 
ber 

We wear no common cause upon our 
swords ; 

Let each man think that on his single 
virtue 

Depends the good and fame of all the 
rest, 

Eternal honor or perpetual infamy. 

Let 's remember through what dreadful 
hazards 

Propitious fortune hitherto has led us. 

How often on the brink of some dis- 
covery 

Have we stood tottering, and yet still 
kept our ground 

So well, the busiest searchers ne'er could 
follow 

Those subtle tracks which puzzled all 
suspicion : 

You droop, sir. 
Jajf. No; with a most profound atten- 
tion 

I 've heard it all, and wonder at thy 
virtue. 
Ren. Though there be yet few hours 
'twixt them and ruin, 

Are not the Senate lulled in full security, 

Quiet and satisfied, as fools are always! 

Never did so profound repose forerun 

Calamity so great: nay, our good for- 
tune 

Has blinded the most piercing of man- 
kind; 

Strengthened the fearful'st, charmed the 
most suspectful, 

Confounded the most subtle; for we 
live. 

We live, my friends, and quickly shall 
our life 

Prove fatal to these tyrants : let 's con- 
sider 



That we destroy oppression, avarice, 
A people nursed up equally with vices 
And loathsome lusts, which nature most 

abhors. 
And such as without shame she cannot 

suffer. 
Jaff. (aside). Belvidera, take me to thy 

arms 
And sliow me where 's my peace, for I 

have lost it. 

(Exit Jaffeir.) 
Ben. Without the least remorse then let 's 

resolve 
With fire and sword to exterminate these 

tyrants. 
And when we shall behold those curst 

tribunals. 
Stained by the tears and sufferings of 

the innocent. 
Burning with flames rather from Heaven 

than ours, 
The raging, furious and unpitying sol- 
dier 
Pulling his reeking dagger from the 

bosoms 
Of gasping wretches; death in every 

quarter. 
With all that sad disorder can pro- 
duce. 
To make a spectacle of horror: then, 
Then let 's call to mind, my dearest 

friends, 
That there is nothing pure upon the 

earth, 
That the most valued things have most 

allays, 
And that in change of all those vile 

enormities. 
Under whose weight this wretched coun- 
try labors. 
The means are only in our hands to 

crown them. 
Pierr. And may those powers above that 

are propitious 
To gallant minds record this cause, and 

bless it. 
Ben. Thus happy, thus secure of all we 

wish for. 
Should there, my friends, be found 

amongst us one 
False to this glorious enterprise, what 

fate. 
What vengeance were enough for such 

a villain? 
Eliot. Death here without repentance, 

hell hereafter. 
Ben. Let that be my lot, if as here I 

stand 
Listed by fate amongst her darling sons, 



482 



THE RESTORATION 



TliDUiih I had one only brother, clear by 
all 

The strictest ties of nature; though one 
hour 

Had given us birth, one fortune fed our 
wants, 

One only love, and that but of each other. 

Still filled our minds: could I have such 
a friend 

Joined in this cause, and had but ground 
to fear 

Meant foul play; may this right hand 
drop from me, 

If I 'd not hazai-d all my future peace. 

And stab him to the heart before you. 
Who 

Would not do less? Wouldst not thou, 
Pierre, the same? 
Picrr. You 've singled me, sir, out for 
this hard question, 

As if 't were started only for my sake ! 

Am I the thing you fear? Here, here's 
my bosom, 

Search it with all your swords ! Am I 
a traitor? 
Een. No : but I fear your late commended 
friend 

Is little less. Come, sirs, 't is now no 
time 

To trifle with our safety. Where 's this 
Jaffeir? 
Sjnn. He left the room just now in 

strange disorder. 
Ren. Nay, there is danger in him : I ob- 
served him. 

During the time I took for explanation. 

He was transported from most deep at- 
tention. 

To a confusion which he could not 
smother. 

His looks grew full of sadness and sur- 
prise, 

All which betrayed a wavering spirit 
in him. 

That labored with reluctancy and sor- 
row. 

What 's requisite for safety must be 
done 

With speedy execution : he remains 

Yet in our power : I for my own part 
wear 

A dagger. 
rierr. Well. 

Ben. And I could wish it 

Pierr. Where? 

Ren. Buried in his heart. 

Pierr. Away! we're yet all friends; 

No more of this, 't will breed ill blood 
amongst us. 



Spin. Let us all draw our swords, and 
search the house. 
Pull him from the dark hole where he 

sits brooding 
O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his 
share of him. 
Pierr. Wlio talks of killing? Who's 
he '11 shed tlie blood 
That's dear to me! Is 't you? or you? 

or you, sir? 
What, not one speak? how you stand 

gaping all 
On your grave oracle, your wooden god 

there ; 
Yet not a word: {to Renault) then, sir, 

I '11 tell you a secret. 
Suspicion 's but at best a coward's vir- 
tue ! 

Ren. A coward 

{Handles his sword.) 
Pierr. Put, put up the sword, old man. 
Thy hand shakes at it ; come, let 's heal 

this breach, 
I am too hot; we yet may live [as] 
friends. 
Spin. Till we are safe, our friendship 

cannot be so. 
Pierr. Again: who's that? 
Spin. 'Twas I. 

Theo. And I. 

Revill. And I. 

Eliot. And all. 

Ren. Who are on my side? 
Spin. Every honest sword; 

Let 's die like men and not be sold like 
slaves. 
Pierr. One such word more, by Heaven, 
I '11 to the Senate 
And hang ye all, like dogs in clusters. 
Why peep your coward swords half out 

their shells? 
Why do you not all brandish them like 

mine ? 
You fear to die, and yet dare talk of 
killing? 
Ren. Go to the Senate and betray us, 
hasten. 
Secure thy wretched life, we fear to die 
Less than thou dar'st be honest. 
Pierr. That 's rank falsehood. 

Fear'st not thou death ? fie, there 's a 

knavish itch 
In that salt blood, an utter foe to smart- 
ing. 
Had Jaffeir's wife proved kind, he had 

still been true. 
Fob — how that stinks! 
Thou die ! thou kill my friend, or thou, 
or thou, 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



483 



Or thou, with that lean, withered, 

wretched face ! 
Away ! disperse all to your several 

charges. 
And meet to-morrow where your honor 

calls you; 
I '11 bring that man, whose blood you so 

much thirst for, 
And you shall see him venture for you 

fairly — 
Hence, hence, I say. 

{Exit Renault angrily.) 
Spin. I fear we 've been to blame : 

And done too much. 
Theo. 'T was too far urged against the 

man you loved. 
lievill. Here, take our swords and crush 

'em with your feet. 
Spin. Forgive us, gallant friend. 
Pierr. Nay, now you 've found 

The way to melt and cast me as you 

will: 
I '11 fetch this friend and give him to 

your mercy : 
Nay, he sliall die if you will take him 

from me; 
For your repose I '11 quit my heart's 

jeAvel, 
But would not have him torn away by 

villains 
And spiteful villainy. 
Spin. No; may you both 

For ever live and fill the world with 

fame ! 
Pierr. Now you are too kind. Whence 

rose all this discord? 
Oh, what a dangerous precipice have 

we scaped ! 
How near a fall was all we had long 

been building ! 
What an eternal blot had stained our 

glories. 
If one, the bravest and the best of 

men, 
Had fallen a sacrifice to rash siispicion, 
Butchered by those whose cause he came 

to cherish ! 
Oh, could you know him all as I have 

known him. 
How good he is, how just, how true, how 

brave, 
You would not leave this place till you 

had seen him; 
Humbled yourselves before him, kissed 

his feet. 
And gained remission for the worst of 

follies ; 
Come but to-morrow, all your doubts 
shall end, 



And to your loves me better recom- 
mend, 
That I 've preserved your fame, and 
saved my friend. 

{Exeunt omnes.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene 1. 

[A Public Place.] 

{Enter Jaffeir and Belvidera.) 

Jajf. Whore dost thou lead me? Every 
step I move, 

Methinks I tread upon some mangled 
limb 

Of a racked friend. O my dear charm- 
ing ruin ! 

Where are we wandering? 
Belv. To eternal honor; 

To do a deed shall chronicle thy name, 

Among the glorious legends of those few 

That have saved sinking nations: thy re- 
nown 

Shall be the future song of all the vir- 
gins. 

Who by thy piety have been preserved 

From horrid violation : every street 

Shall be adorned with statues to thy 
honor. 

And at thy feet this great inscription 
written. 

Remember him that propped the fall of 
Venice. 
Jajf. Rather, remember him who after all 

The sacred bonds of oaths and holier 
friendship, 

In fond compassion to a woman's tears 

Forgot his manhood, virtue, truth and 
honor. 

To sacrifice the bosom that relieved him. 

Why wilt thou dauua me? 
Belv. inconstant man ! 

How will you promise? how will you de- 
ceive ? 

Do, return back, replace me in my bond- 
age. 

Tell all thy friends how dangerously 
thou lov'st me. 

And let thy dagger do its bloody office; 

that kind dagger, Jafl'cir, how 'twill 
look 

Stuck through my heart, drenched in 
my blood to the hilts ! 

Whilst these poor dying eyes shall with 
their tears 

No more torment thee, then thou wilt be 
free: 



484 



THE RESTORATION 



Or if thou think'st it nobler, let me 

live 
Till I 'm a victim to the hateful lust 
Of that infernal devil, that old fiend 
That 's damned himself and would undo 

mankind : 
Last night, my love ! 
Jaff. Name, name it not again, 

It shows a beastly image to my fancy. 
Will wake me into madness. Oh, the 

villain ! 
That durst approach such purity as 

thine 
On terms so vile: destruction, swift de- 
struction 
Fall on my coward-head, and make my 

name 
The common scorn of fools if I forgive 

him; 
If I forgive him, if I not revenge 
With utmost rage and most unstaying 

fury. 
Thy suffering's, thou dear darling of my 
life, love! 
Belv. Delay no longer, then, but to the 
Senate ; 
And tell the disnial'st stoiy e'er was ut- 
tered. 
Tell them what bloodshed, rapines, deso- 
lations. 
Have been prepared, how near 's the 

fatal hour! 
Save thy poor country, save the reverend 

blood 
Of all its nobles, which to-morrow's 

dawn 
Must else see shed: save the poor ten- 
der lives 
Of all those little infants which the 

swords 
Of murtherers are whetting for this mo- 
ment : 
Think thou already hear'st their dying 

screams. 
Think that thou seest their sad distracted 

mothers 
Kneeling before thy feet, and begging 

pity 
With torn dishevell'd hair and streaming 

eyes. 
Their naked mangled breasts besmeared 

with blood, 
And even the milk with which their fon- 
dled babes, 
Softly they hushed, dropping in anguish 

from 'em. 
Think thou seest this, and then consult 
thy heart. 
Jaff. Oh ! 



Belv. Think too, if thou lose this present 
minute. 
What miseries the next day bring [s] 

upon thee. 
Imagine all the horrors of that night. 
Murder and rapine, waste and desola- 
tion. 
Confusedly ranging. Think what then 

may prove 
My lot ! the ravisher may then come 

safe, 
And midst the terror of the public 

ruin 
Do a damned deed; perhaps to lay a 

train 
May catch thy life; then where will be 

revenge. 
The dear revenge that 's due to such a 
wrong "? 
Jaff. By all Heaven's powers, prophetic 
truth dwells in thee. 
For every word thou speak'st strikes 

through my heart 
Like a new light, and shows it how 't 

has wandered; 
Just Avhat th' hast made me, take me, 

Belvidera, 
And lead me to the place where I 'm to 

say 
This bitter lesson, where I must betray 
My truth, my virtue, constancy and 

friends : 
Must I betray my friends? Ah, take 

me quickly, 
Secure me well before that thought 's 

renewed ; 
If I relapse once more, all 's lost for 
ever. 
Belv. Hast thou a friend more dear than 

Belvidera? 
Jaff. No, thou'rt my soul itself; wealth, 
friendship, honor, 
All present joys, and earnest of all fu- 
ture. 
Are summed in thee: methinks when in 

thy arms 
Thus leaning on thy breast, one min- 
ute 's more 
Than a long thousand years of vulgar 

hours. 
Why was such happiness not given me 

pure ? 
Why dashed with cruel wrongs, and bit- 
ter wantings? 
Come, lead me forward now like a tame 

lamb 
To sacrifiee, thus in his fatal garlands. 
Decked fine and pleased, the wanton 
skips and plays. 



VENICE PRESEKVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



485 



Trots by the enticing flattering 
priestess' side, 

And much transported with his little 
pride, 

Forgets his dear companions of the 
plain 

Till, by her bound, he 's on the altar 
lain. 

Yet then too hardly bleats, such pleas- 
ure 's in the pain. 

{Enter Officer and six Guards.) 

Offic. Stand; who goes there? 
Belv. Friends. 

Jajf. Friends, Belvidera ! hide me from 
my friends : 
By Heaven, I 'd rather see the face of 

hell, 
Than meet the man I love. 
Offic. But what friends are you? 

Belv. Friends to the Senate and the state 

of Venice. 
Offic. My orders are to seize on all I find 
At this late hour, and bring 'em to the 

Council, 
Who now are sitting. 
Jaff. Sir, you shall be obeyed. 

Hold, brutes, stand olf, none of your 

paws upon me. 
Now the lot 's cast, and fate, do what 
thou wilt ! 

{Exeunt guarded.) 



Scene 2. The Senate-house. 

{Where appear sitting, the Duke of Ven- 
ice, Priuli, Antonio, and eight other 
Senators.) 

Duke. Antony, Priuli, senators of Ven- 
ice, 

Speak; why are we assembled here this 
night "? 

What have you to inform us of, con- 
cerns 

The state of Venice, honor, or its safety? 
Priu. Could words express the story I 
have to tell you. 

Fathers, these tears were useless, these 
sad tears 

That fall from my old eyes; but there 
is cause 

We all should weep; tear off these pur- 
ple robes. 

And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting 
down 

On the sad earth, and cry aloud to 
Heaven. 



Heaven knows if yet tliere be an hour 
to come 

Ere Venice be no more. 
All Senators. How! 

Priu. Nay, we stand 

Upon the very brink of gaping ruin. 

Within this city 's formed a dark con- 
spiracy, 

To massacre us all, our wives and chil- 
dren, 

Kindred and friends, our palaces and 
temples 

To lay in ashes : nay, the hour, too, 
fixed; 

The swords, for aught I know, drawn 
e'en this moment, 

And the wild waste begun : from un- 
known hands 

I had this warning: but if we are men, 

Let 's not be tamely butchered, but do 
something 

That may inform the world in after 
ages. 

Our virtue was not ruined though we 
were. 

{A noise without.) 

Room, room, make room for some pris- 
oners 

Second Senator. Let 's raise the city. 

{Enter Officer and Guard.) 

Priu. Speak tliere, what disturbance? 

Offic. Two prisoners have tlie guard 
seized in the streets, 
Who say they come to infonn this rev- 
erend Senate 
About the present danger. 
{Enter Jaffeir and Belvidera guarded.) 

All. Give 'em entrance 

Well, who are you? 
Jaff. A villain. 

Anto. Short and pithy. 

The man speaks well. 
Jaff. Would every man that hears me 

Would deal so honestly, and own liis 
title. 
Duke. 'T is rumored that a plot has been 
contrived 
Against this state; that you have a 

share in 't too. 
If you 're a villain, to redeem your honor, 
Unfold the truth and be restored with 
mercy. 
Jaff. Think not that I to save my life 
come hither, 
I know its value better; ])ut in pity 
To all those wretches whose unhappy 
dooms 



486 



THE RESTORATION 



Are fixed and sealed. You see me here 

before you, 
The sworn and covenanted foe of Ven- 
ice; 
But use me as my dealin<^s may deserve 
And I may prove a friend. 
Duke. The shive capitulates; 

Give him the tortures. 
Jnff. That you dare not do, 

Your fears won't let you, nor the long- 
ing itch 
To hear a story which you dread the 

truth of, 
Truth which the fear of smart shall ne'er 

get from me. 
Cowards are scared with threat'nings ; 

boys are whipp'd 
Into confessions: but a steady mind 
Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body coun- 
sel. 
"Give him the tortures!" Name but 

such a thing 
Again, by Heaven I '11 shut these lips 

for ever. 
Not all your racks, your engines, or your 

wheels 
Shall force a groan away — that you may 
guess at. 
Anto. A bloody-minded fellow, I '11 war- 
rant ; 
A danmed bloody-minded fellow. 
Duke. Name your conditions. 
Jaff. For myself full pardon, 

Besides the lives of two and twenty 
friends 

{Delivers a list.) 
Whose names are here enrolled: nay, let 

their crimes 
Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the 

oaths 
And sacred promise of this reverend 

council, 
That in a full assembly of the Senate 
The thir.g I ask be ratified. Swear this, 
And I '11 unfold the secrets of your dan- 
ger. 
All. We'll swear. 
Duke: Propose the oath. 

Jajf. By all the hopes 

Ye have of peace and happiness here- 
after, 
Swear. 
All. We all swear, 
Jaff. To grant me what I 've asked, 

Ye swear? 
All. We swear. 

Jaff. And as ye keep the oath. 

May you and your posterity be blest 
Or curst for ever. 



All. Else be curst for ever. 

Jaff'. (Delivers another paper.) Then 

here 's the list, and with 't the full 

disclose 
Of all that threatens you. 

Now, fate, thou hast caught me. 
Anto. Why, what a dreadful catalogue of 
cut-throats is here ! I '11 warrant you, 
not one of these fellows but has a face 
like a lion. I dare not so much as read 
their names over. 
Duke. Give orders that all diligent search 

be made 
To seize these men, their characters are 

public ; 
The paper intimates their rendezvous 
To be at the house of a famed Grecian 

courtesan 
Called Aquilina; see that place secured. 
Anto. 

Wliat, my Nicky Nacky, hurry durry, 
Nicky Nacky in the plot — I '11 make a 

speech. 
Most noble Senators, 
What headlong apprehension drives you 

on. 
Right noble, wise and truly solid sen- 
ators. 
To violate the laws and rights of na- 
tions? 
The lady is a lady of renown. 
'T is true, she holds a house of fair re* 

ception, 
And though I say 't myself, as many 

more 
Can sa,t ns well as I. 
Second Senator. My lord, long speeches 
Are frivolous here when dangers are so 

near us; 
We all know your interest in that lady. 
The world talks loud on 't. 
Anto. Verily, I have done, 

I say no more. 
Duke. * But since he has declared 

Himself concerned, pray, captain, take 

great caution 
To treat the fair one as becomes her 

character. 
And let her l)ed-chamber be searched 

with decency. 
You, Jaffeir, must with patience bear 

till morning 
To be our prisoner. 
Jaff. Would the chains of death 

Had 1,ound me fast ere I had known this 

minute. 
I 've done a deed will make my story 

hereafter 
Quoted in competition with all ill ones: 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



487 



Tlie history of my wickedness shall nan 
Down throug^li tlie low traditions of the 

vulgar, 
And boys be [taught] to tell the tale of 
Jaffeir. 
Duke. Captain, withdraw your prisoner. 
Jaff. Sir, if possible, 

Lead me where my own thoughts them- 
selves may lose me. 
Where I may doze out what I 've left of 

life. 
Forget myself and this da,y's guilt and 

falsehood. 
Cruel remembrance, how shall I appease 
thee ! 

{Exit guarded.) 
{Noise without.) 
More traitors; room, room, make room 
there. 
Duke. How's this? guards'? 

Where are our guards? Shut up the 

gates, the treason 's 
Already at our doors. 

{Enter Officer.) 

Offic. My lords, more traitors : 

Seized in the very act of consultation ; 
Furnished with arms and instruments of 

mischief. 
Bring in the prisoners. 

{Enter Pierre, Renault, Theodore, Eliot, 
Revillido, and other conspirators, in fet- 
ters, guarded.) 

Pierr. You, my lords and fathers 

(As you are pleased to call yourselves) 
of Venice , 

If you sit here to guide the course of 
justice, 

Why these disgraceful chains upon the 
limbs 

That have so often labored in your serv- 
ice? 

Are these tke wreaths of triumph ye be- 
stow 

On those that bring you conquests home 
and honors? 
Duke. Go on : you shall be heard, sir. 
Ante. And be hanged too, I hope. 
Pierr. Are these the trophies I 've de- 
served for fighting 

Your battles with confederated powers? 

When winds and seas conspired to over- 
throw you, 

And brought the fleets of Spain to your 
own harbors? 

When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling 
in your palace. 



And saw your wife, the Adriatic, 

ploughed 
Like a lewd whore by bolder prows than 

yours, 
Stepped not I forth, and taught your 

loose Venetians, 
The task of honor and the way to great- 
ness, 
Rais'd you from your capitulating fears 
To stipulate the terms of sued-for 

peace? 
And this my recompense? If I am a 

traitor 
Produce my charge; or show the wretch 

that 's base enough 
And brave enough to tell me I am a 

traitor. 
Duke. Know you one Jaffeir? 

{All tJie Conspirators murmur.) 
Pierr. Yes, and know his virtue. 

His justice, truth ; his general worth and 

sufferings 
From a hard father taught me first to 

love him. 

{Enter Jaffeir.) 

Duke. See him brought forth. 

Pierr. My friend too bound! nay then 

Our fate lias conquered us, and we nuist 
fall. 

Why droops the man whose welfare 's 
so much mine 

They 're but one thing ? These reverend 
tyrants, Jaffeir, 

Call us all traitors: art thou one, my 
brother? 
Jaff'. To thee I am the falsest, veriest 
slave 

That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting 
friend, 

And gave up honor to be sure of ruin. 

All our fair hopes which morning was to 
have crowned 

Has this curst tongue o'erthrown. 
Pierr. So, then, all 's over ; 

Venice has lost her freedom; I my life; 

No more; farewell. 
Duke. Say, will you make confession 

Of your vile deeds and trust the Sen- 
ate's mercy? 
Pierr. Curst be your Senate; curst your 
constitution ; 

The curse of growing factions and divi- 
sion 

Still vex your .councils, shake your pub- 
lic safety. 

And makes the robes of government you 
wear. 



488 



THE RESTORATION 



Hateful to you, as these base chains to 
me! 
Duke. Pardon or death? 
Pierr. Death, honoraljle death ! 

Ren. Death' s the best thing we ask or you 

can give. 
All Conspir. No shameful bonds, but 

honorable death. 
Duke. Break up the council : captain, 
guard your prisoners. 
Jaffeir, you are free, but these must 
wait for judgment. 
{Exeunt all the Senators.) 
Pierr. Come, where 's my dungeon ? lead 
me to my straw: 
It will not be the first time I 've lodged 

hard 
To do your Senate service. 
Jaff. Hold one moment. 

Pierr. Who 's he disputes the judgment 
of the Senate? 

Presumptuous rebel — on 

{Strikes Jajfeir.) 
Jajf. By Heaven, you stir not. 

I must be heard, I must have leave to 

speak ; 
Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile 

blow : 
Had not a dagger done thee nobler jus- 
tice? 
But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not 

wrong me. 
For I am fallen beneath the basest in- 
juries ; 
Yet look upon me with an eye of 

mercy, 
With pity and with charity behold me; 
Shut not thy heart against a friend's 

repentance. 
But as there dwells a god-like nature in 

thee 
Listen with mildness to my supplications. 
Pierr. What whining monk art thou? 
what holy cheat, 
That wouldst encroach vipon my credu- 
lous ears 
And canst thus vilely? Hence. I know 

thee not. 
Dissemble and be nasty: leave me, hypo- 
crite. 
Jaff. Not know me, Pierre? 
Pierr. No, I know thee not! 

what art thou? 
Jaff. Jaffeir, thy friend, thy once loved, 
valued friend! 
Though now deservedly scorned, and 
used most hardly. 
Pierr. Thou Jaffeir! Thou my once 
loved valued friend? 



By Heaven, thou liest ; the man so-called, 

my friend. 
Was generous, honest, faithful, just and 

valiant. 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely. 
Dear to my eyes and tender to my heart : 
But thou a wretched, base, false, worth- 
less coward. 
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy 

aspect. 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts 

detest thee. 
Prithee avoid, nor longer cling thus 

round me. 
Like something baneful, that my na- 
ture's chilled at. 
Jaff. I have not wronged thee, by these 

tears I have not. 
But still am honest, true, and hope too, 

valiant ; 
My mind still full of thee, therefore still 

noble ; 
Let not thy eyes then shun me, nor th}' 

heart 
Detest me utterly : oh, look upon me, 
Look back and see my sad, sincere sub- 
mission ! 
How my heart swells, as even "t would 

burst my bosom; 
Fond of its goal, and laboring to be at 

thee ! 
What shall I do? what say to make 

thee hear me? 
Pierr. Hast thou not wronged me? dar'st 

thou call thyself 
Jaffeir, that once loved, valued friend of 

mine. 
And swear thou hast not wronged me? 

Whence these chains? 
Whence the vile death which I may meet 

this moment? 
Whence this dishonor, but from thee, 

thou false one? 
Jaff. All 's true, yet grant one thing, and 

I 've done asking. 
Pierr. What's that? 

Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions 
The Council have proposed: thou and 

thy friends 
May yet live long, and to be better 

treated. 
Pierr. Life! ask my life! confess! record 

myself 
A villain for the privilege to breath [e], 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 
Burthensome to itself a few years longer, 
To lose it, may be, at last in a lewd quar- 
rel 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



489 



For some new friend, treacherous and 

false as thou art ! 
No, this vile workl and I have long been 

jangling. 
And cannot part on better terms than 

now, 
When only men like thee are fit to live 
in't. ■ 

Jaff. By all that 's just 

Pierr. Swear by some other powers. 

For thou hast broke that sacred oath too 
lately. 
Jajf. Then by that hell I merit, I'll not 
leave thee, 
Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 
Pierr. Not leave me ! 

Jaff. No, tiiou shalt not 

force me from thee. 
Use me reproachfully, and like a slave. 
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on 

wrongs 
On my poor head ; I '11 bear it all with 

patience. 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly 

cruelty, 
Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they 

spurn me. 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou re- 
lent. 
And raise me to thy arms with dear for- 
giveness. 

Pierr. Art thou not 

Jaff. What? 

Pierr. A traitor? 

Jaff. Yes. 

Pierr. A villain? 

Jaff. Granted. 

Pierr. A coward, a most scan- 

dalous coward, 
Spiritless, void of honor, one who has 

sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? 
Jaff. All, all, and more, much more: my 

faults are numberless. 
Pierr. And wouldst thou have me live on 
terms like thine? 

Base as thou art false 

Jaff. No, 't is to me that 's granted. 

The safety of thy life was all I aimed 

at. 
In recompense for faith and trust so 
broken. 
Pierr. I scorn it more because preserved 
by thee. 
And as when first my foolish heart took 

pity 
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy 
miseries. 



Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from 

thy state 
Of wretchedness in which thy fate had 

plunged thee. 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends; 
All I received in surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths; and this, this 

dagger. 
Given with a worthless pledge, thou 

since hast stoln, 
So I restore it back to thee again. 
Swearing by all those powers which thou 

hast violated. 
Never from this curst hour to hold com- 
munion, 
Friendship or interest with thee, though 

our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee 

nothing. 
Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then. 
Pierr. For my life, dispose it 

Just as thou wilt, because 't is what I 'm 

tired with. 
Jaff. Pierre! 
Pierr. No more. 

Jaff. My eyes won't 

lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thine, and ache with 

gazing. 
Pierr. Leave me — nay, then^ thus, thvis, I 

throw thee from me, 
And curses, great as is thy falsehood, 

catch thee. 
Jaff. Amen. — He 's gone, my father, 

friend, preserver, 
And here 's the portion he has left me. 

(Holds the dagger up.) 
This dagger, well remembered, with this 

dagger 
I gave a solemn vow of dire importance. 
Parted with this and Belvidera together; 
Have a care, memory, drive that thought 

no farther; 
No, I '11 esteem it as a friend's last leg- 
acy, 
Treasure it up within this wretched 

bosom. 
Where it may grow acquainted with my 

heart. 
That when they meet, they start not from 

each other. 
So; now for thinking: a blow, called 

traitor, villain, 
Coward, dishonorable coward, faugh! 
for a long sound sleep, and so forget it ! 
Down, busy devil — 

{Enter Belvidera.) 



490 



THE RESTORATION 



Belv. Wliither shall' I fly? 

Where hide me and my miseries to- 
gether? 

Where 's now the Roman constancy I 
boasted ? 

Sunk into trembling fears and despera- 
tion ! 

Not daring to look up to that dear face 

Which used to smile even on my faults, 
but down 

Bending these miserable eyes to earth, 

Must move in penance, and implore 
mucli mercy. 
Jajf. "Mercy," kind Heaven has surely 
endless stores 

Hoarded for thee of blessings yet un- 
tasted ; 

Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I 
am. 

Bow [with] the weight and groan be- 
neath the burthen, 

Creep with a remnant of that strength 
th' have left, 

Before the footstool of that Heaven 
th' have injured. 

Belvidera ! I 'm the wretched'st crea- 

ture 
E'er crawled on earth; now if thou hast 

virtue, help me. 
Take me into thy arms, and speak the 

words of peace 
To my divided soul, that wars within 

me. 
And raises every sense to my confusion; 
By Heaven, I 'm tottering on the very 

brink 
Of peace ; and thou art all tlie hold I 've 

left. 
Belv. Alas! I know thy sorrows are most 

mighty ; 

1 know thou'st cause to mourn ; to mourn, 

my Jaffeir, 

With endless cries, and never-ceasing 
wailings, 

Th' hast lost 

Jaff. Oh, I have lost what 

can't be counted; 

My friend too, Belvidera, that dear 
friend. 

Who, next to thee, was all my health re- 
joiced in. 

Has used me like a slave; shamefully 
used me; 

'T would break thy pitying heart to hear 
the story. 

What shall I do? resentment, indigna- 
tion, 

Love, pity, fear and memory, how I 've 
wronged him, 



Distract my quiet with the very thouglit 
on 't, 

And tear my heart to pieces in my bosom. 
Belv. Wliat has he done? 
Jajf. Thou'dst hate me, should I tell thee. 
Belv. Why? 

Jaff. Oh, he has used me! yet, by 
Heaven, I bear it : 

He has used me, Belvidera, but first 
swear 

That when I 've told, thee, thou'lt not 
loatiie me utterly, 

Though vilest blots and stains appear 
upon me ; 

But still at least with charitable good- 
ness. 

Be near me in the pangs of my afflic- 
tion, 

Not scorn me, Belvidera, as he has 
done. 
Belv. Have I then e'er been false that 
now I am doubted? 

Speak, what 's the cause I am grown into 
distrust, 

Why thought unfit to hear my love's 
complaining? 
Jaff. Oh ! 
Belv. Tell me. 

Jaff. Bear my failings, for they are 
many. 

my dear angel ! in that friend I 've 
lost 

All my soul's peace; for eveiy thought 
of him ^ 

Strikes my sense liai'd, and deads it in 
my brains; 

Wouldst thou believe it? 
Belv. Speak. 

Jaff. Before we parted, 

Ere yet his guards had led him to his 
prison, 

Full of severest sorroAvs for his suffer- 
ings. 

With eyes o'erflowing and a bleeding 
heart, 

Humbling myself almost beneath my na- 
ture, 

As at his feet I kneeled, and sued for 
mercy. 

Forgetting all our friendship, all the 
dearness, 

In which w' have lived so many years to- 
gether. 

With a reproachful hand, he dashed a 
blow, 

He struck me, Belvidera, by Heaven, he 
struck me, 

Buffeted, called me traitor, villain, cow- 
ard. 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DJSCOVERED 



491 



Am I a coward ? am I a villain ? tell me : 
Thou'rt the best judge, and mad'st me, 

if I am so. 
Danination ; coward ! 
Belv. Oh ! forgive him, Jaffeir. 

And if his sufferings wound thy heart al- 
ready, 
What will they do to-morrow? 
Jajf. Hah ! 

Belv. To-morrow, 

When thou shalt see him stretched in all 

the agonies 
Of a tormenting and a shameful death, 
His bleeding bowels, and his broken 

limbs, 
Insulted o'er by a vile butchering vil- 
lain ; 
What will thy heart do then? Oh, sure 

't will stream 
Like my eyes now. 
Jaff. What means thy dreadful story? 

Death, and to-morrow ! broken limbs and 

bowels ! 
Insulted o'er by a vile butchering vil- 
lain! 
By all my fears I shall start out to mad- 
ness, 
With barely guessing, if the truth 's hid 
longer. 
Belv. The faithless senators, 't is they 've 
decreed it: 
They say according to our friends' re- 
quest, 
They sluiU have death, and not ignoble 

bondage : 
Declare their promised mercy all as for- 
feited. 
False to their oaths, and deaf to inter- 
cession ; 
Warrants are passed for public death to- 
morrow. 
Jaff. Death ! doomed to die ! condemned 

unheard ! unpleaded ! 
Belv. Nay, cruell'st racks and torments 
are preparing. 
To force confessions from their dying 

pangs. 
Oh, do not look so terribly upon me. 
How your lips shake, and all your face 

disordered ! 
What means my love? 
Jaff. Leave me, I charge thee, leave me — 
strong temptations 
Wake in my heart. 
Belv. For what? 

Jaff. No more, but leave me. 

Belv. Why? 

Jaff. Oh ! by Heaven, I love thee with 
that fondness 



I would not have thee stay a moment 

longer. 
Near these curst hands; are they not 

cold upon thee? 
{Pulls the dagger half out of his bosom 

and puts it back again.) 
Belv. No, everlasting comfort 's in thy 

arms. 
To lean thus on thy breast is softer 

ease 
Than downy pillows decked with leaves 

of roses. 
Jaff. Alas ! thou think'st not of the thorns 

'tis filled with: 
Fly ere they [g]all thee: there's a lurk- 
ing serpent. 
Ready to leap and sting thee to thy 

heart ; 
Art thou not terrified? 
Belv. No. 

Jaff. Call to mind. 

What thou hast done, and whither thou 

hast brought me. 
Belv. Hah ! 
Jaff. Where 's my friend ? my friend, thou 

smiling mischief? 
Nay, shrink not, now 't is too late, thou 

shouldst have fled 
When thy guilt first had cause, for dire 

revenge 
Is up and raging for my friend. He 

groans. 
Hark how he groans, his screams are in 

my ears 
Already ; see, th' have fixed him on the 

wheel. 
And now they tear him — Murther! per- 
jured Senate ! 
Murther — Oh ! hark thee, traitress, thou 

hast done this: 
Thanks to thy tears and false persuading 

love. 
{Fumbling for his dagger.) 
How her ej'es speak ! thou bewitch- 
ing creature ! 
Madness cannot hurt thee: come, thou 

little trembler. 
Creep even into my heart, and there lie 

safe: 
'T is thy own citadel — ha ! — yet stand 

off, 
Heaven must have justice, and my 

broken vows 
Will sink me else beneath its reaching 

mercy ; 

I '11 wink and then 't is done 

Belv. What means the lord 

Of me, my life and love ? what 's in thy 

bosom, 



492 



THE RESTORATION 



Thou grasp'st at so? Nay, why am I 
thus treated? 

(Draws the dagger, offers to stab her.) 

What wilt thou do? Ah! do not kill me, 
Jaffeir, 

Pity these panting breasts, and trem- 
bling limbs. 

That used to clasp thee when thy looks 
were milder, 

That yet hang heavy on my unpurged 
soul, 

And plunge it not into eternal darkness. 
Jaff. No, Belvidera, when we parted last, 

I gave this dagger with thee as in trust 

To be thy portion, if I e'er proved false. 

On such condition was my truth be- 
lieved : 

But now 't is forfeited and must be paid 
for. 
{Offers to stab her again.) 
Belv. {Kneeling.) Oh, mercy! 
Jaff. Nay, no struggling. 

Belv. Now, then, kill me. 

{Leaps upon his neek and kisses him.) 

While thus I cling about thy cruel neck. 

Kiss thy revengeful lips and die in joys 

Greater than any I can guess hereafter. 
Jaff. I am, I am a coward; witness it. 
Heaven, 

Witness it, earth, and every being wit- 
ness; 

'T is but one blow; yet, by immortal love, 

I cannot longer bear a thought to harm 
thee ; 
{He throws away the dagger and embraces 
her.) 

The seal of Providence is sure ujoon thee, 

And thou wert born for yet unheard-of 
wonders : 

Oh, thou wert either born to save or 
damn me ! 

By all the power that 's given thee o'er 
my soul, 

By thy resistless tears and conquering 
smiles, 

By the victorious love that still waits on 
thee, 

Fly to thy cruel father: save my friend, 

Or all our future quiet 's lost for ever : 

Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend 
knees ; 

Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy 
tears 

Melt his hard heart, and wake dead na- 
ture in him; 

Crush him in th' arms, and torture him 
with thy softness: 

Nor, till thy prayers are granted, set him 
free, 



But conquer him, as thou hast van- 
quished me. 

{Exeunt ambo.) 



A.CT V. 

Scene 1 

{Enter Priidi, solus.) 

Priu. Why, cruel Heaven, have my un- 
happy days 

Been lengthened to this sad one? Oh, 
dishonor 

And deathless infamy is f all'n upon me ! 

Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No. 

But then, my only child, my daughter, 
wedded ; 

There my best blood runs foul, and a dis- 
ease 

Incurable has seized upon my memory, 

To make it rot and stink to after ages. 

Curst be the fatal minute when I got 
her ; 

Or would that I 'd been anything but 
man. 

And raised an issue which would ne'er 
have wronged me. 

The miserablest creatures (man ex- 
cepted) 

Are not the less esteemed, though their 
posterity 

Degenerate from the virtues of their fa- 
thers ; 

The vilest beasts are happy in their off- 
springs. 

While only man gets traitors, whores 
and villains. 

Curst be the names, and some swift blow 
from fate 

Lay his head deep, where mine may be 
forgotten. 

{Enter Belvidera in a long mourning veil.) 

Belv. He 's there, my father, my inhuman 
father. 

That, for three years, has left an only 
child 

Exposed to all the outrages of fate, 

And cruel ruin — oh ! 

Priu. What child of sorrow 

Art thou that eom'st thus wrapt in weeds 
of sadness. 

And mov'st as if thy steps were towards 
a grave? 
Belv. A wretch, who from the very top 
of happiness 

Am fallen into the lowest depths of mis- 
ery. 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



493 



And want your pitying hand to raise me 
up again. 
Prill. Indeed thou talk'st as thou hadst 
tasted son'ows; 
Would I could help thee! 
Belv. 'T is greatly in your power. 

The world, too, speaks you charitable, 

and I, 
Who ne'er asked alms before, in that 

dear hope 
Am come a-begging to you, sir. 
Priu. For what"? 

Belv. well regard me, is this voice a 
strange one? 
Consider, too, when beggars once pre- 
tend 
A case like mine, no little will content 
'em. 
Priu. What wouldst thou beg for? 
Belv. Pity and forgiveness. 

(Tltroivs up her veil.) 
By the kind tender names of child and 

father. 
Hear my complaints and take me to 
your love. 
Priu. My daughter? 

Belv. Yes, your daughter, by a mother 
Virtuous and noble, faithful to your 

honor, 
Obedient to your will, kind to your 

wishes. 
Dear to your arms: by all the joys she 

gave you, 
When in her blooming years she was 

your treasure. 
Look kindly on me; in my face behold 
The lineaments of hers you 've kissed so 

often, 

Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off 

child. 

Priu. Thou art my daughter. , 

Belv. Yes — and y' have oft told me, 

With smiles of love and chaste paternal 

kisses, 
I 'd much resemblance of my mother. 
Priu. Oh ! 

Hadst thou inherited her matchless vir- 
tues, 
I 'd been too bless'd. 
Belv. Nay, do not call to memory 

My disobedience, but let pity enter 
Into your heart, and quite deface the im- 
pression ; 
For could you- think how mine 's per- 
plexed, what sadness, 
Fears and despairs distract the peace 

within me, 
Oh, you would take me in your dear, 
dear arms. 



Hover with strong compassion o'er your 

young one, 
To shelter me with a protecting wing, 
From the black gathered storm, that's 
just, just breaking. 
Priu. Don't talk thus. 
Belv. Yes, I must, and you must hear too. 

I have a husband. 
Priu. Damn him! 

Belv. Oh, do not curse him! 

He would not speak so hard a word to- 
wards you 
On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. 
Priu. Ha ! what means my child ? 
Belv. Oh, there 's but this short moment 
'Twixt me and fate, yet send me not 

with curses 
Down to my grave, afford me one kind 

blessing 
Before we part: just take me in your 

arms. 
And recommend me with a prayer to 

Heaven, 
That I may die in peace, and when I 'm 

dead 

Priu. How my soul 's catehed ! 
Belv. Lay me, I beg you, lay me 

By the dear ashes of my tender mother. 
She would have pitied me, had fate yet 
spared her. 
Priu. By Heaven, my aching heart fore- 
bodes much mischief; 
Tell me thy story, for I 'm still thy 
father. 
Belv. No, I 'm contented. 
Priu. Speak. 

Belv. No matter. 

Priu. Tell me. 

By yon blest Heaven, my heart runs o'er 
with fondness. 
Belv. Oh ! 
Priu. Utter it. 

Belv. my husband, my dear 

husband 
Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, 
To pierce the heart of your poor Belvi- 
dera. 
Priu. Kill thee? 

Belv. Yes, kill me. When he passed his 
faith 
And covenant, against your state and 

Senate, 
He gave me up as hostage for his truth, 
With me a dagger and a dire commis- 
sion. 
Whene'er he failed, to plunge it through 

this bosom. 
I learnt the danger, chose the hour of 
love 



494 



THE RESTORATION 



T' attempt bis heart, and bring- it back 

to honor. 
Great love prevailed and blessed me with 

success : 
He came, confessed, betrayed his dear- 
est friends 
For promised mercy ; now they 're 

doomed to suffer, 
Galled with remembrance of what then 

was sworn. 
If they are lost, he vows t' appease the 

gods 
With this poor life, and make my blood 

th' atonement. 
Priu. Heavens ! 
Belv. Think you saw what 

passed at our last parting; 
Think you beheld him like a raging lion, 
Pacing the earth and tearing up his 

steins, 
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the 

pain 
Of burning fury; think you saw his one 

hand 
Fixed on my throat, wliile the extended 

otlicr 
Grasped a keen threatening dagger: oh, 

't was thus 
We last embraced, when, trembling with 

revenge. 
He dragged me to the ground, and at 

my bosom 
Presented horrid death, cried out : "My 

friends, 
Where are my friends'?" swore, wept, 

raged, threatened, loved, 
For he yet loved, and that dear love pre- 
served me. 
To this last trial of a father's pity. 
I fear not death, but cannot bear a 

thought 
That that dear hand should do the vm- 

friendly office; 
If I WE'S ever then your care, now hear 

me; 
Fly to the Senate, save the promised 

lives 
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made 

the sacrifice. 
Priu. my heart's comfort! 
Belv. Will you not, my father? 

Weep not, but answer me. 
Priu. By Heaven, I will. 

Not one of 'era but what shall be im- 
mortal. 
Canst thou forgive me all my follies 

past, 
I '11 henceforth be indeed a father; never, 
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, 



Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my 

life. 
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness 

o'er thee. 
Peace to thy heart. Farewell. 
Belv. Go, and remember 

'T is Belvidera's life her father pleads 
for. 

{Exeunt severally.) 

{Enter Antonio.) 

Anto. Hum, hum, ha, Seignior Priuli, my 
lord Priuli, my lord, my lord, my lord: 
■ [h]ow we lords love to call one another 
by our titles! My lord, my lord, my 
lord — pox on him, I am a lord as well as 
he ; and so let him fiddle — I '11 warrant 
him he 's gone to the Senate-house, and 
I '11 be there too, soon enough for some- 
body. 'Od, here 's a tickling speech 
about the plot, I '11 prove there 's a plot 
with a vengeance — would I had it with- 
out book; let me see 

"Most reverend Senators, 
That there is a plot, surely by this time 
no man that hath eyes or understanding 
in his head will presume to doubt, 't is as 
plain as the light in the cowcumber" — no 
— hold there — cowcumber does not come 
in yet — " 't is as plain as the light in the 
sun, or as the man in the moon, even at 
noon-day; it is indeed a pumpkin-plot, 
which, just as it was mellow, we have 
gathered, and now we have gathered it, 
prepared and dressed it, shall we tln'ow 
it like a pickled cowcumber out at the 
window? no: that it is not only a bloody, 
horrid, execrable, damnable and auda- 
cioi;s plot, but it is, as I may so say, a 
saucy plot : and we all know, most rev- 
erend fathers, that what is sauce for a 
goose is sauce for a gander: therefore, 
I say, as those bloodtliirsty ganders of 
the conspiracy would have destroyed us 
geese of the Senate, let us make haste to 
destroy them, so I humbly move for 
hanging" — ha! hurry durry — I think this 
will do; though I was something out, at 
first, about the sun and the cowcumber. 

{Enter Aquilina.) 

Aquil. Good-morrow, senator. 

Anto. Nacky, my dejir Nacky, morrow, 
Nacky, 'od, I am veiy brisk, vei-y merry, 
very pert, very jovial — ha-a-a-a-a — kiss 
me, Nacky; how dost thou do, my little 
Tory, rory strumpet, kiss me, I say, 
hussy, kiss me. 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



495 



Aquil. Kiss me, Naeky, hang you, sir, cox- 
comb, hang you, sir. 
Anto. Hayty, tayty, is it so indeed, with 
all my heart, faith — hey then up go we, 
faith — hey then up go we, dum dum de- 
rum dump. 

{Sings.) 
Aquil. Seignior. 
Anto. Madonna. 
Aquil. Do you intend to die in your 

bed? 

Anto. About threescore years hence, much 

may be done, my dear. 
Aquil. You'll be hanged, seignior. 
Anto. Hanged, sweetheart, prithee be 
quiet, hanged quotha, that 's a merry 
conceit, with all my heaxt, why thou 
jok'st, Nacky, thou art given to joking, 
I '11 swear; well, I protest, Nacky, nay, I 
must protest, and will protest that I love 
joking dearly, man. And I love thee for 
joking, and I '11 kiss thee for joking, and 
towse thee for joking, and 'od, I have a 
devilish mind to take thee aside about 
that business for joking too, 'od, I have, 
and Hey then up go we, dum dum derum 
dump. 

(Sings.) 
Aquil. (Draws a dagger.) See you this, 

sir? 
Anto. laud, a dagger! laud! it is 
naturally my aversion, I cannot endure 
the sight on 't, hide it for Heaven's sake, 
I cannot look that way till it be gone — 
hide it, hide it, oh, oh, hide it ! 
Aquil. Yes, in your heart I '11 hide it. 
Anto. My heart; what, hide a dagger in 

my heart's blood? 
Aquil. Yes, in thy heart, thy throat, thou 
pampered devil; 
Thou hast helped to spoil my peace, and 

I '11 have vengeance 
On thy curst life, for all the bloody Sen- 
ate, 
The perjured faithless Senate : where 's 

my lord, 
My happiness, my love, my god, my 

hero, 
Doomed by thy accursed tongue, amongst 

the rest, 
T' a shameful wrack? By all the rage 

that 's in me 
I '11 be whole years in murthering thee. 
Anto. Why, Nacky, 

wherefore so passionate? what have I 
done ? what 's the matter, my dear 
Nacky? am not I thy love, thy happi- 
ness, thy lord, thy hero, thy senator, and 
everything in the world, Nacky? 



Aquil. Thou! think'st thou, thou art fit to 
meet my joys; 

To bear the eager clasps of my em- 
braces ? 

Give me my Pierre, or 

Anto. Why, he's to be hanged, little 

Nacky, trussed up for treason, and so 

forth, child. 
Aquil. Thou liest: stop down thy throat 
that hellish sentence. 

Or 't IS thy last : swear that my love shall 
live, 

Or thou art dead. 
Anto. Ah-h-h-h. 

Aquil. Swear to recall his doom, 

Swear at my feet, and tremble at my 
fury. 
Anto. I do. Now if she would but kick 
a little bit, one kick now. Ah-h-h-h. 

Aquil. Swear, or 

Anto. I do, by these dear fragrant foots 

and little toes sweet as, e-e-e-e my Nacky, 

Nacky, Nacky. 
Aquil. How! 
Anto. Nothing but untie thy shoe-string 

a little, faith and troth, that's all, as I 

hope to live, Nacky, that's all. 

Aquil. Nay, then 

Anto. Hold, hold, thy love, thy lord, thy 

hero shall be preserved and safe. 
Aquil. Or may this poniard 

Rust in thy heart. 
Anto. With all my soul. 

Aquil. Farewell 

(Exit Aquilina.) 
Anto. Adieu. Why, what a bloody- 
minded, inveterate, termagant strumpet 

have I been plagued with! Oh-h-h yet 

more! nay then I die, I die — I am dead 

already. 

(Stretches himself out.) 

Scene 2. 

[A Street near PriulVs House.'] 

(Enter Jaffeir.) 

Jaff. Final destruction seize on all the 
world : 

Bend down, ye Heavens, and shutting 
round this earth. 

Crush the vile globe into its first confu- 
sion ; 

Scorch it with elemental flames, to one 
curst cinder, 

And all us little creepers in 't, called 
men, 

Burn, burn to nothing: but let Venice 
burn 



496 



THE RESTORATION 



Hotter than all the rest: here kindle hell 
Ne'er to extinguish, and let soul's here- 
after 
Groan here, in all those pains which 
mine feels now! 

{Enter Belvidera.) 

Belv. (Meeting him.) My life 

Jajf. {Turning from her.) My plague 

Belv. Nay then I see my ruin, 

If I must die! 
Jaf. No, Death 's this day too busy, 

Thy father's ill-timed mercy came too 

late. 
I thank thee for thy labors though and 

him too, 
But all my poor betrayed unhappy 

friends 
Have summons to prepare for fate's 

black hour; 
And yet I live. 
Belv. Then be the next my doom. 

I see thou'st passed my sentence in thy 

heart. 
And I '11 no longer weep or plead against 

it, 
But with the humblest, most obedient pa- 
tience 
Meet thy dear hands, and kiss 'em when 

they wound me; 
Indeed I am willing, but I beg thee do it 
With some remorse, and where thou 

giv'st the blow, 
View me with eyes of a relenting love. 
And show me pity, for 't will sweeten 

justice. 
Jajf. Show pity to thee? 
Belv. Yes, and when thy hands. 

Charged with my fate, come trembling 

to the deed. 
As thou hast done a thousand thousand 

dear times. 
To this poor breast, when kinder rage 

has brought thee. 
When our stinged hearts have leaped to 

meet each other. 
And melting kisses sealed our lips to- 
gether, 
When joys have left me gasping in thy 

arms. 
So let my death come now, and I 'II not 

shrink from 't. 
Jaff. Nay, Behidera, do not fear my 

cruelty. 
Nor let the thoughts of death perplex 

thy fancy. 
But answer me to what I shall demand 
With a firm temper and unshaken spirit. 
Belv. I will when I 've done weeping 



Jaff. Fie, no more on 't — 

How long is 't since the miserable day 

We wedded first 

Belv. Oh-h-h ! 

Jaff. Nay, keep in thy tears 

Lest they unman me too. 
Belv. Heaven knows I cannot; 

The words you utter sound so very sadly 

These streams will follow 

Jaff. Come, I '11 kiss 'em dry, then. 

Belv. But was 't a miserable day ? 
Jaf. A curs'd one. 

Belv. I thought it otherwise, and you've 
oft sworn 
In the transporting hours of warmest 

love 
When sure you spoke the truth, you 've 
sworn you blessed it. 
Jaff. 'T was a rash oath. 
Belv. Then why am I not curs'd too'? 

Jaff. No, Belvidera ; by th' eternal truth, 

I dote with too much fondness. 
Belv. Still so kind? 

Still then do you love me? 
Jaff. Nature, in her workings, 

Inclines not with more ardor to creation. 
Than I do now towards thee: man ne'er 

was blessed, 
Since the first pair first met, as I have 
been. 
Belv. Then sure you will not curse me. 
Jaff. No, I '11 bless thee. 

I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless 

thee. 
'T is now, I think, three j^ears we 've 
lived together. 
Belv. And may no fatal minute ever part 
us, 
Till, reverend grown, for age and love, 

we go 
Down to one grave, as our last bed to- 
gether. 
There sleep in peace till an eternal 
morning. 
Jaff. {Sighing.) When will that be? 
Belv. I hope long ages hence. 

Jaff. Have I not hitherto (I beg thee tell 
me 
Thy very fears) used thee with tenderest 

love? 
Did e'er my soul rise up in wrath against 

thee? 
Did I e'er frown when Belvidera smiled, 
Or, by the least unfriendly word, betray 
A bating passion? have I ever wronged 
thee? 
Belv. No. 

Jaff. Has my heart, or have my eyes e'er 
wandered 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



497 



To any other woman ? 
Belv. Never, never — 

I were the worst of false ones should I 

accuse thee; 
I own I 've been too happy, blessed 

above 
My sex's charter. 
Jaff. Did I not say I came to bless thee? 
Belv. Yes. 

Jajf. Then hear me, bounteous Heaven ! 
Pour down your blessings on this beau- 
teous head, 
Where everlasting sweets are always 

springing. 
With a continual giving hand, let peace, 
Honor, and safety always hover round 

her : 
Feed her with plenty, let her eyes ne'er 

see 
A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know 

mourning : 
Crown all her days with joy, her nights 

with rest, 
Harmless as her own thoughts, and prop 

her virtue, 
To bear the loss of one that too much 

loved. 
And comfort her with patience in our 

parting. 
Belv. How, parting ! parting ! 
Jajf. Yes, for ever parting. 

I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heaven, 
That best can tell how much I lose to 

leave thee. 
We part this hour for ever. 
Belv. Oh, call back 

Your cruel blessings, stay with me and 

curse me! 
Jajf. No, 't is resolved. 
Belv. Then hear me too, just Heaven! 

Pour down your curses on this wretched 

head 
With never-ceasing vengeance: let de- 
spair. 
Danger or infamy, nay, all surround me ; 
Starve me with wantings; let my eyes 

ne'er see 
A sight of comfort, nor my heart know 

peace. 
But dash my days with sorrow, nights 

with horrors 
Wild as my own thoughts now, and let 

loose fury 
To make me mad enough for what I 

lose. 
If I must lose him. If I must! I will 

not. 
O turn and hear me ! 
Jaff. Now hold, heart, or never! 



Belv. By all the tender days we 've lived 
together. 
By all our charming nights, and joys 

that crowned 'em : 
Pity my sad condition, speak, but speak, 
Jaff. Oh-h-h ! 

Belv. By these arms that now 

cling round thy neck: 
By this dear kiss and ' by ten thousand 
more. 

By these poor streaming eyes 

Jaff. Murther! unhold me: 

By the immortal destiny that doomed me 

{Draws his dagger.) 
To this eurs'd minute, I '11 not live one 
longer. 

Resolve to let me go or see me fall 

Belv. Hold, sir, be patient. 

{Passing bell tolls.) 
Jaff. Hark, the dismal bell 

Tolls out for death; I must attend its 

call too. 
For my poor friend, my dying Pierre 

expects me: 
He sent a message to require I 'd see him 
Before he died, and take his last for- 
giveness. 
Farewell for ever. 
Belv. Leave thy dagger with me. 

Bequeath me something. — Not one kiss 
at parting? 
{Going out looks hack at her.) 

my poor heart, when wilt thou break?' 
Jaff. Yet stay, 

We have a child, as yet a tender infant. 
Be a kind mother to him when I am gone : 
Breed him in virtue and the paths of 

honor. 
But let him never know his father's 

story : 

1 charge thee guard him from the wrongs 

my fate 
May do his future fortune or his name. 
Now — nearer yet — 

{Approaching each other.) 

that my arms were riveted 
Thus round thee ever! But my friends, 
my oath! 

{Kisses her.) 
This and no more. 
Belv. Another, sure another. 

For that poor little one you 've ta'en 

care of, 
I '11 give 't him truly. 
Jaff. So, now farewell. 

Belv. For ever? 

Jaff. Heaven knows for ever; all good 
angels guard thee. 
[Exit.] 



498 



THE RESTORATION 



Belv. All ill ones sure had charge of me 

this moment. 
Curst be my days, and doubly curst my 

nights, 
Which I must now mourn out in wid- 
owed tears; 
Blasted be every herb and fruit and tree ; 
Curst be the rain that falls upon the 

earth. 
And may the general curse reach man 

and beast; 
Oh, give me daggers, fire or water! 
How I could bleed, how burn, how 

drown, the waves 
Huzzing and booming round my sinking 

head. 
Till I descended to the peaceful bottom ! 
Oh, there's all quiet, here all rage and 

fury : 
The air 's too tliin, and pierces my weak 

brain : 
I long for thick substantial sleep : hell, 

hell, 
Burst from the centre, rage and roar 

aloud. 
If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am. 

{Enter Priuli and Servants.) 

Who's there? 
Prill. Run, seize and bring her 

safely home. 

{They seize her.) 
Guard her as you would life: alas, poor 
creature ! 
Belv. What? to my husband then conduct 
me quickly. 
Are all things ready? shall we die most 

gloriously ? 
Say not a word of this to my old father. 
Murnuiring streams, soft shades, and 

springing flowers. 
Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of 
amber. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. 

{Opening discovers a scaffold and a wheel 
prejjared fur the executing of Pierre, 
then enter Officers, Pierre and Guards, a 
Friar, Executioner, and a great Babble.) 

Officer. Room, room there — stand all by, 
make room for the prisoner. 

Pierr. My friend not come yet? 

Father. Why are you so obstinate? 

Pierr. Why you so troublesome, that a 
poor wretch 



Cannot die in peace? 

But you, like ravens, will be croaking 
round him — 

Fath. Yet Heaven 

Pierr. I tell tbee Heaven 

and I are friends. 

I ne'er broke peace with 't yet, by cruel 
murthers. 

Rapine or perjurj', or vile deceiving, 

But lived in moral justice towards all 
men. 

Nor am a foe to the most strong be- 
lievers, 

Howe'er my owr; short-sighted faith con- 
fine me. 

Fath. But an all-seeing Judge 

Pierr. You say my conscience 

Must be mine accuser: I have searched 
that conscience. 

And find no records there of crimes that 
scare me. 
Fath. 'T is strange you should want faith. 
Pierr. You want to lead 

My reason Idindfold, like a hampered 
lion. 

Cheeked of its nobler vigor; then, when 
baited 

Down to obedient tameness, make it 
couch. 

And show strange tricks, which you call 
signs of faith. 

So silly souls are gulled and j'ou get 
money. 

Away, no more! Captain, I woi;ld here- 
after 

This fellow write no lies of my conver- 
sion, 

Because he has crept upon my troubled 
hours. 

{Enter Jaffeir.) 

Jaff. Hold: eyes, be dry! Heart, 
strengthen me to bear 
This hideous sight, and humble me, to 

take 
The last forgiveness of a dying friend, 
Betrayed by my vile falsehood, to his 

ruin. 
O Pierre! 
Pierr. Yet nearer. 

Jaff. Crawling on my knees, 

And prostrate on the earth, let me ap- 

]iroach thee. 
How shall I look up to thy injured face. 
That always used to smile with friend- 
ship on me? 
It darts an air of so much manly virtue, 
That I, methinks, look little in thy sight, 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 



499 



And stripes are fitter for me than em- 
braces. 
Pierr. Dear to my arms, though thou hast 
undone my fame, 
I cannot forget to love thee : prithee, 

Jaft'eir, 
Forgive that filthy blow my passion dealt 

tliee; 
I am now prejoaring for the land of 

peace. 
And fain would have the charitable 

wishes 
Of all good men, like thee, to bless my 
journey. 
Jaff. Good! I am the vilest creature; 
worse than e'er 
Suffered the shameful fate thou art .going 

to taste of. 
Why was I sent for to be used thus 

kindly? 
Call, call me villain, as I am, describe 
The foul comi^lexion of my hateful deeds. 
Lead me to the rack, and stretch me in 

thy stead, 
I 've crimes enough to give it its full 

load. 
And do it credit. Thou wilt but spoil 

the use on 't. 
And honest men hereafter bear its fig- 
ure 
About 'em, as a charm from treacherous 
friendship. 
Offic. The time grows short, your friends 

are dead already. 
Jajf. Dead ! 

Pierr. Yes, dead, Jaffeir; they've all died 
like men too, 
Worthy their character. 
Jaff. And what must I do? 

Pierr. Jaffeir! 

Jaff. Speak aloud thy burthened soul 

And tell thy troubles to thy tortured 
friend. 
Pierr. Friend ! 

Couldst thou yet be a friend, a generous 

friend, 
I might hope comfort from thy noble 

sorrows. 
Heaven knows I want a friend. 
Jaff. And I a kind one. 

That would not thus scorn my repenting 

virtue, 
Or think when he is to die, my thoughts 
are idle. 
Pierr. No ! live, I charge thee, Jaffeir. 
Jaff. Yes, I will live, 

But it shall be to see thy fall revenged 
At such a rate, as Venice long shall 
groan for. 



Pierr. Wilt thou? 
Jaff. I will, by Heav'n. 

Pierr. Then still thou 'rt noble. 

And I forgive thee, oh — yet — shall I 
trust thee? 
Jaff. No : I 've been false already. 
Pierr. Dost thou love me? 

Jaff. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy 

doubtings. 
Pierr. {he weeps). Curse on this weak- 
ness. 
Jaff. Tears ! Amazement ! Tears ! 

I never saw thee melted tluis before. 
And know there 's something laboring in 

thy bosom 
That must have vent : though I 'm a vil- 
lain, tell me. 
Pierr. {pointing to the wheel.) Seest thou 

that engine? 
Jaff. Why? 

Pierr. Is 't fit a soldier, who has lived 
with honor. 
Fought nations' quarrels, and been 

crowned with conquest, 
Be exposed a common carcase on a 
wheel? 
Jaff. Ha ! 

Pierr. Speak! is't fitting? 
Jaff. Fitting? 

Pierr. Yes, is 't fitting ? 

Jaff. What's to be done? 
Pierr. I 'd liave thee undertake 

Something that 's noble, to preserve my 

memory 
From the disgrace that 's ready to at- 
taint it. 
Offic. The day grows late, sir. 
Pierr. I '11 make haste ! Jaffeir, 

Though thou 'st betrayed me, do me some 
way justice. 
Jaff. No more of that : thy wishes shall be 
satisfied. 
I have a wife, and she shall bleed, my 

child too 
Yield \\\) his little throat, and all t' ap- 
pease thee 

Pierr. No — this — no more ! 

{He whispers Jaffeir.) 
Jaff. Ha! is't then so? 

Pierr. Most certainly. 

{Going away, Pierre holds him.) 
Jaff. I '11 do 't. 
Pierr. Remember. 

Offic. Sir. 

Pierr. Come, now I 'm ready. 

Captain, you should be a gentleman of 

honor. 
{He and Jaffeir ascend the scaffold.) 



500 



THE RESTORATION 



Keep off the rabble, that I may have 

room 
To entertain my fate and die with de- 
cency. 
Come ! 
{Takes off his gown. Executioner pre- 
pares to bind him.) 
Fath. Son ! 

Pierr. Hence, tempter. 

Offic. Stand off, priest. 

Pierr. I thank you, sir. You '11 think 
on't. 

{To Jaffeir.) 
Jaff. 'T won't grow stale before to-mor- 
row. 
Pierr. Now, Jaffeir! now I am going. 
Now; — 

{Executioner having hound him.) 
Jaff. Have at thee, 

Thou honest heart, then — here — 

{Stabs him.) 
And this is well too. 

{Then stabs himself.) 
Fath. Damnable deed! 

Pierr. Now thou hast indeed been faith- 
ful. 
This was done nobly — we have deceived 
the Senate. 
Jaff. Bravely. 

Pierr. Ha! ha! ha! — oh! oh! 

{Dies.) 
Jaff. Now, ye eurs'd rulers. 

Thus of the blood y' have shed I make 

libation, 
And sprinkle 't mingling : may it rest 

upon you. 
And all your race: be henceforth peace 

a stranger 
Within your walls; let plagues and 

famine waste 
Your generations — poor Belvidera! 
Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety 

to her, — 
A token that with my dying breath I 

blessed her, 
And the dear little infant left behind me. 

I am sick — I 'm quiet 

{Jaffeir dies.) 
Offic. Bear this news to the Senate, 

And guard tlieir bodies till there 's far- 
ther order: 
Heaven grant I die so well ! 

{Scene shuts upon them.) 

Scene 4. [A Room in Priuli's House] 

{Soft music. Enter Belvidera distracted, 
led by two of her Women, Priuli and 
Servants.) 



Priu. Strengthen her heai't with patience, 

pitying Heaven. 
Belv. Come, come, come, come, come, nay, 

come to bed ! 
Prithee, my love. The winds! hark how 

they whistle! 
And the rain beats: oh, how the weather 

shrinks me ! 
You are angry now, who cares'? pish, no 

indeed. 
Choose then; I say you shall not go, you 

shall not; 
Whip your ill nature ; get you gone then ! 

oh, 

{Jaffeir's Ghost rises.) 
Are you return'd? See, father, here 

he 's come again ! 
Am I to blame to love him? thou 

dear one ! 

{Ghost sinks.) 
Why do you fly me? Are you angry 

'still, then? 
Jaffeir! where art thou? Father, why 

do you do thus? 
Stand oft", don't hide him from me. 

He 's here somewhere. 
Stand off, I say ! what, gone ? remember 

it, tyrant! 
I may revenge myself for this trick one 

day. 
I '11 do 't— I '11 do 't ! Renault 's a nasty 

fellow. 
Hang him, hang him, hang him. 

{Enter Officer and others.) 

Priu. News, what news? 

{Officer whispers Priuli.) 
Offic. Most sad, sir. 

Jaffeir, upon the scaffold, to prevent 
A shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and 

next himself: 
Both fell together. 
{The Ghosts of Jaffeir and Pierre rise to- 
gether both bloody.) 
Priu. Daughter. 

Belv. Ha, look there ! 

My husband bloody, and his friend too! 

Murther! 
Who has done this? Speak to me, thou 
sad vision, 

{Ghosts sink.) 
On these poor trembling knees I beg it. 

Vanished ! 
Here they went down ; oh, I '11 dig, dig 

the den up. 
You shan't delude me thus. Ho, Jaffeir, 

Jaffeir, 
Peep up and give me but a look. I have 
him! 



VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 501 


I 've got him, father : oh, now how I '11 


And daily where he goes of late, he spies 


smuggle ^^ him ! 


The scowls of sullen and revengeful 


My love ! my dear ! my blessing ! help 


eyes; 


me, help me! 


'T is what he knows with much contempt 


They have hold on me, and drag me to 


to bear. 


the bottom. 


And serves a cause too good to let him 


Nay — now they pull so hard — fare- 


fear : 


well 


He fears no poison from an incensed 


{She dies.) 


drab. 


Maid. She 's dead, 


No ruffian's five-foot sword, nor rascal's 


Breathless and dead. 


stab ; 


Priu. Then guard me 


Nor any other snares of mischief laid. 


from the sight on 't ; 


Not a Rose-alley ^^ cudgel-am'buscade, 


Lead me into some place that 's fit for 


From any private cause where malice 


mourning ; 


reigns, 


Where the free air, light, and the cheer- 


Or general pique all blockheads have to 


ful sun 


brains : 


May never enter: hang it round with 


Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth 


black: 


does call. 


Set up one taper that may last a day 


No, not the picture-mangier * at Guild- 


As long as I 've to live : and there all 


hall. 


leave me, 


The rebel tribe, of which that vermin 's 


Sparing no tears when you this tale 


one. 


relate. 


Have now set forward and their course 


But bid all cruel fathers dread my 


begun ; 


fate. 


And while that Prince's figure they de- 


{Curtain falls. Exeunt omnes.) 


face. 




As they before had massacred his name. 




Durst their base fears but look him in 


EPILOGUE. 


the face. 
They 'd use his person as they 've used 


The text is done, and now for applica- 


his fame; 


tion. 


A face, in which such lineaments they 


And when that 's ended, pass your ap- 


read 


probation. 


Of that great martyr's,-^ whose rich 


Though the conspiracy 's prevented here. 


blood they shed. 


Methinks I see another hatching there; 


That their rebellious hate they still re- 


And there 's a certain faction fain would 


tain. 


sway. 


And in his son would murther him again. 


If they had strength enough, and damn 


With indignation then, let each brave 


this play. 


heart 


But this the author bade me boldly say: 


Rouse and unite to take his injured part; 


If any take his plainness in ill part. 


Till royal love and goodness call him 


He 's glad on 't from the bottom of his 


home. 


heart ; 


And songs of triumph meet liim as he 


Poets in honor of the truth should write, 


come ; 


With the same spirit brave men for it 


Till' Heaven his honor and our peace 


fight; 


restore. 


And though against him causeless ha- 


And villains never wrong his virtue 


treds rise. 


more. 



23 fondle. 

24 Dry den, who was 
friendly with Ot- 

way, in 1679 was 



beaten by hired 
ruffians in Rose 
St. 



The Rascal that 
cut the Dvke of 
York's Picture. 



[Note in the orig- 
inal. ] 



25 Chai-les I., father 
of .James, Duke 
of York. 



WILLIAM CONGREVE 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



William Congreve (1070-1729), brought up 
and highly educated in Ireland, passed his 
early manhood in fashionable life in London, 
where he held small government offices and 
was made much of by tlie great; later he 
lived more retired. His four comedies and 
one tragedy were produced early in his life 
— the first, The Old Bachelor, when he was 
but twenty or so, and the last, The Way of 
the World, when he was thirty. In spite of 
his success as a dramatist, that of his last 
play did not come up to his desires, and, his 
health failing, he withdrew from the stage 
He also wrote a novel, criticism, and poems. 

The Way of the ^yor^d represents a large, 
distinguished, and notorious body of drama, 
Restoration comedy. The chief foreign in- 
fluence under which it arose is that of 
Moliere, though by no means all its traits 
can be fathered on him. The type is well- 
marked as to its characterization, its plot- 
ting, its style, and its morals. The charac- 
terization is broad and slight, typical rather 
than individual. As Congreve says in the 
epilogue to The Way of the World, in dis- 
claiming satire of real persons, 

as when painters form a matchless face, 
They from each fair one catch some different grace; 

So poets oft do in one piece expose 

Whole beUesassembUes of coquettes and beaux. 

Occasionally distinctive traits (superficial 
ones) are given the various persons, such as 
Lady Wishfort's trick of asseverating '* As 1 
am a person," and occasional " low " lan- 
guage spoken by the servants, like Mincing 
"crips" (11. i) and "1 vow, mem, 1 
thought once they would have fit" (111. i). 
Usually, however, the very servants talk like 
their betters and are almost as witty — per- 
haps less so in this than in other Restoration 
comedies; in striking contrast with the "igno- 
rant in Shakespeare's plays, who divert us 
by their dialect and blunders. The contrast 
strikingly illustrates the prevalence in the 
romantic drama of humor and the character- 
istic and individual, and in the " classical " 
eighteenth-century drama of wit and the 
typical. Sir Wilful Witwoud, the person who 
most conspicuously stands out among the 
others, with his downrigiitness and coarse- 
ness, would have melted into his social back- 
ground if he had joined it as early as his 
half-brother did. Petulant, unlike Mirabell 
and Fainall, who are to the manner born, is 



imjjertinent and ill-bred, and Witwoud is a 
snob, but this is meri'ly because they are still 
climbing. We may know that one of the fe- 
male characters, Rlillamant, difiers from 
the others in the important ])oint of being 
virtuous; in most of Congreve's plays there 
is one such part, which he always wrote for 
]\lrs. Bracegirdle, many years his friend, a 
charming actress who stood out equally 
among actresses for her discretion. But 
]\Iillamant breathes the same atmosphere as 
the others, and for the purposes of the play 
really dilTers only in being a little more fasci- 
nating. In The Way of the Woi'ld it may al- 
most be said that all the persons, men and 
women, servants and all, under the same cir- 
cumstances speak alike and act alike. Tlie 
play represents the life and especially the 
standards of one of the most imified, limited, 
conventional societies ever known. Under the 
fascinating surface glitter, the people are all 
alike hard and cold, and much as we delight 
to hear them talk, Charles Lamb truly says 
we care not a farthing for any one of them 
(miless, like George Meredith, we cherish a 
pious opinion that Millamant might grow 
into a human being) . 

The Way of the World is one of the most 
brilliant examples in English of the " comedy 
of manners," which gives an external picture 
of social life, with all its activity, intrigues, 
and foibles. In the Elizabethan drama the 
picture is a nuich broader one, taking in 
various social strata, the whole life of the 
community with its bustle and enjoyment. 
In some of Fletclier's and Shirley's comedies, 
however, we find the same tendency to limit 
the picture to "society" in the small sense; 
and this is the rule in the comedy of the Res- 
toration period. In other words it is what 
is now called high comedy. The matters at 
issue are love and marriage (often rather, 
love or marriage), and it is no accident that 
in The Way of the World the dramatis per- 
soncB are mostly women. The play may very 
properly be called a picture of life, for the 
main interest in it is in seeing how things 
are, not in seeing what happens. True, it 
is unjust to censure the play, as has been 
done, for lacking plot. After the earlier 
pa)t the action is constant, with abundance 
of suspense and surprise, and our interest 
would be fairly maintained for the time be- 
ing even if there were nothing else. But the 
first two acts consist mostly of talk and of 
very leisurely exposition. When the compli- 



502 



WILLIAM CONGREVE 



503 



catcd plot begins to unfold, it is not lifcliko, 
we do not l\'el tiiat by itself it brings us 
nt'tuer the life of the time. It is fantastic 
and borders on farce, turning on the all but 
successful scheme to marry a dressed-up foot- 
man to a tine lady, in order to blackmail 
her into giving up her niece's fortune; it is 
also hardly likely that Fainall and Mrs. 
Marwood could squander her foitnne between 
them under the nose of tlie gossips without 
arousing scandal. Congreve's claim in the 
prologue is barely true, — 

Some plot we think ho hns, and some new thouglit; 
Some humor too, no farce. 

All that saves the plot from being farce is 
that there are no farcical situations. But 
any plot would have been brilliantly carried 
off. Long after we have forgotten the story, 
the impression of the whole play is almost 
as sharp as ever, the impression of a gay 
unscrupulous social life, and of imparalleled 
mental agility and cleverness. 

If Congreve is not the most brilliant Eng- 
lish writer of dialogue certainly none is more 
brilliant. His dialogue is a series of flashes so 
close together that they impress one as a con- 
tinuous radiance. Nothing can surpass the 
combination of sheer inventive cleverness 
witli good breeding, restraint and literary 
[)oIish of style. Among the best passages are 
tiiat with Lady Wishfort at her toilet (III. 
i ) , and above all ]\Irs. ]\Iar\vood's picture of 
the consequences of divulging the family 
scandal (V. i). Nobody ever talked as well 
as Congreve's ]ieople; we have here a con- 
versational idealism more genuine than the 
moral idealism of The Conquest of Granada. 
Vituperation has become a fine art. The 
cleverness of the talk actually gives us some- 
what the same heightened sense of the value 
of life and the dignity of human nature that 
we gain from the beauty and heroism in a 
play of a different sort. 

And all this in spite of the frivolous, 
heartless, and vicious set of people who do 
the talking. But the picture may easily be 
misunderstood. The dramatist's jturpose is 
to show the svu'face and the surface only of 
a fashionable society. " Cood Alirabell," 
says Mrs. Millamant, " don't let us be famil- 
iar or fond, nor kiss before folks; but let us 
be very strange and well-bred: let us be as 
strange as if we had been married a great 
while ; and as well-bred as if we were not 
married at all " ; to which he replies, " Your 
demands are pretty reasonable." To conceal 
deeper feeling, and to turn everything into 
mirth, are two of the ten commandments of 
such a society. We must forgive, too, even 



Millanmnt's malice for the sake of her high 
spirits; and after all Mrs. Marwood is fair 
game. Aside from the occasional license of 
the language, which is that of its age, tlie 
air of cynicism is inevitable; even Congreve 
could not have written five acts of incessant 
splendor without an occasional joke at the 
expense of virtue, or the pose that marriage 
is bondage, or the like. Wit being his com- 
modity, we have to pay for it. But we are 
paying merely imitation money; we are sacri- 
ficing no real convictions. In otlier words, 
the cynical wit is no more to be taken seri- 
ously than the cynical wit of a good talker in 
a club. Whether there is anything worthy 
mider tlie attractive outside we are not sup- 
posed to ask, either in the play or in tlie so- 
ciety it represents. \A'e are to eat such meat 
as is set before us, asking no questions for 
conscience' sake. 

lUit if the moral issue will not stay down, 
if we must allow the much-debated question 
as to the moral effect of Ilestoration comedy 
in general, what then ? Few persons have 
been aide to accept Charles Lamb's theory 
that the life represented in it is a purely 
imaginary life with wliich morality has noth- 
ing to do. In such plays as those of Wycher- 
ley we are asked' to follow with sympathetic 
interest deep-laid plans to debauch ignorant 
and innocent women. If a play has suf- 
ficient reality to interest us aside from the 
interest of its wit, it cannot escape the moral 
question which is so important a part of 
reality. The greater part of Restoration 
comedy from this point of view is brutal and 
repulsive; it surrounds us, in the words of 
Macaulay, " with foreheads of bronze, hearts 
like the nether millstone, and tongues set on 
fire of hell." But even Voltaire esteemed 
Congreve as more decent than his predecessors. 
There is nothing brutal or repulsive in the 
ethics of The Wa;/ of the World, unless it be 
so to scheme light-heartedly to outwit a 
stingy and tyrannical old coquette, and to as- 
sociate with people who have been no better 
than they should be. We are not asked to 
give our sympathy or liking to anything or 
anybody Avhatever; nor even to watch with in- 
terest anything which involves moral turpi- 
tude. Tlie play does not make vice attrac- 
tive, thougli it grants that vicious people may 
be. It does not sentimentalize over illicit 
passion; there is no passion in it. No one 
can carp at the morality of the ending. The 
Way of the World is therefore in the fortu- 
nate position of being one of the most char- 
acteristic specimens of the type on its best 
side, with but little of the qualities that have 
made the type notorious. 



504 



THE RESTORATION 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



Audire est operee pretium, proeedere recte 
Qui moechos non vultis, [ut omni parte 
laborent]. 

— HORAT. Lib. i. Sat. 2. [37-38]. 

[Hsec] metuat, doti deprensa. — Ihid., Lib. 
i. Sat. 2. [131]. 

PROLOGUE. 
Spoken hy Mr. Betterton. 

Of those few fools who with ill stars are 
curst, 

Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the 
worst : 

For they 're a sort of fools which Fortune 
makes, 

And after she has made 'em fools, for- 
sakes. 

With Nature's oafs ^ 't is quite a different 
case, 

For Fortune favors all her idiot-race. 

In her own nest the cuckoo-eggs - we find. 

O'er which she broods to hatch the change- 
ling-kind. 

No portion for her own she has to spare. 

So much she dotes on her adopted care. 

Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in. 

Suffered at first some trifling stakes to 
win; 

But what unequal hazards do they run! 

Each time they write they venture all 
they 've won : 

The squire that 's buttered still ^ is sure 
to be undone. 

This autlior heretofore has found your 
favor ; 

But pleads no merit from his past be- 
havior. 



To build on that might prove a vain pre- 
sumption. 

Should grants, to poets made, admit re- 
sumption : 

And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, 

If that be found a forfeited estate. 

He owns with toil he wrought the fol- 
lowing scenes; 

But, if tliey 're naught,* ne'er spare him 
for his pains : 

Damn him the more; have no commisera- 
tion 

For dullness on mature deliberation. 

He swears he '11 not resent one hissed-off 
scene, 

Nor, like those peevish wits, his play main- 
tain, 

Who, to assert their sense, your taste ar- 
raign. 

Some plot we think he has, and some new 
thought ; 

Some humor too, no farce ; but that 's a 
fault. 

Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; 

For so reformed a town who dares cor- 
rect? 

To please, this time, has been his sole pre- 
tence. 

He '11 not instruct, lest it should give of- 
fence. 

Should he bv chance a knave or fool expose. 

That hurts none here, sure here are none of 
those : 

In short, our play shall (with your leave 
to show it) 

Give you one instance of a passive poet. 

Who to your judgments yields all resigna- 
tion; 

So save or damn, after your own discre- 
tion. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Fainall, in love with Mrs. Marwood. 
MiRABELL, in love with Mrs. Millamant. 

VViTwouD, IpQiioi^^ers of Mrs. Millamant. 

Petulant. J 

Sir WiLFULL Witwoud, Ealj-hrother to Wit- 

wouD, and Isephew to Lauy Wishfort. 
VVaitwell, Servant to Mirabell. 
Coachmen, Dancers, Footmen, and Attendants. 
Lady Wisufort, Enemy to Mirabell, for 

having falsely pretended love to her. 



Mrs.5 Millamant, a fine Lady, 'Niece to Lady 

Wishfort, and loves Mirabell. 
Mrs. Marwood, Friend to Mr. Fainall, and 

likes Mirabell. 
Mrs. Fainall, Daughter to Lady Wishfort, 

and Wife to Fainall, formerly Friend to 

Mirabell. 
Foible, Woman to Lady Wishfort. 
Mincing, Woman to Mrs. Millamant. 
[Betty, Waiting-maid at a Chocolate-house.] 
[Peg, Maid to Lady Wishfort.] 
Scene. — London. 



1 simpletons. 

2 I. e., the eggs laid 

by Nature in 
Fortune's nest, as 



cuckoos are sup- 
posed to lay their 
own eggs in other 
birds' nests. 



3 Constantly flat- 5 Mistress, formerly 

tered. used with the 

4 No good. name of an un- 



married as well 
as a married 
woman. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



505 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. A Chocolate-house. 

{Mirabell and Fainall, rising from cards, 
Betty waiting.) 

Mir. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fain- 
all! 

Fain. Have we done? 

Mir. Wliat you please : I '11 play on to 
entertain you. 

Fain. No, I '11 give you your revenge an- 
other time, when you ai'e not so indif- 
ferent; you are thinking of something 
else now, and play too negligently; the 
coldness of a losing gamester lessens the 
pleasure of the winner. I 'd no more 
play with a man that slighted his ill 
fortune than I 'd make love to a woman 
who undervalued the loss of her reputa- 
tion. 

Mir. You have a taste extremely delicate, 
and are for refining on your pleasures. 

Fain. Prithee, why so reserved? Some- 
thing has put you out of humor. 

3Iir. Not at all : I happen to be grave to- 
day, and you are gay ; that 's all. 

Fain. Confess, Millament and you quar- 
relled last night after I left you; my 
fair cousin has some humors that would 
tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, 
some coxcomb came in, and was well re- 
ceived by her, while you were by? 

Mir. Witwoud and Petulant; and what 
was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, 
my evil genius; or to sum up all in her 
own name, my old Lady Wishfort came 
in. 

Fain. 0, there it is then ! She has a last- 
ing passion for you, and with reason. — 
What, then my wife was there? 

Mir. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood, and three 
or four more, whom I never saw before. 
Seeing me, they all put on their grave 
faces, whispered one another; then com- 
plained aloud of the vapors,*' and after 
fell into a profound silence. 

Fain. They had a mind to be rid of you. 

Mir. For which reason I resolved not to 
stir. At last the good old lady broke 
through her painful taciturnity with an 
invective against long visits. I would 
not have understood her, but Millamant 
joining in the argument, I rose, and, 
with a constrained smile, told her I 



thought nothing was so easy as to know 
when a visit began to be troublesome. 
She reddened, and I withdrew, without 
expecting her reply. 

Fain. You were to blame to resent what 
she spoke only in compliance with her 
aunt. 

Mir. Slie is more mistress of herself than 
to be under the necessity of such a resig- 
nation. 

Fain. What! though half her fortune de- 
pends upon her marrying witli my lady's 
approbation ? 

Mir. I was then in such a humor, tliat I 
should have been better pleased if she 
had been less discreet. 

Fain. Now I remember, I wonder not 
they were weary of you; last night was 
one of their cabal "^ nights ; they have 
'em three times a-week, and meet by 
turns at one another's apartments, where 
they come together like a coroner's in- 
quest, to sit upon the murdered reputa- 
tions of the week. You and I are ex- 
cluded; and it was once proposed that 
all the male sex should be excepted; but 
somebody moved that, to avoid scandal, 
there might be one man of the commun- 
ity; upon which motion Witwoud and 
Petulant were enrolled members. 

Mir. And who may have been the foun- 
dress of this sect? My Lady Wishfort, 
I warrant, who publishes her detesta- 
tion of mankind ; and full of the vigor 
of fifty-five, declares for a friend and 
ratafia ^ ; and let posterity shift for it- 
self, she '11 breed no more. 

Fain. The discovery of your sham ad- 
dresses to her, to conceal your love to 
her niece, has provoked this separation; 
had you dissembled better, things might 
have continued in the state of nature. 

Mir. I did as much as man could, with 
any reasonable conscience; I proceeded 
to the very last act of flattery with her, 
aijd was guilty of a song in her com- 
mendation. Nay, I got a friend to put 
her into a lampoon, and compliment her 
with the imputation of an affair with a 
young fellow, which I carried so far, 
that I told her the malicious town took 
notice that she was grown fat of a sud- 
den; and when she lay in of a dropsy, 
persuaded her she was reported to be in 
labor. The devil 's in 't, if an old 
woman is to be flattered further, unless 



6 A fit of peevish- 
ness or "the 
blues." 



7 A 
clique 



small private s "A cordial or liqueur flavoured with certain fruits or their 
ue. kernels" (Oxf. Diet.) ; pronounced "ratafea." 



506 



THE RESTORATION 



a man should endeavor downright per- 
sonally to debauch her; and that my vir- 
tue forbade me. But for the discovery 
of that amour I am indebted to your 
friend, or your wife's friend, Mrs. Mar- 
wood. 

Fain. What should provoke her to be 
your enemy, without she has made you 
advances which you have slighted? 
Women do not easily forgive omissions 
of that nature. 

Mir. She was always civil to me till of 
late. — I confess I am not one of those 
coxcombs who are apt to interpret a 
woman's good manners to her prejudice, 
and think that slie who does not refuse 
'em everything, can refuse 'em nothing. 

Fain. You are a gallant man, Mirabell; 
and though you may have cruelty enough 
not to satisfy a lady's longing, you have 
too much generosity not to be tender 
of her honor. Yet you speak with an 
indifference which seems to be affected, 
and confesses you are conscious of a 
negligence. 

Mir. You pursue the argument with a 
distrust that seems to be unaffected, and 
confesses you are conscious of a concern 
for which the lady is more indebted to 
you than is your wife. 

Fain. Fy, fy, friend ! if you grow censor- 
ious I must leave you. — I '11 look upon 
the gamesters in the next room. 

Mir. Who are they? 

Fain. Petulant and Witwoud. — {To 
Betty.) Bring me some chocolate. 
(Exit.) 

Mir. Betty, what says your clock? 

Bet. Turned of the last canonical hour,^ 
sir. 

(Exit.) 

Mir. How pertinently the jade answers 
me! Ha! almost one o'clock! — {Look- 
ing on his watch.) — Oh, y' are come! 



{Enter a Servant. 



'? You 



Well, is the grand affair over' 
have been something tedious. 
Serv. Sir, there 's such coupling at Pan- 
eras that they stand behind one another, 
as 't were in a country dance. Ours 
was the last couple to lead up; and no 
hopes appearing of dispatch, besides the 
parson growing hoarse, we were afraid 
his lungs would have failed before it 
came to our turn; so we drove round 

9 The latest hour (formerly noon) at which a marri 
10 A traditional humorous name for a hen (or woraa 



to Duke's-place; and there they were 
rivetted in a trice. 

Mir. So, so, you are sure they are mar- 
ried? 

Serv. Married and bedded, sir: I am wit- 
ness. 

Mir. Have you the certificate? 

Serv. Here it is, sir. 

Mir. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's 
clothes home, and the new liveries? 

Serv. Yes, sir. 

Mir. That 's well. Do you go home again, 
d 'ye hear, and adjourn the consumma- 
tion till farther orders. Bid Waitwell 
shake his ears, and Dame Partlet ^^ rus- 
tle up her feathers, and meet me at one 
o'clock by Rosamond's Pond, that I may 
see her before she returns to her lady; 
and as you tender your ears be secret. 
{Exit Servant.) 

{Re-enter Fainall and Betty.) 

Fain. Joy of your success, Mirabell; you 
look pleased. 

Mir. Aye ; I have been engaged in a mat- 
ter of some sort of mirth, which is not 
yet ripe for discovery. I am glad this 
is not a cabal night. I wonder, Fainall, 
that you who are married and of conse- 
quence should be discreet, will suffer 
your wife to be of such a party. 

Fain. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, 
most who are engaged are women and 
relations; and for the men, they are of a 
kind too contemptible to give scandal. 

Mir. I am of another opinion. The 
greater the coxcomb, always the more 
the scandal : for a woman who is not a 
fool can have but one reason for asso- 
ciating with a man who is one. 

Fain. Are you jealous as often as you see 
Witwoud entertained by Millamant? 

Mir. Of her understanding I am, if not 
of her person. 

Fain. You do her wrong; for, to give her 
her due, she has wit. 

Mir. She has beauty enough to make any 
man think so; and complaisance enough 
not to contradict him who shall tell her 
so. 

Fain. For a passionate lover, methinks 
you are a man somewhat too discerning 
in the failings of your mistress. 

Mir. And for a discerning man, somewhat 
too passionate a lover; for I like her 
with all her faults; nay, like her for her 
faults. Her follies are so natural, or 

age might be performed in a parish church, 
n). 



THE WAY OF THE WOKLD 



507 



so artful, that they become her; and 
those affectations which in another 
woman would be odious, serve but to 
make her more agreeable. I '11 tell thee, 
Fainall, she once used me with that in- 
solence, that in revenge I took her to 
pieces ; sifted her, and separated her fail- 
ings; I studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. 
The catalogue was so large, that I was 
not without hopes one day or other to 
hate her heartily: to which end I so used 
myself to think of 'em, that at length, 
contrary to my design and expectation, 
they gave me every hour less and less 
disturbance; till in a few days it be- 
came habitual to me to remember 'em 
without being displeased. They are now 
grown as familiar to me as my own 
frailties; and in all probability, in a 
little time longer, I shall like 'em as 
well. 

Fain. Marry her, marry her! Be half as 
well acquainted with her charms, as you 
are with her defects, and my life on 't, 
you are your own man again. 

Mir. Say you so? 

Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience : I have 
a wife, and so forth. 

{Enter Messenger.) 

Mes. Is one squire Witwoud here? 

Bet. Yes, what's your business? 

3Ies. I have a letter for him, from his 
brother Sir Wilfull, which I am charged 
to deliver into his own hands. 

Bet. He 's in the next room, friend — 
that way. 

{Exit Messenger.) 

Mir. What, is the chief of that noble fam- 
ily in town, Sir Wilfull Witwoud? 

Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you 
know him ? 

Mir. I have seen him. He promises to 
be an extraordinary person; I think you 
have the honor to be related to him. 

Fain. Yes; he is half-l)rother to this Wit- 
woud l)y a former wife, who was sister 
to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. 
If you marry Millamant, you must call 
cousins too. 

Mir. 1 had rather be his relation than his 
acquaintance. 

Fain. He comes to town in order to equip 
himself for travel. 

Mir. For travel! Why, the man that I 
mean is above forty. 



Fain. No matter for that; 'tis for the 
honor of England, that all Europe should 
know we have blockheads of all ages. 

Mir. I wonder there is not an act of par- 
liament to save the credit of the nation, 
and prohibit the exportation of fools. 

Fain. By no means ; 't is better as 't is. 
'T is better to trade with a little loss, 
than to be quite eaten up with being over- 
stocked. 

Mir. Pray, are the follies of this knight- 
errant, and those of the squire his 
brother, anything related? 

Fain. Not at all; Witwoud grows by the 
knight, like a medlar grafted on a crab.^^ 
One will melt in your mouth, and t' other 
set your teeth on edge; one is all pulp, 
and the other all core. 

Mir. So one will be rotten before he be 
ripe, and the other will be rotten without 
ever being ripe at all. 

Fain. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of 
l)ashfulness and o])stinacy.^ — But when 
he 's drunk he 's as loving as the monster 
in The Tempest,^- and much after the 
same manner. To give t' other his due, 
he has something of good nature, and 
does not always want wit. 

Mir. Not always : but as often as his mem- 
ory fails him, and his commonplace ^^ of 
comparisons. He is a fool with a good 
memory, and some few scraps of other 
folks' wit. He is one whose conversa- 
tion can never be approved, yet it is now 
and then to be endured. He has indeed 
one good quality, he is not exceptions ^■*; 
for he so passionately affects the repu- 
tation of understanding raillery, that he 
will construe an affront into a jest; and 
call downright rudeness and ill language, 
satire and ftre. 

Fain. If you have a mind to finish his 
jiictui'e, you have an op]iortunity to do 
it at full length. Behold the original. 

{Enter Witivoud.) 

Wit. Afford me your compassion, my 
dears ! Pity me, Fainall ! Mirabel, 
pity me! 

31 ir. I do from my soul. 

Fain. Why, what 's the matter? 

Wit. No letters for me, Betty? 

Bet. Did not the messenger bi'ing you one 
but now, sir? 

Wit. Ay, but no other? 

Bet. No, sir. 



11 Crab-apple; a pie, eaten when 1 2 Caliban, •who 13 A commonplnoe versation. 

medlar is a small decayed to soft- made beastly book, or note book n captious, censorious, 

fruit like an ap- ness. love to Miranda. of bits for con- 



508 



THE RESTORATION 



Wit. That 's hard, that 's very hard. — A 
messenger ! a mule, a beast of burden ! he 
has brought me a letter from the fool my 
brother, as heavy as a panegyric in a 
funeral sermon, or a copy of commend- 
atory verses from one poet to another: 
and what 's Avorse, 't is as sure a fore- 
runner of the author, as an epistle dedi- 
catory. 

Mir. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud! 

Wit. Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half- 
brother he is; no nearer, upon honor. 

Mir. Then 't is possible he may be but 
half a fool. 

Wit. Good, good, Mirabell, le clrole! ^^ 
Good, good ; hang him, don't let 's talk of 
him. — Fainall, how does your lady? 
Gad, I say anything in the world to get 
this fellow out of my head. I beg par- 
don that I should ask a man of pleasure, 
and the town, a question at once so for- 
eign and domestic. But I talk like an 
old maid at a marriage; I don't know 
what I say : but she 's the best woman 
in the world. 

Fain. 'T is well you don't know what you 
say, or else your commendation would 
go near to make me either vain or jeal- 
ous. 

Wit. No man in town lives well with a 
wife but Fainall. — Your judgment, Mir- 
abell. 

Mir. You had better step and ask his 
wife, if you would be credibly informed. 

Wit. Mirabell? 

Mir. Ay. 

Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand par- 
dons; — gad, I have forgot what I was 
going to say to you! 

Mir. I thank you heartily, heartily. 

Wit. No, but prithee excuse me : — my 
memory is such a memory. 

Mir. Have a care of such apologies, Wit- 
woud; for I never knew a fool but he 
affected to complain, either of the 
spleen ^® or his memory. 

Fain. What have you done with Petu- 
lant? 

Wit. He 's reckoning his money — 
my money it was. — I have no luck to- 
day. 

Fain. You may allow him to win of you 
at play: for you are sure to be too hard 
for him at repartee; since you monop- 
olize the wit that is between you, the 
fortune must be his of course. 

Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses 



the superiority of wit to be your talent, 
Witwoud. 

Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now, 
and would breed debates. — Petulant 's 
my friend; and a very honest fellow, 
and a very pretty ^^ fellow, has a smat- 
tering — faith and troth, a pretty deal of 
an odd sort of a small wit : nay, I '11 do 
him justice. I 'm his friend, I won't 
wrong him, neither. — And if he had but 
any judgment in the world, he would not 
be altogether contemptible. Come, come, 
don't detract from the merits of my 
friend. 

Fain. You don't take your friend to be 
over-nicely bred? 

Wit. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no 
manners at all, that I must own : — no 
more breeding than a bum-baily,^® that 
I grant you : — 't is pity ; the fellow has 
fire and life. 

31 ir. What, courage? 

Wit. Hum, faith, I don't know as to that, 
I can't say as to that. Yes, faith, in a 
controversy, he '11 contradict anybody. 

Mir. Though 't were a man whom he 
feared, or a woman whom he loved. 

Wit. Well, well, he does not always think 
before he speaks; — we h9,ve all our fail- 
ings : you are too hard upon him, you 
are, faith. Let me excuse him — I can 
defend most of his faults, except one or 
two: one he has, that's the truth on't; 
if he were my brother, I could not acquit ■ 
him : — that, indeed, I could wish were 
otherwise. 

Mir. Ay, marry, what's that, Witwoud? 

Wit. pardon me! — Expose the infirm- 
ities of my friend ! — No, my dear, ex- 
cuse me there. 

Fain. What, I warrant he 's unsincere, or 
't is some such trifle. 

Wit. No, no; what if he be? 'tis no mat- 
ter for that, his wit will excuse tliat: a 
wit should no more be sincere, than a 
woman constant; one argues a decay of 
parts, as t' other of beauty. 

Mir. Maybe you think him too positive? 

Wit. No, no, his being positive is an in- 
centive to argument, and keeps up con- 
versation. 

Fain. Too illiterate? 

Wit. That ! that 's his happiness : — his 
want of learning gives him the more op- 
portunities to sliow his natural parts. 

Mir. He wants words? 

Wit. Ay: but I like him for that now; 



15 The funny fellow. 



10 melancholy. 
18 A contemptuous word for a bailiff who makes arrests. 



17 "fine." 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



509 



for his want of words gives me the pleas- 
ure very often to explain his meaning. 

Fain. He 's impudent ? 

Wit. No, that 's not it. 

Mir. Vain? 

Wit. No. 

Mir. What! He speaks unseasonable 
truths sometimes, because he has not wit 
enough to invent an evasion? 

Wit. Truths ! ha ! ha ! ha ! No, no ; since 
you will have it, — I mean, he never 
speaks truth at all, — that 's all. He will 
lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of 
quality's porter. Now that is a fault. 

{Enter Coachman.) 

Coach. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? 

Bet. Yes. 

Coach. Three gentlewomen in a coach 
would speak with him. 

Fain. brave Petulant! three! 

Bet. I '11 tell him. 

Coach. You must bring two dishes of 
chocolate and a glass of cinnamon-water. 
{Exeunt Betty and Coachman.) 

Wit. That sliould be for two fasting 
strumpets, and a bawd troubled with 
wind. Now you may know what the 
three are. 

Mir. You are very free with your friend's 
acquaintance. 

Wit. Ay, ay, friendship without freedom 
is as dull as love witliout enjoyment, or 
wine without toasting. But to tell you 
a secret, these are trulls that he allows 
coach-hire, and something more, by the 
week, to call on him once a day at pub- 
lic places. 

Mir. How ! 

Wit. You shall see he won't go to 'em, 
because there 's no more company here to 
take notice of him. — Why, this is noth- 
ing to what he used to do : — before he 
found out this way, I have known him 
to call for himself. 

Fain. Call for himself! What dost thou 
mean? 

Wit. Mean ! Why, he would slip you ^^ 
out of this chocolate-house, just when 
you had been talking to him — as soon as 
your back was turned- — whip he was 
gone! — then trip to his lodging, clap on 
a hood and scarf, and a mask, slap into 
a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the 
door again in a trice, where he would 
send in for himself; that I mean, call 
for himself, wait for himself; nay, and 



what 's more, not finding himself, some- 
times leave a letter for himself. 
Mir. I confess this is something extraor- 
dinary. — I believe he waits for himself 
now, he is so long a-coming : Ob ! I ask 
his pardon. 

{Enter Petulant and Betty.) 

Bet. Sir, the coach stays. 

Pet. Well, well; — I come. — 'Sbud, a man 
had as good be a professed midwife as a 
professed whoremaster, at this rate ! to 
be knocked up and raised at all hours, 
and in all places ! Pox on 'em, I won't 
come ! — D' ye hear, tell 'em I won't come : 
— let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. 

Fain. You are very cruel. Petulant. 

Pet. AlU's one, let it pass: I have a 
humor to be cruel. 

Mir. I hope they are not persons of con- 
dition that you use at this rate. 

Pet. Condition ! condition 's a dried fig, if 
I am not in humor! — B}' this hand, if 
they were your — a — a — your what d 'ye- 
call-'ems themselves, they must wait or 
rub off, if I want appetite. 

Mir. What d 'ye-call-'ems ! What are 
they, Witwoud? 

Wit. Empresses, my dear: — by your 
what-d' ye-eall-'ems he means sultana 
queens. 

Pet. Ay, Roxalanas.2*' 

Mir. Cry you mercy! 

Fain. Witwoud says they are — 

Pet. What does he say th' are? 

Wit. I? Fine ladies, I say. 

Pet. Pass on, Witwoud. — Hark'ee, by this 
light, his relations : — two co-heiresses his 
cousins, and an old aunt, that loves 
caterwauling better than a conventicle. 

Wit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I had a mind to see 
how the rogue would come off. — Ha! ha! 
ha ! Gad, I can't be angry with him, if 
he said they were my mother and my 
sisters. 

Mir. No ! 

Wit. No; the rogue's wit and readiness 
of invention charm me. Dear Petulant ! 

Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger. 

Pet. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger 
helps complexion, saves paint. 

Fain. This continence is all dissembled; 
this is in order to have something to brag 
of the next time he makes court to Mil- 
lamant, and swear he has abandoned the 
whole sex for her sake. 

Mir. Have you not left off your impu- 



19 A kind of "dative of interest," common in earlier English. 

20 The Sultana in D'Avenant's Siege of Rhodes. 



510 



THE. RESTORATION 



dent pretensions tliere yet? I shall cut 
your thi'oat some time or other, Petulant, 
about that business. 

Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass — there are 
other throats to be cut. 

Mir. Meaning mine, sir? 

Pet. Not I — I mean nobody — I know 
nothing : — but there are uncles and neph- 
ews in the world — and they may be 
rivals — what, then ! All 's one for that. 

Mir. How ! hark'ee, Petulant, come 
hither: — explain, or I shall call your in- 
terpreter. 

Pet. Exi^lain ! I know nothing. Why, 
you have an uncle, have you not, lately 
come to town, and lodges by my Lady 
Wishfort's? 

Mir. True. 

Pet. Why, that 's enough — you and he are 
not friends; and if he should mairy and 
have a child, you may be disinherited, 
ha? 

Mir. Where hast thou stumbled upon all 
this truth? 

Pet. All 's one for that ; why, then, say I 
know something. 

Mir. Come, thou art an honest fellow, 
Petulant, and shalt make love to my mis- 
tress, thou sha't, faith. What hast thou 
heard of my uncle? 

Pet. I? Nothing, I. If throats are to 
be cut, let swords clash ! snug 's the word, 
I shrug and am silent. 

Mir. Oh, raillery, raillery ! Come, I 
know thou art in the women's secrets. — 
What, you 're a cabalist ; I know you 
stayed at Millamant's last night, after I 
went. Was there any mention made of 
my uncle or me? Tell me. If thou 
hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, 
Petulant, Tony Witwoud, who is now 
thy competitor in fame, would show as 
dim by thee as a dead whiting's eye by 
a pearl of orient; he would no more be 
seen by thee, than Mercury is by the 
sun. Come, I 'm sure tliou wo't tell me. 

Pet. If I do, will you grant me common 
sense then for the future? 

Mir. Faith, I '11 do what I can for thee, 
and I '11 pray that Heaven may grant it 
thee in the meantime. 

Pet. Well, hark'ee. 

Fain. Petulant and you both will find 
Mirabel as warm a rival as a lover. 

Wit. Pshaw ! pshaw ! that she laughs at 
Petulant is plain. And for my part, but 
that it is almost a fashion to admire her. 



21 tricked. 



22 Capricious person. 



I should — hark'ee — to tell you a secret, 
but let it go no further — between friends, 
I shall ne^■er break my heart for her. 

Fain. How ! 

Wit. She 's handsome; but she 's a sort of 
an uncertain M'oman. 

Fain. I thought you had died for her. 

Wit. Umh— no— 

Fain. She has wit. 

Wit. 'T is what she will hardly allow any- 
body else : — now, demme, I should hate 
that, if she were as handsome as Cleo- 
patra. Mirabell is not so sure of her as 
he thinks for. 

Fain. Wh}^ do you think so? 

Wit. We stayed pretty late there last 
night, and heard something of an uncle 
to Mirabell, who is lately come to town — 
and is between him and the best part of 
his estate. Mirabell and he are at some 
distance, as my Lady Wishfort has been 
told; and you know she hates Mirabell 
worse than a quaker hates a jjarrot^ or 
than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. 
Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Mil- 
laniant or not, I cannot say, but there 
were items of such a treaty being in 
embryo; and if it should come to life, 
poor Mirabell would be in some sort un- 
fortunately fobbed, 2^ i' faith. 

Fain. 'T is impossible Millamant should 
hearken to it. 

Wit. Faith, my dear, I can't tell ; she 's a 
woman, and a kind of a humorist.-- 

Mir. And this is the sum of what you 
could collect last night? 

Pet. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud 
knows more, he stayed longer: — besides, 
they never mind him; they say anything 
before him. 

Mir. I thought you had been the greatest 
favorite. 

Pet. Ay, tete-a-tcte, but not in public, be- 
cause I make remarks. 

Mir. Do you? 

Pet. Ay, ay; pox, I'm malicious, man! 
Now he 's soft you know ; they are not in 
awe of him — the fellow 's well-bred ; he 's 
what you call a — what-d' ye-call-'em, a 
fine gentleman ; but he 's silly withal. 

Mir. I thank you. I know as much as 
my curiosity requires. — Fainall, are you 
for the Mall?--'' 

Fain. Ay, I '11 take a turn before dinner. 

Wit. Ay, we'll all walk in the Park; the 
ladies talked of being there. 

Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch 

23 A promenade in St. James' Parli, fashionable in 
the 17th and 18th centuries. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



511 



for your brother Sir Wilfull's arrival. 

Wit. No, no; he comes to his aunt's, my 
lady Wishfort. Pox on him! I shall 
be troubled with him, too; what shall I 
do with the fool? 

Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may 
beg you afterwards : and so have but one 
trouble with you both. 

Wit. 0, rare Petulant! Thou art as 
quick as a lire in a frosty morning : thou 
shalt to the Mall with us, and we '11 be 
very severe. 

Pet. Enough, I 'm in a humor to be se- 
vere. 

Blir. Are you? Pi'ay, then, walk by 
yourselves : let us not be accessary to 
your putting the ladies out of counten- 
ance with your senseless ribaldry, which 
you roar out aloud as often as they 
pass by you; and when you have made a 
handsome woman blush, then you think 
you liave been severe. 

Pet. Wliat, what! Then let 'em either 
show their innocence by not understand- 
ing what they hear, or else show their 
discretion by not hearing what they 
would not be thought to understand. 

3Iir. But hast not thou then sense enough 
to know that thou ought'st to be most 
ashamed thyself^ when thou hast put an- 
other out of countenance"? 

Pet. Not I, by this hand! — I always take 
blushing either for a sign of guilt, or ill 
breeding. 

Mir. 1 confess you ought to think so. 
You are in the right, that you may plead 
the error of your judgment in defence of 
your practice. 
Where modesty 's ill manners, 't is but 

fit 
That impudence and malice pass for 
wit. 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. St. James' Park. 

(Mrs. Fainall and Mrs. Marwood.) 

Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we 
will be liai^py, we must find the means in 
ourselves, and among ourselves. Men 
are ever in extremes; either doting or 
averse. While they are lovers, if they 
have fire and sense, their jealousies are 
insupportable; and when they cease to 
love (we ought to think at least) they 



loathe; they look upon us with horror 
and distaste; tliey meet us like tiie ghosts 
of what we were, and as such, lly from 
us. 

Mrs. Mar. True, 't is an unhappy circum- 
stance of lifC; that love should ever die 
before us; and that the man so often 
should outlive the lover. But say what 
you will, 't is better to be left than never 
to have been loved. To pass our youth 
in dull indifference, to refuse tlie sweets 
of life because they once must leave us, 
is as preposterous as to wish to have 
been born old, because we one day must 
be old. For my part, my youth may 
wear and waste, but it shall never rust 
in my possession. 

Mrs. Fain. Then it seems you dissemble 
an aversion to mankind, only in comjjli- 
ance with my mother's humor? 

Mrs. Mar. Certainly. To be free; I have 
no taste of those insipid dry discourses, 
with which our sex of force must enter- 
tain themselves, apart from men. We 
may affect endearments to each other, 
profess eternal friendships, and seem to 
dote like lovers ; but 't is not in our na- 
tures long to persevere. Love will re- 
sume his empire in our breasts; and 
every heart, or soon or late, receive and 
re-admit him as its lawful tyrant. 

Mrs. Fain. Bless me, how have I been 
deceived! Why, you profess a liber- 
tine. 

BIrs. Mar. You see my friendship by my 
freedom. Come, be as sincere, acknowl- 
edge that your sentiments agree with 
mine. 

31 rs. Fain. Never! 

Airs. Mar. You hate hankind? 

Mrs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. 

3Irs. Mar. Your husband? 

Mrs. Fain. Most transcendently ; ay, 
though I say it, meritoriously. 

Mrs. Mar. Give me your hand upon it. 

Mrs. Fain. There. 

Mrs. Mar. I join with you; what I have 
said has been to try you. 

3Irs. Fain. Is it possible? Dost thou 
hate those vipers, men? 

3Irs. 3Iar. I have done hating 'em, and 
am now come to despise 'em; the next 
thing I have to do, is eternally to forget 
'em. 

Mrs. Fo.in. There spoke the spirit of an 
Amazon, a Penthesilea ! 

3Irs. Mar. And yet I am tliinking some- 
times to carry my aversion further. 

3Irs. Fain. How? 



512 



THE RESTORATION 



Mrs. Mar. Faith, by marrying; if I could 
but find one that loved me very well, 
and would be thoroughly sensible of ill 
usage, I think I should do myself the 
violence of undergoing the ceremony. 
Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a 

cuckold ? 
Mrs. Mar. No ; but I 'd make him believe 

I did, and that 's as bad. 
Mrs. Fain. Why, had not you as good do 

it? 
Mrs. Mar. Oh! if he should ever discover 
it, he would then know the worst, and be 
out of his pain; but I would have him 
ever to continue upon the rack of fear 
and jealousy. 
Mrs. Fain. Ingenious mischief! would 

thou wert married to Mirabell. 
3Irs. Mar. Would I were! 

3Irs. Fain. You change color. 

Mrs. Mar. Because I hate him. 

Mrs. Fain. So do I; but I can hear him 
named. But what reason have you to 
hate him in particular"? 

Mrs. Mar. I never loved him; he is, and 
always was, insufferably proud. 

Mrs. Fain. By the reason you give for 
your aversion, one would think it dis- 
sembled ; 24 for you have laid a fault to 
his charge, of which his enemies must 
acquit him. 

Mrs. Mar. Oh, then it seems you are one 
of his favorable enemies ! Methinks you 
look a little pale, and now you flush 
again. 

Mrs. Fain. Do I? I think I am a little 
sick o' the sudden. 

Mrs. Mar. What ails you? 

Mrs. Fain. My husband. Don't you see 
him? He turned short upon me un- 
awares, and has almost overcome me. 
{Enter Fainall and Mirabell.) 

Mrs. Mar. Ha! ha! ha! He comes op- 
portunely for you. 

Mrs. Fain. For you, for he has brought 
Mirabell with him. 

Fain. My dear! 

Mrs. Fain. My soul ! 

Fain. You don't look well to-day, child. 

Mrs. Fain. D'ye think so? 

Mir. He is the only man that does, 
madam. 

Mrs. Fain. The only man that would tell 
me so at least; and the only man from 
whom I could hear it without mortifica- 
tion. 

Fain. O, my dear, I am satisfied of your 
tenderness; I know you cannot resent 

24 feigned. 



anything from me; especially what is an 
effect of my concern. 
Mrs. Fain. Mr. Mirabell, my mother in- 
terrupted you in a pleasant relation ^^ 
last night; I would fain hear it out. 
Mir. The persons concerned in that af- 
fair have yet a toelrable reputation. — 
I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be censori- 
ous. 
Mrs. Fain. He has a humor more prevail- 
ing than his curiosity, and will willingly 
dispense with the hearing of one scan- 
dalous story, to avoid giving an occasion 
to make another by being seen to walk 
with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, 
and I dare promise you will oblige us 
both. 
(Exeunt Mrs. Fainall and Mirabell.) 

Fain. Excellent creature ! Well, sure if 
I should live to be rid of my wife, I 
should be a miserable man. 

Mrs. Mar. Ay! 

Fain. For having only that one hope, the 
accomplishment of it, of consequence, 
must put an end to all my hopes; and 
what a wretch is" he who must survive 
his hopes ! Nothing remains when that 
day comes, but to sit down and weep 
like Alexander, Avhen he wanted other 
worlds to conquer. 

Mrs. Mar. Will you not follow 'em? 

Fain. Faith, I think not. 

Mrs. Mar. Pray let us; I have a reason. 

Fain. You are not jealous? 

Mrs. Mar. Of whom? 

Fain. Of Mirabell. 

Mrs. Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent with 
my love to you that I am tender of your 
honor ? 

Fain. You would intimate, then, as if 
there were a fellow-feeling between my 
wife and him? 

Mrs. Mar. I think she does not hate him 
to that degree she would be thought. 

Fain. But he, I fear, is too insensible. 

Mrs. Mar. It may be you are deceived. 

Fain. It may be so. I do not now begin 
to apprehend it. 

Mrs. Mar. What? 

Fain. That I have been deceived, madam, 
and you are false. 

Mrs. Mar. That I am false! AVhat mean 
you? 

Fain. To let you know I see through all 
your little arts. — Come, you both love 
him; and both have equally dissembled 
your aversion. Your mutual jealousies 
of one another have made you clash till 

25 Amusing story. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



513 



you have both struck fire. I have seen 
the warm confession reddening on your 
cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. 

Mrs. Mar. You do me wrong. 

Fain. I do not. 'T was for my ease to 
oversee and wilfully neglect the gross ad- 
vances made him by my wife; that by 
permitting her to be engaged, I might 
continue unsuspected in my pleasures; 
and take you oftener to my arms in full 
security. But could you think, because 
the nodding husliand would not wake, 
that e'er the watchful lover slept? 

Mrs. Mar. And wherewithal can you re- 
proach me? 

Fain. With infidelity, with loving another, 
with love of Mirabell. 

Mrs. Mar. 'T is false ! I challenge you 
to show an instance that can confirm 
your groundless accusation. I hate him. 

Fain. And wherefore do you hate him? 
He is insensible, and your resentment 
follows his neglect. An instance ! the 
injuries you have done him are a proof: 
your interposing in his love. What 
cause had you to make discoveries of his 
pretended passion? To undeceive the 
credulous aunt, and be the officious ob- 
stacle of his match with Millamant? 

Mrs. Mar. My obligations to my lady 
urged me; I had professed a friendship 
to her; and could not see her easy nature 
so abused by that dissembler. 

Fain. What, was it conscience, then? 
Professed a friendship ! 0, the pious 
friendships of the female sex! 

Mrs. Mar. More tender, more sincere, and 
more enduring than all the vain and 
empty vows of men, whether professing 
love to us or mutual faith to one another. 

Fain. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You are my wife's 
friend, too. 

Mrs. Mar. Shame and ingratitude ! Do 
you reproach me? You, you upbraid 
me? Have I been false to her, through 
strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my 
friendship to keep my love inviolate? 
And have you the baseness to charge me 
with the guilt, unmindful of the merit? 
To you it should be meritorious, that I 
have been vicious: and do you reflect 
that guilt upon me, which should lie bur- 
ied in your bosom? 

Fain. You misinterpret my reproof. I 
meant but to remind you of the slight 
account you once could make of strictest 
ties, when set in competition with your 
love to me. 

Mrs. Mar. 'T is false, you urged it with 



deliberate malice ! 't was spoken in scorn, 
and I never will forgive it. 

Fain. Your guilt, not your resentment, 
begets your rage. If yet you loved, you 
could forgive a jealousy: but you are 
stung to find you are discovered. 

Mrs. Mar. It shall be all discovered. You 
too shall be discovered; be sure you shall. 
I can but be exposed. — If I do it myself 
I shall prevent your baseness. 

Fain. Why, what will you do? 

Mrs. Mar. Disclose it to your wife; own 
what has passed between us. 

Fain. Frenzy ! 

Mrs. Mar. By all my wrongs I '11 do 't ! — 
I '11 publish to the world the injuries you 
have done me, both in my fame and for- 
tune ! With both I trusted you, you 
bankrupt in honor, as indigent of wealth. 

Fain. Your fame I have preserved : your 
fortune has been bestowed as the prodi- 
gality of your love would have it, in 
pleasures which we both have shared. 
Yet, had not you been false, I had ere 
this repaid it — 't is true — had you per- 
mitted Mirabell with Millamant to have 
stolen their marriage, my lady had been 
incensed Ijeyond all means of reconcile- 
ment: Millamant had forfeited the 
moiety of her fortune ; which then would 
have descended to my wife; and where- 
fore did I marry, but to make lawful 
prize of a rich widow's wealth, and 
squander it on love and you? 

WIrs. Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence ! 

Fain. Death, am I not married? What's 
pretence? Am I not imprisoned, fet- 
tered? Have I not a wife? nay a wife 
that was a widow, a young widow, a 
handsome widow; and would be again a 
widow, but that I have a heart of proof, 
and something of a constitution to bustle 
through the ways of wedlock and this 
world ! Will you yet be reconciled to 
truth and me? 

Mrs. Mar. Impossible. Truth and you 
are inconsistent : I hate you, and shall 
for ever. 

Fain. For loving you? 

Mrs. Mar. I loathe the name of love after 
such usage; and next to the guilt with 
which you would asperse me, I scorn you 
most. Farewell ! 

Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. 

Mrs. Mar. Let me go. 

Fain. Come, I 'm sorry. 

Mrs. Mar. I care not — let me go — break 
my hands, do — I 'd leave 'era to get 
loose. 



514 



THE RESTORATION 



Fain. I would not hurt you for the world. 

Have I no other hold to keej? you here*? 
Mrs. Mar. Well, I have deserved it all. 
Fain. You know I love you. 
Mrs. Mar. Poor dissembling! — Oh, that — 

well; it is not yet — 
Fain. What? ^Yhat is it not? What is 

it not yet? It is not yet too late — 
Mrs. Mar. No, it is not yet too late; — I 

have that comfort. 
Fain. It is, to love another. 
Mrs. Mar. But not to loathe, detest, ab- 
hor mankind, myself, and the whole 

treacherous world. 
Fain. Nay, this is extravagance. — Come, I 

ask your pardon — no tears — I was to 

blame, I could not love you and be easy 

in my doubts. Pray forbear — I believe 

you; I'm convinced I've done you 

wrong; and anyway, every way will make 

amends. I '11 hate my w4f e yet more, 

damn her ! I '11 part Avith her, rob her 

of all she 's worth, and we '11 retire some- 
where, anywhere, to another world. I '11 

marry thee — be pacified. — 'Sdeath, they 

come, hide your face, your tears; — you 

have a mask, wear it a moment. This 

way, this way — be persuaded. 
(Exeunt.) 

(Enter Mirahell and Mrs. Fainall.) 

Mrs. Fain. They are here yet. 

Mir. They are turning into the other walk. 

Mrs. Fain. While I only hated my hus- 
band, I could bear to see him; but since 
I have despised him, he 's too offensive. 

Mir. 0, you should hate with prudence. 

Mrs. Fain. Yes, for I have loved with in- 
discretion. 

Mir. You should have just so much dis- 
gust for your husband, as may be suffi- 
cient to make you relish your lover. 

Mrs. Fain. You have been the cause that 
I have loved without bounds, and would 
you set limits to that aversion of which 
you have been the occasion? Why did 
you make me marry this man? 

Mir. Why do Ave daily commit disagree- 
able and dangerous actions? To saA'e 
that idol, reputation. If the familiari- 
ties of our loves had produced that con- 
sequence of which you were apprehen- 
sive, where could you have fixed a fa- 
ther's name Avith credit, but on a hus- 
band? I knew Fainall to be a man 
lavish of his morals, an interested and 
professing friend, a false and a design- 

26 Hold to the arrangement, refuse to give her up. Mosca, in Jonson's Yolpone, or The Fox, played off his 

dupes against each other. 



ing lover; yet one whose wit and outward 
fair behavior have gained a reputation 
with the toAvn enough to make that 
woman stand excused who has suffered 
herself to be won by his addresses. A 
better man ought not to have been sacri- 
ficed to the occasion; a worse had not 
answered to the purpose. When you are 
weary of him, you know your remedy. 

Mrs. Fain. I ought to stand in some de- 
gree of credit with you, Mirabell. 

Mir. In justice to you, I have made you 
privy to my whole design, and put it in 
your poAver to ruin or advance my for- 
tune. 

Mrs. Fain. Whom haA'e you instructed to 
represent your pretended uncle? 

Mir. Waitwell, my sen'ant. 

Mrs. Fain. He is an humble servant to 
Foible my mother's woman, and may 
win her to your interest. 

Mir. Cai'e is taken for that — she is won 
and Avorn by this time. They Avere mar- 
ried this morning. 

Mrs. Fain. Who?^ 

Mir. WaitAvell and Foible. I would not 
tempt my servant to betray me by trust- 
ing him too far. If your mother, in 
hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry 
my pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca 
in The Fox, stand upon terms ;^® so I 
made him sure beforehand. 

Mrs. Fain. So if my poor mother is 
caught in a contract, you Avill discover 
the imposture betimes, and release her by 
producing a certificate of her gallant's 
former marriage? 

Mir. Yes, upon condition she consent to 
my marriage with her niece, and surren- 
der the moiety of her fortune in her 
possession. 

Mrs. Fain. She talked last night of en- 
deavoring at a match between Millamant 
and your uncle. 

Mir. that was by Foible's direction, and 
my instruction, that she might seem to 
carry it more privately. 

Mrs. Fain. Well, I have an opinion of 
your success; for I believe my lady will 
do anything to get a husband ; and Avhen 
she has this, which you have provided for 
her, I suppose she Avill submit to any- 
thing to get rid of him. 

Mir. Yes, I think the good lady would 
many anything that resembled a man. 
though 't were no more than what a but- 
ler could pinch out of a napkin. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



515 



Mrs. Fain. Female frailty! We must all 
come to it, if we live to be old, and feel 
the craving of a false appetite when the 
true is decayed. 

Mir. An old woman's appetite is depraved 
like that of a girl — 't is the green sick- 
ness of a second childhood; and, like the 
faint offer of a latter spring, serves but 
to usher in the fall, and withers in an 
affected bloom. 

Mrs. Fain. Here 's your mistress. 

{Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, and 
Mincing. ) 

Mir. Here she comes, i' faith, full sail, 
with her fan spread and her streamers 
out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, 
no, I cry her mercy ! 

Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty 
sculler; and he tows her woman after 
him. 

Mir. You seem to be unattended, madam — 
you used to have the heau monde throng 
after you ; and a flock of gay fine perukes 
hovering round you. 

Wit. Like moths about a candle. — I had 
like to have lost my comparison for want 
of breath. 

Mrs. Mil. 0, I have denied myself airs 
to-day, I have walked as fast through 
the crowd — 

Wit. As a favorite in disgrace; and with 
as few followers. 

Mrs. Mil. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with 
your similitudes ; for I 'm as sick of 
'em — 

Wit. As a physician of a good air. — I 
cannot help it, madam, though 't is 
against myself. 

Mrs. Mil. Yet again! Mincing, stand be- 
tween me and his wit. 

Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen be- 
fore a great fire. — I confess I do blaze 
to-day; I am too bright. 

Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why 
were you so long*? 

Mrs. Mil. Long! Lord, have I not made 
violent haste? I have asked every living 
thing I met for you; I have inquired 
after you, as after a new fashion. 

Wit. Madam, truce with your similitudes. 
— No, you met her husband, and did not 
ask him for her. 

Mrs. Mil. By your leave, Witwoud, that 
were like inquiring after an old fashion, 
to ask a husband for his wife. 

Wit. Hum, a hit ! a hit ! a palpable hit ! 
I confess it. 

27 Dressed, arranged (my hair). 



Mrs. Fain. You were dressed before I 
came abroad. 

Mrs. Mil. Ay, that 's true.— 0, but then I 
had — Mincing, what had I? Why was I 
so long? 

Min. mem, your la'ship stayed to pe- 
ruse a pecquet of letters. 

Mrs. Mil. 0, ay, letters — I had letters — I 
am persecuted with letters — I hate let- 
ters. — Nobody knows how to write let- 
ters, and yet one has 'em, one does not 
know why. They serve one to pin up 
one's hair. 

Wit. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do 
you pin ujj your hair with all your let- 
ters? I find I must keep copies. 

Mrs. Mil. Only with those in verse, Mr. 
Witwoud ; I never pin up my hair with 
prose. I fancy one's hair would not curl 
if it were pinned up with prose. — I think 
I tried once, Mincing. 

Min. mem, I shall never forget it. 

Mrs. Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and 
tift ^'' all the moraing. 

Min. Till I had the cremp in my fingers, 
I '11 vow, mem : and all to no purpose. 
But when your la'ship pins it up with 
poetry, it sits so pleasant the next day 
as anything, and is so pure and so 
crips.^® 

Wit. Indeed, so crips? 

Min. You 're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. 

Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, did not you take ex- 
ceptions last night? 0, ay, and went 
away. — Now I think on 't I 'm angiy — 
no, now I think on 't I 'm pleased — for 
I believe I gave you some pain. 

Mir. Does that please you? 

Mrs. Mil. Infinitely; I love to give pain. 

Mir. You would affect a cruelty which is 
not in your nature; your true vanity is 
in the power of pleasing. 

Mrs. Mil. Oh, I ask your pardon for that 
— one's cruelty is one's power; and when 
one parts with one's cruelty, one parts 
with one's power; and when one has 
parted with that, I fancy one 's old and 

ugly- 

Mir. Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin 
the object of your power, to destroy your 
lover — and then how vain, how lost a 
thing you'll be! Nay, 'tis true: you 
are no longer handsome when you 've 
lost your lover; your beauty dies upon 
the instant; for beauty is the lover's 
gift; ^tis he bestows your charms — your 
glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the 
old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet 

28 A dialectical form for "crisp." 



516 



THE RESTORATION 



after commendation can be flattered by 
it, and discover beauties in it ; for that 
reflects our praises, rather than your 
face. 

Mrs. Mil. Oh, the vanity of these men ! — 
Fainall, d' ye haar him? If they did not 
commend us, we were not handsome ! 
Now you must know they could not com- 
mend one, if one was not handsome. 
Beauty the lover's gift ! — Lord, Avhat is 
a lover, that it can give? Why, one 
makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and 
they live as long as one pleases, and they 
die as soon as one pleases ; and then, if 
one pleases, one makes more. 

Wit. Very pretty. Why, you make no 
more of making of lovers, madam, than 
of making so many card-matches. 

Mrs. Mil. One no more owes one's beauty 
to a lover, than one's wit to an echo. 
They can but reflect what we look and 
say; vain empty things if we are silent 
or unseen, and want a being. 

Mir. Yet to those two vain empty things 
you owe two the greatest pleasures of 
your life. 

Mrs. Mil. How so? 

Mir. To your lover you owe the pleasure 
of hearing yourselves praised ; and to an 
echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves 
talk. 

Wit. But I know a lady that loves talk- 
ing so incessantly, she won't give an echo 
fair play; she has that everlasting rota- 
tion of tongue, that an echo must wait till 
she dies, before it can catch her last 
words. 

Mrs. Mil. Oh, fiction !— Fainall, let us 
leave these men. 

Mir. Draw off Witwoud. 

{Aside to Mrs. Fainall.) 

Mrs. Fain. Immediately. — I have a word 
or two for Mr. Witwoud. 

Mir. I would beg a little private audience 
too. — (Exeunt Witiooud and Mrs. Fain- 
all.) You had the tyranny to deny me 
last night ; though you knew I came to 
impart a secret to you that concerned 
my love. 

Mrs. Mil. You saw I was engaged. 

Mir. Unkind ! You had the leisure to en- 
tertain a herd of fools; things who visit 
you from their excessive idleness; be- 
stowing on your easiness that time which 
is the encumbrance of their lives. How 
can you find delight in such society? It 
is impossible they should admire you. 
they are not capable: or if they were, it 
should be to you as a mortification ; for 



sure to please a fool is some degree of 
folly. 

Mrs. Mil. I please myself: — besides, some- 
times to converse with fools is for my 
health. 

Mir. Your health ! Is there a worse dis- 
ease than the conversation of fools? 

Mrs. Mil. Yes, the vapors; fools are 
physic for it, next to assafcetida. 

Mir. You are not in a course of fools? 

Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this 
offensive freedom, you '11 displease me. — 
I think I must resolve, after all, not to 
have you ; Ave shan't agree. 

Mir. Not in our phj'sie, it may be. 

Mrs. Mil. And yet our distemper, in all 
likelihood, Avill be the same; for we shall 
be sick of one another. I shan't endure 
to be reprimanded nor instructed : 't is 
so dull to act always by advice, and so 
tedious to be told of one's faults — I can't 
bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mira- 
bell, — I 'm resolved — I think — you . may 
go. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! What would you 
give, that you could help loving me? 

Mir. I would give something that you did 
not know I could not help it. 

Mrs. Mil. Come, don't look grave, then. 
Well, what do you say to me? 

Mir. I say that a man may as soon make 
a friend by his wit, or a fortune by his 
honesty, as win a woman with plain deal- 
ing and sincerity. 

Mrs. Mil. Sententious Mirabell! — Prithee, 
don't look with that violent and inflexi- 
ble wise face, like Solomon at the divid- 
ing of the child in an old tapestry haiig- 
ing. 

Mir. You are merry, madam, but I would 
persuade you for a moment to be serious. 

Mrs. Mil. What, with that face? No, if 
you keep your countenance, 't is impos- 
sible I should hold mine. Well, after 
all, there is something veiy moving in a 
love-sick face. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Well, T 
won't laugh, don't be peevish — Heigho ! 
now I '11 be melancholy, as melancholy as 
a watch-light. Well, Mirabell, if ever 
you will Avin me woo me now\ — Nay, if 
you are so tedious, fare you well; — I see 
they are walking away. 

Mir. Can you not find in the variety of 
your disposition one moment — 

Mrs. Mil. To hear you tell me that Foi- 
ble 's married, and your plot like to 
speed — no. 

Mir. But how you came to know it — 

Mrs. Mil. Unless by the help of the devil, 
you can't imagine; unless she should tell 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



517 



me herself. Which of the two it may 
have been I will leave you to consider; 
and when you have done thinking of that, 
think of me. 

(Exit.) 
Mir. I have something more. — Gone ! — 
Think of you? To think of a whirlwind, 
though 't were in a whirlwind, were a case 
of more steady contemplation ; a very 
tranquillity of mind and mansion. A fel- 
low that lives in a windmill has not a 
more whimsical dwelling than the heart 
of a man that is lodged in a woman. 
There is no point of the compass to which 
they cannot turn, and by which they are 
not turned; and by one as well as an- 
other; for motion, not method, is their 
occupation. To know this, and yet con- 
tinue to be in love, is to be made wise 
from the dictates of I'eason, and yet per- 
severe to play the fool by the force of 
instinct. — Oh, here come my pair of tur- 
tles ! — What, billing so sweetly ! Is not 
Valentine's Day over with you yet ? 

{Enter Waitwell and Foible.) 

Sirrah, Waitwell, why sure you think you 
were married for your own recreation, 
and not for my conveniency. 

Wait. Your pardon, sir. With submis- 
sion, we have indeed been solacing in law- 
ful delights ; but still with an eye to busi- 
ness, sir. I have instructed her as well 
as I could. If she can take your direc- 
tions as readily as my instructions, sir, 
your affairs are in a prosperous way. 

Mir. Give you joy, Mrs. Foible. 

Foih. Oh, 'las, sir, I 'm so ashamed ! — I 'm 
afraid my lady has been in a thousand in- 
quietudes for me. But I protest, sir, I 
made as much haste as I could. 

iVait. That she did indeed, sir. It was 
my fault that she did not make more. 

Mir. That I believe. 

Foib. But I told my lady as you in- 
structed me, sir, that I had a prospect of 
seeing Sir Rowland your uncle ; and that 
I would put her ladyship's picture in my 
pocket to show him ; Avhich I '11 be sure to 
say has made him so enamored of her 
beauty, that he bums with impatience to 
lie at her ladyship's feet, and worship the 
original. 

Mir. Excellent Foible! Matrimony has 
made you eloquent in love. 

Wait. I think she has profited, sir, I think 
so. 



Foih. You have seen Madam Millamant, 
sir? 

Mir. Yes. 

Foib. I told her, sir, because I did not 
know that you might find an opportunity; 
she had so nuich company last night. 

Mir. Your diligence will merit more — in 
the meantime — 

{Gives money.) 

Foib. dear sir, your humble servant! 

Wait. Spouse. 

Mir. Stand off, sir, not a penny ! — Go on 
and prosper. Foible : — the lease shall be 
made good, and the farm stocked, if we 
succeed. 

Foib. I don't question your generosity, 
sir: and you need not doubt of success. 
If you have no more commands, sir, I '11 
be gone ; I 'm sure my lady is at her 
toilet, and can't dress till I come. — 
dear, I'm sure that {Looking out) was 
Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask ! 
If she has seen me with you I 'm sure 
she '11 tell my lady. I '11 make haste home 
and prevent her. Your servant, sir. — 
B'w'y,29 Waitwell. 

{Exit.) 

Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please. — The 
jade 's so pert upon her preferment she 
forgets herself. 

3Iir. Come, sir, will you endeavor to for- 
get yourself, and transform into Sir 
Rowland? 

Wait. Why, sir, it will be impossible I 
should remember myself. — Married, 
knighted, and attended all in one day! 
't is enough to make any man forget him- 
self. The difficulty will be hoAv to re- 
cover my acquaintance and familiarity 
with my former self, and fall from my 
transformation to a reformation into 
Waitwell. Nay, I shan't be quite the 
same Waitwell neither; for now, I remem- 
ber me, I 'm married, and can't be my 
own man again. 

Ay, there's the grief; that's the sad 

change of life. 
To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. 
{Exeunt.) 

ACT III 

Scene 1. A Boom in Lady Wisii fort's 
House. 

(Lady Wish fort at her toilet, Peg loaiting.) 
LadtiWish. Merciful! no news of Foible 
yet? 



29 [God-]be-with-you, good-bye. 



518 



THE RESTORATION 



Peg. No, madam. 

Lady Wisli. I have no more patience. — If 
I have not fretted myself till I am pale 
again, there 's no veracity in me ! Fetch 
me the red — the red, do you hear, sweet- 
heart? — An arrant ash-color, as I am a 
person ! Look you how this wench stirs ! 
— Why dost thou not fetch me a little 
red"? Didst thou not hear me, Mopus? ^o 

Peg. The red ratafia, does your ladyship 
mean, or the cherry-brandy? 

Lady Wish. Ratafia, fool? No, fool. Not 
the ratafia, fool — grant me patience! — I 
mean the Spanish paper, idiot — complex- 
ion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost 
thou understand that, changeling, dan- 
gling thy hands like bobbins before thee? 
Why dost thou not stir, puppet? Thou 
wooden thing upon wires ! 

Peg. Lord, madam, your ladyship is_ so 
impatient ! — I cannot come at the paint, 
madam ; Mrs. Foible has locked it up, and 
carried the key with her. 

Lady Wish. A pox take you both ! — Fetch 
me the cherry-brandy then. {Exit Peg.) 
I 'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. 
Qualmsick, the curate's wife, that's al- 
ways breeding. — Wench, come, come, 
wench, what art thou doing? sipping, 
tasting? — Save thee, dost thou not know 
the bottle? 
{Re-enter Peg with a hottle and china cup.) 

Peg. Madam, I was looking for a cup. 

Lady Wish. A cup, save thee! and what a 
cup hast thou brought ! — Dost thou take 
me for a fairy, to drink out of an acorn? 
Why didst thou not bring thy thimble? 
Hast thou ne'er a brass thimble clinking 
in thy pocket with a bit of nutmeg? — I 
warrant thee. Come, fill, fill ! — So — 
again — See who that is. — {One knocks.) 
—Set down the bottle first — here, here, 
under the table. — What, wouldst thou go 
Avith the bottle in thy hand, like a tap- 
ster? As I am a person, this wench has 
lived in an inn upon the road, before she 
came to me, like Maritornes the Asturian 
in Don Quixote! — No Foible yet? 

Peg. No, madam ; Mrs. Mai'wood. 

Lady Wish. Oh, Marwood; let her come 
in. — Come in, good Marwood. 

{Enter Mrs. Marwood.) 
Mrs. Mar. I 'm surprised to find your lady- 
ship in dishabille at this time of day. 
Lady Wish. Foible's a lost thing; has 



been abroad since morning, and never 
heard of since. 

Mrs. Mar. I saw her but now, as I came 
masked through the park, in conference 
with Mirabell. 

Lady Wish. With Mirabell !— You call my 
blood into my face, with mentioning that 
traitor. She durst not have the confi- 
dence ! I sent her to negotiate an affair, 
in which, if I 'm detected, I 'm undone. 
If that wheedling villain has wrought 
upon Foible to detect me, I 'm ruined. O 
my dear friend, I 'm a wretch of wretches 
if I 'm detected. 

Mrs. Mar. madam, you cannot suspect 
Mrs. Foible's integrity ! 

Lady Wish. Oh, he carries poison in his 
tongue that would coiTupt integrity it- 
self! If she has given him an oppor- 
tunity, she has as good as put her integ- 
rity into his hands. Ah, dear Marwood, 
what 's integrity to an opportunity ? — 
Hark! I hear her! — Go, you thing, and 
send her in. {Exit Peg.) Dear friend, 
retire into my closet,^ ^ that I may ex- 
amine her with more freedom. — You '11 
pardon me, dear friend ; I can make bold 
with you. — There are books over the chim- 
ney — Quarles and Piynne, and The Short 
View of the St age, ^~ with Bunyan's 
works, to entertain you. — 

{Exit Mrs. Marwood.) 

{Enter Foible.) 

Lady Wish. O Foible, where hast thou 
been? What hast thou been doing? 

Foib. Madam, I have seen the party. 

Lady Wish. But what hast thou done? 

Foih. Nay, 't is your ladyship has done, 
and are to do; I have only promised — 
But a man so enamored — so transported ! 
— Well, here it is, all that is left, all that 
is not kissed away. Well, if worship- 
ping of i^icturcs be a sin — poor Sir Row- 
land, I say. 

Lady Wish. The miniature has been 
counted like; — but hast thou not betrayed 
me, Foible? Hast thou not detected me 
to that faithless Mirabell?— What hadst 
thou to do with him in the Park? An- 
swer me, has he got nothing out of thee? 

Foih. {Aside.) So, the devil has been be- 
forehand with me. What shall I say? — 
{Aloiid.) — Alas, madam, could T help it, 
if I met that confident tiling? Was I in 
fault? If you had heard how he used 
me, and all upon your ladyship's account, 

the 



30 Mope, stupid 


31 Small private 


32 Quarles was a re- 


omastiT and Col- 


tacks 


creature. 


room. 


ligious writer. 
Prynne's Hiatri- 


lier's Short View 
were harsh at- , 


stage. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



519 



I 'm sure you would not suspect my 
fidelity. Nay, if that had been the worst, 
I could have borne; but he had a fling at 
your ladyship too ; and then I could not 
hold ; but i' faith I yave him his own. 

Lady Wish. Me? What did the filthy fel- 
l(i\v say? 

Foib. O madam ! 't is a shame to say what 
he said — with his taunts and his fleers, 
tossing up his nose. Humh! (says he) 
what, you are a-hatehing some plot (says 
he), you are so early abroad, or catering 
(says he), ferreting for some disbanded 
officer, I warrant. — Half -pay is but thin 
subsistence (says he) ; — well, what pen- 
sion does your lady propose? Let me see 
(says he), what, she must come down 
pretty deep now, she's superannuated 
(says he) and — 

Lad;/ Wish. Odds my life, I '11 have him, 
I '11 have him murdered ! I '11 have him 
poisoned ! Where does he eat ? — I '11 
marry a drawer to have him poisoned in 
his wine. I '11 send for Robin from 
Locket's ^^ immediately. 

Foib. Poison him! poisoning's too good 
for him. Starve him, madam, starve 
him: marry Sir Rowland, and get him 
disinherited. Oh, you would bless your- 
self to hear what he said ! 

Lady Wish. A villain ! Superannuated ! 

Foib. Humh (says he), I hear you are 
laying designs against me too (says he) 
and Mrs. Millamant is to marry my uncle 
(he does not suspect a word of your lady- 
ship) ; but (says he) I '11 fit you for that, 
I warrant you (says he), I'll hamper 
you for that (says he) ; you and your old 
frippery^* too (says he); I'll handle 
you — 

Lady Wish. Audacious villain ! Handle 
me ! would he durst ! — Frippery ! old f riii- 
pery! Was there ever such a foul- 
mouthed fellow? I'll be married to- 
moiTow, I '11 be contracted to-night. 

Foib. The sooner the better, madam. 

Ladi/ Wish. Will Sir Rowland be here, 
sayest thou? when. Foible? 

Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new 
sheriff's wife expects the return of her 
husband after knighthood with that im- 
patience in which Sir Rowland bums for 
the dear hour of kissing your ladyship's 
hands after dinner. 

Lad;/ Wish. Frippery! superannuated 
frippery ! I '11 frippery the villain ; I '11 



reduce him to frippery and rags! a tat- 
terdemalion ! I hope to see him hung 
with tatters, like a Long-Lane pent- 
house ^^ or a gibbet thief. A slander- 
mouthed railer! 1 warrant the spend- 
thrift prodigal 's in debt as much as the 
million lottery, or the whole court upon 
a birthday. I'll spoil his credit with 
his tailor. Yes, he shall have my niece 
with her fortune, he shall ! 
Foib. He ! I hope to see him lodge in 
first, and angle into Black- 
brass farthings with an old 



Ludgate ^° 
friars for 
mitten. 

Lady Wish. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee 
for that, dear Foible. He has put me out 
of all patience. I shall never recompose 
my features to receive Sir Rowland with 
any economy of face. This wretch has 
fretted me that I am absolutely decayed. 
Look, Foible. 

Foib. Your ladyship has frowned a little 
too rashly, indeed, madam. There are 
some cracks discernible in the white var- 
nish. 

Lady Wish. Let me see the glass. — Cracks, 
say'st thou? — why, I am arrantly flayed 
— I look like an old peeled wall. Thou 
must repair me, Foible, before Sir Row- 
land comes, or I shall never keep up to 
my picture. 

Foible. 1 warrant you, madam, a little art 
once made your picture like you; and now 
a little of the same art must make you 
like your picture. Your picture must 
sit for you, madam. 

Lady Wish. But art thou sure Sir Row- 
land will not fail to come? Or will 'a 
not fail when he does come? Will he be 
importunate. Foible, and push? For if 
he should not be importunate, I shall 
never break decorums : — I shall die with 
confusion, if I am forced to advance. — 
Oh, no, I can never advance! — I shall 
swoon if he should expect "advances. 
No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred 
than to put a lady to the necessity of 
breaking her forms. I won't be too coy, 
neither. — I won't give him despair — but 
a little disdain is not amiss; a little scorn 
is alluring. 

Foib. A little scorn becomes your lady- 
ship. 

Lady Wish. Yes, but tenderness becomes 
me best — a sort of a dyingness — you see 
that picture has a sort of a — ha. Foible! 



33 A waiter from 
Locket's Ordi- 

nary, a well- 
known tavern. 



booths 



' "A stand or horse 35 A street in Smith- dealers' 
for dresses" field, full of sec- fTupper). 

(Oxf. Diet.). ond-hand clothes 30 There was a debt 

ors' prison here, 



whose inmates 
be^sed from pass- 
ers-by in the 
street. 



520 



THE KESTUKATiON 



a swinuuingness in tlie eyes — yes, I '11 
look so — my niece ali'ects it ; but she 
wants features. Is Sir Rowland band- 
some'? Let my toilet be i-emoved — I'll 
dress above. I '11 receive Sir Rowland 
here. Is he handsome? Don't answer 
me. I won't know; I'll be surprised, 
I '11 be taken by surprise. 

Foib. By storm, madam, Sir Rowland's a 
brisk man. 

Lady Wish. Is he ! 0, then ho '11 impor- 
tune, if he 's a brisk man. I shall save 
decorums if Sir Rowland importunes. I 
have a mortal terror at the apprehension 
of oCfeiidiui;' a.^'ainst decorums. Nothmg 
but impoi't unity can surmount decorums. 
O, I 'm glad he 's a bi'isk man. Let my 
things be removed, good Foible. 
{Exit.) 

{Enter 3Irs. Fainall.) 

Mrs. Fain. Foible, I have been in a 
fright, lest I should come too late ! That 
devil Marwood saw you in the Park with 
Mirabell, and I'm aliaul will discover it 
to my lady. 

Foib. Discover what, madam? 

Mrs. Fain. Nay, nay, put not on that 
strange face, I am privy to the whole de- 
sign, and know that Waitwell, to Avhom 
thou wert this morning married, is to 
personate Mii'abell's uncle, and as such, 
winning my lady, to involve her in those 
dil'liculties from which Mirabell only must 
release her, by his making his conditions 
to have my cousin and lier fortune left 
to her own disposal. 

Foib. dear madam, I beg your pardon. 
It was not my confidence in your lady- 
ship that was deficient; but I thought the 
former good correspondence between 
your ladyship and Mr. ]\Iirabell might 
have hindered his communicating this 
secret. 

Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that. 

Foib. dear madam, Mr. IMiraboll is such 
a sweet, winning gentleman — but your 
ladyship is the pattern of generosity.^^ — 
Sweet lady, to be so good ! Mr. Mirabell 
cannot choose but be grateful. I find 
your ladyship has his heart still. Now, 
madam, I can safely tell your ladyship 
our success; Mrs. Marwood had told my 
lady; but I warrant I managed myself; 
I turned it all for the better. T told my 
lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her; I 
laid horrid things to his charge, T '11 vow; 
and my lady is so incensed that she '11 

37 Of course Mrs. Fainall has just tippiul her. 



be contracted to Sir Rowland to-night, 
she says; I warrant 1 worked her up, 
that he may have her for asking for, as 
they say of a Welsh maidenhead. 

Mrs. Fain. rare Foible! 

E^oib. j\ladam, 1 beg your ladyship to ac- 
quaint Mr. Mirabell of his success. 1 
would be seen as little as possible to 
speak to him: besides, I believe Madam 
Marwood watches me. — She has a month's 
mind ^** ; but I know Mr. Mirabell can't 
abide her. — {Enter Footman.) John! — 
remove my lady's toilet. — Madam, your 
servant : my lady is so impatient, I fear 
she '11 come for me if I stay. 

71/ rs. Fain. I '11 go with you up the back- 
stairs, lest I should meet her. 
( Exeunt. ) 

{Enter Mrs. Marwood.) 

Mrs. Mar. Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is it thus 
with you ? Are you become a go-between 
of this importance'? Yes, I shall watch 
you. Why this wench is the passe- 
partout, a very master-key to everybody's 
strong-box. My friend Fainall, have 
you carried it so swimniingly ? 1 thought 
there was something in it ; but it seems 
it 's over with you. Your loathing is not 
from a want of appetite, then, but from 
a surfeit. Else you could never be so 
cool to fall from a princii^al to be an 
assistant ; to procui'e for him ! A pattern 
of generosity, that I confess. Well, Mr. 
Fainall, you have met with your match. 
— man, man ! woman, woman, the 
devil's an ass: if I were a painter, I 
would draw him like an idiot, a driveller 
with a bib and bells : man should have 
his head and horns, and woman the rest 
of him. Poor simple fiend ! — "Madam 
Marwood has a monlh's mind, but he 
can't abide her." — 'T were better for him 
j'ou had not been his confessor in that 
affair, without you could have kept his 
counsel closer. I shall not prove another 
]iattern of generosity, and stalk for him 
till lakes his stand to aim at a fortune: 
he has not obliged me to that with those 
excesses of himself ! and now I '11 have 
none of him. Here comes the good lady, 
panting ripe; with a heart full of hope, 
and a head full of care, like any chemist 
upon the day of projection. 

{PJnter Lady Wish fort.) 

Lady Wish. O dear Manvood, what shall 

ss A liking, a liMnUorinR. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



521 



I say for this rude f orgetf ulness f — but 
uiy dear friend is all goodness. 

Mrs. Mar. No apologies, dear madam, I 
have been very well entertained. 

Lady Wish. As I 'm a person, I am in a 
very chaos to think I should so forget my- 
self : but I have such an olio ^^ of affairs, 
really I know not what to do. — (Calls.) 
Foible ! — I expect my nephew, Sir Wil- 
f uU, every moment too. — Why, Foible ! — 
He means to travel for improvement. 

Mrs. Mar. Methinks Sir Wilfull should 
rather think of marrying than travelling 
at his years. I hear he is turned of forty. 

Lady Wish. 0, he 's in less danger of be- 
ing spoiled by his travels — I am against 
my nephew's marrying too young. It 
will be time enough when he comes back, 
and has acquired discretion to choose for 
himself. 

Mrs. 3Iar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and 
he would make a veiy fit match. He may 
ti'avel aftenvards. 'T is a thing very 
usual with young gentlemen. 

Lady Wish. I promise you I have thought 
on 't — and since 't is yoiir judgment. I '11 
think on 't again. I assui-e you I will ; I 
value your judgment extremely. On my 
word, I '11 propose it. 

(Enter Foihle.) 

Lady Wish. Come, come, Foible — I had 
forgot my nephew will be here before 
dinner — I must make haste. 

Fain. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are 
come to dine with your ladyship. 

Ladif Wish. dear, I can't appear till 
I 'm dressed. — Dear Marwood, shall I be 
free with you again, and beg you to en- 
tertain 'em? I'll make all imaginable 
haste. Dear friend, excuse me. 
(Exeunt Lady Wish, and Foihic.) 
(Filter Mrs. Millamant and Mincing.) 

Mrs. Mil. Sure, never anything was so 

unbred as that odious man ! — Marwood, 

your servant. 
Mrs. Mar. You have a color; what's the 

matter? 
Mrs. Mil. That horrid fellow. Petulant. 

has provoked me into a flame : T have 

broke my fan. — Mincing, lend me yours; 

is not all the powder out of my hairf 
Mrs. Mar. No. What has he done? 
Mrs. Mil. Nay, he has done nothing; he 

has only talked — nay, he has said nothing 



neither; but he has contradicted every- 
thing that has been said. For my part, 
I thought Witwoud and he would have 
quarrelled. 

Min. I vow, mem, I thought once they 
would have fit. 

Mrs. Bin. Well, 't is a lamentable thing, 
I '11 swear, that one has not the liberty 
of choosing one's acquaintance as one 
does one's clothes. 

Sirs. Mar. If we had that liberty, we 
should be as weary of one set of ac- 
quaintance, though never so good, as we 
are of one suit, though never so fine. A 
fool and a doily stuff *^ would now and 
then find days of grace, and be worn for 
variety. 

3Irs. Mil. I could consent to wear 'em, if 
they would wear alike; but fools never 
wear out — they are such drap-du-Berri ''^ 
things ! Without *- one could give 'em 
to one's chambermaid after a day or two. 

Mrs. Mar. 'T were better so indeed. Or 
what think you of the playhouse? A fine 
gay glossy fool should be given there, like 
a new masking habit, after the masquer- 
ade is over, and we have done with the 
disguise. For a fool's visit is always a 
disguise; and never admitted by a woman 
of wit, but to bhnd her affair with a lover 
of sense. If you would but appear bare- 
faced now, and own Mirabell. you might 
as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud 
as your hood and scarf. And indeed, 't is 
time, for the town has found it ; the 
secret is grown too big for the pretence. 
'T is like Mrs. Primly's great belly ; she 
may lace it down before, but it burnishes 
on her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can 
no more conceal it than my Lady Strani- 
mel can her face; that goodly face, which 
in defiance of her Rhenish wine tea, will 
not be comprehended in a mask. 

Mrs. Mil. I '11 take my death, Marwood, 
you are more censorious than a decayed 
beaut}'', or a discarded toast. — Mincing, 
tell the men they may come up. — My aunt 
is not dressing [here] ; their folly is less 
provoking than your malice. The town' 
has found it! (Exit Mincing.) What 
has it found? That Mirabell loves me is 
no moi"e a secret than it is a secret that 
you discovered it to my amit, or than the 
reason why you discovered it is a secret. 

Mrs. Mar. You are nettled. 

Mrs. Mil. You're mistaken. Ridiculous! 

Mrs. Mar. Indeed, my dear, you '11 tear 



39 "Mix-up" (orig- 
inally a stew of 
meat and ves- 



etables). 
' A woolen 
rial, "at 



mate- 
onee 



cheap and gen- 4i A kind of French 
teel" {Oxf. Diet.). woolen cloth, ap- 



parently 
durable. 
42 unless. 



522 



THE RESTORATION 



another fan, if you don't mitigate those 
violent airs. 

Mrs. Mil. 0, silly! ha! ha! ha! I could 
laugh immoderately. Poor Mirabell! 
His constancy to me has quite destroyed 
his complaisance for all the world beside. 
I swear, I never enjoined it him to be so 
coy. — If I had the vanity to think he 
would obey me, I would command him to 
show more gallantry — 'tis hardly well- 
bred to be so particular on one hand, and 
so insensible on the other. But I despair 
to prevail, and so let him follow his own 
way. Ha! ha! ha! pardon me, dear 
creature, I must laugh, ha! ha! ha! 
though I grant you 'tis a little barbar- 
ous, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Mar. What pity 'tis so much fine 
raillery, and delivered with so significant 
gesture, should be so unhapi^ily directed 
to miscarry ! 

Mrs. Mil. Ha? dear creature, I ask your 
pardon — I swear I did not mind you. 

Mrs. Mar. Mr. Mirabell and you both may 
think it a thing impossible, when I shall 
tell him by telling you — 

Mrs. Mil. O dear, whaf? for it is the same 
thing if I hear it — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Mar. That I detest him, hate him, 
madam. 

Mrs. Mil. madam, why, so do I — and 
yet the creature loves me, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
How can one forebear laughing to think 
of it! — I am a sibyl if I am not amazed 
to think what he can see in me. I '11 take 
my death, I think you are handsomer — 
and within a year or two as young — if 
you could but stay for me, I should over- 
take you — but that cannot be. — Well, that 
thought makes me melancholic. — Now, 
I '11 be sad. . 

Mrs. Mar. Your merry note may be 
changed sooner than you think. 

3Irs. Mil. D' ye say so ? Then I 'm re- 
solved I '11 have a song to keep up my 
spirits. 

(Enter Mincing.) 

Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, 
madam, and will wait on you. 

Mrs. Bin. Desire Mrs. that is in the 

next room to sing the song I would have 
learned yesterday. — You shall hear it, 
madam — not that there 's any great mat- 
ter in it — but 'tis agreeable to my 
humor. 

{Set hy Mr. John Eccles, and sung by 
Mrs. Hodgson.) 



SONG 

Love 's but the frailty of the mind. 

When 'tis not with ambition joined; 
A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires. 
And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires. 

'T is not to wound a wanton boy 

Or amorous youth, that gives the joy; 
But 't is the glory to have pierced a swain. 
For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. 

Then I alone the conquest prize. 
When I insult a rival's eyes : 
If there 's delight in love, 't is when I see 
That heart, which others bleed for, bleed 
for me. 

(Enter Petulant and Witwoud.) 

Mrs. Mil. Is your animosity composed, 
gentlemen ? 

Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam ; we have 
no animosity — we hit off a little wit now 
and then, but no animosity. — The falling- 
out of wits is like the falling-out of lov- 
ers: we agree in the main, like treble 
and bass. — Ha, Petulant ? 

Pet. Ay, in the main — but when I have 
a humor to contradict — 

Wit. Ay, when he has a humor to contra- 
dict, then I contradict too. What, I 
know my cue. Then we contradict one 
another like two battledores; for contra- 
dictions beget one another like Jews. 

Pet. If he says black 's black — if I have a 
humor to say 't is blue — let that pass — 
all 's one for that. If I have a humor 
to prove it, it must be granted. 

Wit. Not positively must — but it may — 
it may. 

Pet. Yes, it positively must, upon proof 
positive. 

Wit. Ay, upon proof positive it must ; but 
upon proof presumptive it only may. — 
That's a logical distinction now, madam. 

Mrs. Mar. I perceive your debates are of 
importance, and very learnedly handled. 

Pet. Importance is one thing, and learn- 
ing's another; but a debate's a debate, 
that I assert. 

Wit. Petulant 's an enemy to learning; he 
relies altogether on his parts. 

Pet. No, I'm no enemy to learning; it 
hurts not me. 

Mrs. Mar. That 's a sign indeed it 's no 
enemy to you. 

Pet. No, no, it 's no enemy to anybody but 
them that have it. 

Mrs, Mil. Well, an illiterate man's my 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



523 



aversion : I wonder at the impudence of 
any illiterate man to offer to make love. 

Wit. That I confess I wonder at too. 

Mrs. Mil. Ah! to marry an ignorant that 
can hardly read or write ! 

Pet. Why should a man be ever further 
from being married, though he can't read, 
than he is from being hanged f The or- 
dinary's'*^ paid for setting the psalm, 
and the parish priest for reading the 
ceremony. And for the rest which is to 
follow in both cases, a man may do it 
without book — so all 's one for that. 

Mrs. Mil. D'ye hear the creature"? — Lord, 
here 's company, I '11 be gone. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Mil. and Mincing.) 

Wit. In the name of Bartlemew and his 
fair,'** what have we here"? 

Mrs. Mar. 'T is your brother, I fancy. 
Don't you know him"? 

Wit. Not I. — Yes, I think it is he — I've 
almost forgot him ; I have not seen him 
since the Revolution.'*^ 

{Enter Sir Wilfull Wit^co^ld in a country 
riding habit, and Servant to Lady Wish- 
fort.) 

Serv. Sir, my lady 's dressing. Here 's 
company ; if you please to walk in, in 
the mean time. 

Sir Wil. Dressing ! What, it 's but morn- 
ing here, I warrant, with you in London ; 
we should count it towards afternoon in 
our parts, down in Shropshire. — Why 
then, belike, my aunt han't dined yet, ha, 
friend? 

Serv. Your aunt, sir? 

Sir Wil. My aunt, sir ! Yes, my aunt, sir, 
and your lady, sir; your lady is my aunt, 
sir. — Why, what, dost thou not know me, 
friend? why then send somebody here 
that does. How long hast thou lived with 
thy lady, fellow, ha? 

Serv. A week, sir; longer than anybody 
in the house, except my lady's woman. 

Sir Wil. Why then belike thou dost not 
know thy lady, if thou seest her, ha, 
friend ? 

Serv. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely 
swear to her face in a morning, before 
she is dressed. 'T is like I may give a 
shrewd guess at her by this time. 

Sir Wil. Well, prithee try what thou canst 
do ; if thou canst not guess, inquire her 
out, dost hear, fellow? and tell her, her 



nephew. Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the 

house. 
Serv. I. shall, sir. 
Sir Wil. Hold ye, hear me, friend ; a word 

with you in your ear; prithee who are 

these gallants? 
Serv. Really, sir, I can't tell; here come 

so many here, 'tis hard to know 'em all. 
{Exit.) 
Sir Wil. Oons,**' this fellow knows less 

than a starling; I don't think 'a knows 

his own name. 
Mrs. Mar. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is 

not behindhand in forgetfulness — I fancy 

he has forgot you too. 
Wit. I hope so — the devil take him that 

remembers first, I say. 
Sir Wil. Save you, gentlemen and lady! 
Mrs. Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud ; why 

won't you speak to him? — And you, 

sir. 
Wit. Petulant, speak. 
Pet. And you, sir. 
Sir Wil. No offence, I hope. 

{Salutes Mrs. Marwood.) 
Mrs. Mar. No, sure, sir. 
Wit. This is a vile dog, I see that already. 

No offence ! ha ! ha ! ha ! To him ; to 

him, Petulant, smoke *^ him. 
Pet. It seems as if you had come a jour- 
ney, sir; hem, hem. 

{Surveying him round.) 
Sir Wil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem 

so. 
Pet. No offence, I hope, sir. 
Wit. Smoke the boots, the boots; Petu- 
lant, the boots : ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Sir Wil. May be not, sir; thereafter, as 

't is meant, sir. 
Pet. Sir, I presume upon the information 

of your boots. 
Sir Wil. Why, 'tis like you may, sir: if 

you are not satisfied with the information 

of my boots, sir, if you will step to the 

stable, you may inquire further of my 

horse, sir. 
Pet. Your horse, sir! your horse is an 

ass, sir! 
Sir Wil. Do you speak by way of offence, 

sir? 
Mrs. Mar. The gentleman 's merry, that 's 

all, sir.— {Aside.) S' life,*^ we shall 

have a quarrel betwixt an horse and an 

ass before they find one another out. — 

{Aloud.) You must not take anything 



43 The chaplain of 
a prison, who ap- 
parently set the 
passage to be 
read (usually the 



beKinning of the 
51st psalm) by 
those who wished 
to secure "benefit 
of clergy." 



44 A fair was held 45 1688, when 
on St. Bnrtholo- James II was de- 
mew's Day in throned. 
Smithfield. 



46 Zounds, by God's 
wounds ! 

47 "Take him in," 
"get on to him." 

48 By God's life I 



524 



THE RESTORATION 



amiss fi'om your friends, sir. You are 
among your friends here, though it may 
be you don't know it. — If I am not mis- 
taken, you are Sir Wilful! Witwoud. 
Sir Wilfull. Right, lady ; I am Sir Wilf ull 
Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence 
to anybody, I hope; and nephew to the 
Lady Wishfort of this mansion. 
Mrs. Mar. Don't you know this gentle- 
man, sir? 
Sir Wil. Hum ! what, sure 't is not — yea 
bv 'r Lady, but 't is— s' heart, I know not 
w^hcther 't is or no— yea, but 't is, by the 
Wrekin ! ■*» Brother Anthony ! what, 
Tony, i' faith ! what, dost thou not know 
me? By 'r Lady, nor I thee, thou art so 
becravated, and beperiwigged. — S' heart, 
why dost not speak? art thou o'er joyed? 
Wit. Odso, brother, is it you? your serv- 
ant, brother. 
Sir Wil. Your servant! why yours, sir. 
Your servant again — s 'heart, and your 
friend and servant to that — and a {puff) 
and a flap-dragon ^° for your service, sir ! 
and a hare's foot and a hare's scut ^^ for 
your service, sir! an you be so cold and 
so courtly. 
Wit. No offence, I hope, brother. 
Sir Wil. S' heart, sir, but there is, and 
much offence! — A pox, is this your inns 
o' court breeding, not to know your 
friends and your relations, your elders 
and your betters? 
Wit. Wliy, brother Wilfull of Salop,^^ 
you may be as short as a Shrewsbury- 
cake, if you please. But I tell j^ou 'tis 
not modish to know relations in town: 
you think you're in the country, where 
great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss 
one another when they meet, like a call 
of Serjeants — 'tis not the fashion here; 
't is not indeed, dear brother. 
Sir Wil. The fashion 's a fool ; and you 're 
a fop, dear brother. S' heart, I 've sus- 
pected this — by 'r Lady, I conjectured you 
were a fop, since you began to change the 
style of your letters, and write on a scrap 
of paper gilt round the edges, no broader 
than a subpoena. I might expect this 
when you left off, "Honored brother"; 
and "hoping you ai'e in good health," and 
so forth—to begin with a "Rat me, 
knight, I 'm so sick of a last night's de- 
bauch" — 'ods heart, and then tell a famil- 
iar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore 
and a bottle, and so conclude. — You could 



write news before you were out of your 
time, when you lived with honest Pumple 
Nose the attorney of Furnival's Inn ^'^ — 
you could entreat to be remembered then 
to your friends round the Wrekin. We 
could have gazettes, then, and Dawks's 
Letter, and the Weekly Bill,^' till of late 
days. 
Pet. S 'life, Witwoud, were you ever an 
attorney's clerk? of the family of the 
Furnivals? Ha! ha! ha! 
Wit. Ay, s.y, but that was for a while : not 
long, not long. Pshaw ! I was not in my 
own power then ; an orphan, and this fel- 
low was my guardian ; ay, ay, I was glad 
to consent to that man, to come to Lon- 
don : he had the disposal of me then. If 
I had not agreed to that, I might have 
been bound 'prentice to a felt-maker in 
Shrewsbuiy; this fellow would have 
bound me to a maker of felts. 
Sir Wil. S' heart, and better than to be 
bound to a maker of fops; where, I sup- 
pose, you have served your time ; and now 
you may set ujd for yourself. 
Mrs. Mar. You intend to travel, sir, as 

I 'm informed. 
Sir Wil. Belike I may, madam. I may 
chance to sail wpow the salt seas, if my 
mind hold. 
Pet. And the wind ser\'e. 
Sir Wil. Serve or not serve, I shan't ask 
license of you, sir; nor the weathercock 
your companion: I direct my discourse 
to the lady, sir. — 'T is like my aunt may 
have told you, madam — yes, I have set- 
tled my concerns, I may say now, and am 
minded to see foreign parts. If an how 
that the peace holds, whereby that is, 
taxes abate. 
Mrs. Mir. I thought you had designed for 

France at all adventures.^^ 
Sir Wil. I can't tell that ; 't is like I may, 
and 't is like I may not. I am somewhat 
dainty in making a resolution — because 
when I make it I keep it. I don't stand 
shin I, shall I, then ; if I say 't, I '11 do 't; 
but I have thoughts to tarry a small mat- 
ter in town, to learn somewhat of your 
lingo first, before I cross the seas. I 'd 
gladly have a spice of your French as 
they say, whei'eby to hold discoui^se in 
foreign countries. 
Mrs. Mar. Here 's an academy in town for 

that use. 
Sir Wil. There is? 'T is like there may. 



49 A hill in Shrop- 
shire, Sir Wil- 
full' s native 
county. 



50 A raisin burninc; 
in brandy, .swal- 
lowed as a sport ; 
henoe something 
valueless. 



51 tail ; a natural 
synonym for a 
trifle, with a 
sporting squire. 



i2 Shropshire, in s.-? One of the Inns 
which the chief of Chancery, 

town is Shrews- s-* Periodicals, 

bury. 55 in any case. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



525 



Mrs. Mar. No doubt you will return very 

much improved. 
Wil. Yes, refined, like a Dutch skipper 

from a whale-fishing. 

[Enter Lady Wishfort and Fainall.) 

Lady Wish. Nephew, you are welcome. 

Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 

Fain. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful serv- 
ant. 

Sir Wil. Cousin Fainall, give me your 
hand. 

Lady Wish. Cousin Witwoud, your serv- 
ant; Mr. Petulant, your servant — nephevv, 
you are welcome again. Will you drink 
anything after your journey, nephew, be- 
fore you eat ? Dinner 's almost ready. 

Sir Wil. I 'm veiy well, I thank you, aunt 
— however, I thank you for your cour- 
teous otfer. S' heart, I was afraid you 
would have been in the fashion too, and 
have remembered to have forgot your re- 
lations. Here 's your cousin Tony, be- 
like, I mayn't call him brother for fear 
of otfence. 

Lady Wish. Oh, he 's a rallier, nephew — 
my cousin 's a wit : and your great wits 
always rally their best friends to choose. 
When you have been abroad, nephew, 
you '11 understand raillery better. 
(Fainall and Mrs. Marwood talk apart.) 

Sir Wil. Why then let him hold his tongue 
in the mean time; and rail when that day 
comes. 

[Enter Mincing.) 

Min. Mem, I come to acquaint your 
la' ship that dinner is impatient. 

Sir Wil. Impatient ! why then belike it 
won't stay till I pull oif my boots. — 
Sweetheart, can you help me to a pair of 
slippers % — My man 's with his horses, I 
warrant. 

Lady Wish. Fy, fy, nephew ! you would 
not pull off your boots here? — Go down 
into the hall — dinner shall stay for you. 
— My nephew 's a little unbred, you '11 
pardon him, madam. — Gentlemen, Avill 
you walk % — Marwood ? 

Mrs. Mar. I '11 follow you, madam — before 
Sir Wilfull is ready. 
[Exeunt all hut Mrs. Marwood and 
Fainall. ) 

Fain. Why then, Foible's a bawd, an er- 
rant, rank, match-making bawd : and I, 
it seems, am a husband, a rank husband ; 



and my wife a vei-y errant, rank wife — 
all in the way of the world. 'S death, to 
be an anticipated cuckold, a cuckold in 
embryo ! sure I was born with budding 
antlers, like a young satyr, or a citizen's 
child. S' death ! to be out-witted — to be 
out- jilted — out-matrimony 'd ! — If I had 
kept my speed like a stag, 'twere some- 
what, — but to crawl after, with my horns, 
like a snail, and outstripped by my wife 
— 't is scurvy wedlock. 

Mrs. Mar. Then shake it off; you have 
often wished for an opportunity to part 
— and now you have it. But first prevent 
their plot — the half of Millamant's for- 
tune is too considerable to be parted with 
to a foe, to Mirabell. 

Fain. Damn him I that had been mine — 
had you not made that fond discovery ^*^ 
— that had been forfeited, had they been 
married. My Avife had added lustre to 
my horns by that increase of fortune; I 
could have worn 'em tipped with gold, 
though my forehead had been furnished 
like a deputy-lieutenant's hall. 

Airs. Mar. They may prove a cap of main- 
tenance ^"^ to you still, if you can away 
with ^^ your wife. And she 's no worse 
than when you had her — I dare swear 
she had given up her game before she was 
married. 

Fain. Hum ! that may be. She might 
throw up her cards, but I '11 be hanged 
if she did not put Pam ^^ in her pocket. 

Mrs. Mar. You married her to keep you; 
and if you can contrive to have her keep 
you better than you expected, why should 
you not keep her longer than you in- 
tended ? 

Fain. The means, the means'? 

Mrs Mar. Discover to my lady your wife's 
conduct ; threaten to part with her ! — 
my lady loves her, and will come to any 
composition to save her reputation. 
Take the opportunity of breaking it, just 
upon the discovery of this imposture. 
My lady will- be enraged beyond bounds, 
and sacrifice niece, and fortune, and all, 
at that conjuncture. And let me alone to 
keep her Avarm ; if she should flag in her 
part, I will not fail to prompt her. 

Fain. Faith, this has an appearance. 

Mrs. Mar. I 'm sorry I hinted to my lady 
to endeavor a match between Millamant 
and Sir Wilfull ; that may be an obstacle. 

Fain. Oh, for that matter, leave me to 
manage him : I '11 disable him for that; he 



56 Foolish disclosure love). 

(of Millamant's 5? A cap with horns 
and Mirabell's pictured in ar- 



morial bearings 58 put up with. card in the game 

(obviously there 59 The knave of of loo. 
is a pun). clubs, the highest 



526 



THE RESTORATION 



will drink like a Dane; after dinner, I '11 
set his hand in. 

Mrs. Mar. Well, how do you stand affected 
towards your lady? 

Fain. Why, faith, I 'm thinking of it. — 
Let me see — I am married already, so 
that 's over : — my wife has played the 
jade with me — well, that 's over too : — I 
never loved her, or if I had, why that 
would have been over too by this time : — 
jealous of her I cannot be for I am cer- 
tain ; so there 's an end of jealousy : — 
weary of her I am, and shall be — no, 
there 's no end of that — no, no, that were 
too much to hope. Thus far concerning 
my repose; now for my reputation. As 
to my own, I married not for it, so that 's 
out of the question; — and as to my part 
in my wife's — why, she had parted with 
hers before; so bringing none to me, she 
can take none from me ; 't is against all 
rule of play, that I should lose to one 
who has not wherewithal to stake. 

3Irs. Mar. Besides, you forget, marriage 
is honorable. 

Fain. Hum, faith, and that 's well thought 
on ; marriage is honorable as you say ; 
and if so, wherefore should euekoldom be 
a discredit, being derived from so honor- 
able a root? 

Mrs. Mar. Nay, I know not; if the root 
be honorable, why not the branches'? 

Fain. So, so, why this point 's clear — well, 
how do we proceed? 

Mrs. Mar. I will contrive a letter which 
shall be delivered to my lady at the time 
when that rascal who is to act Sir Row- 
land is with her. It shall come as from 
an unknown hand — for the less I appear 
to know of the truth, the better I can play 
the incendiary. Besides, I would not 
have Foible provoked if I could help it 
— because you know she knows some pas- 
sages — nay, I expect all will come out — 
but let the mine be sprung first, and then 
I care not if I am discovered. 

Fain. If the worst come t-^ the worst — I '11 
turn my wife to grass — I have already a 

■ deed of settlement of the best part of her 
estate, which I wheedled out of her; and 
that you shall partake at least. 

Mrs. Mar. I hope you are convinced that 
I hate Mirabell; now you'll be no more 
jealous. 

Fain. Jealous! no — by this kiss — let hus- 
bands be jealous; but let the lover still 
believe; or if he doubt, let it be only to 
endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy 



«o confident. 



61 retinue, "establishment." 



that follows, when he proves his mistress 
true. But let husbands' doubts convert to 
endless jealousy; or if they have belief, 
let it corrupt to superstition and blind 
credulity. I am single, and will herd no 
more with 'em. True, I wear the badge, 
but I '11 disown the order. And since I 
take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 
'em a common motto to their common 
crest : — 

All husbands must or pain or shame en- 
dure ; 

The wise too jealous are, fools too se- 
cure.®° 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT IV 

ScEKE 1. Scene continues. 
(Enter Lady Wishfort and Foible.) 

Lady Wish. Is Sir Rowland coming, say- 
est thou, Foible? And are things in 
order ? 

Foib. Yes, madam, I have put wax lights 
in the sconces, and placed the footmen in 
a row in the hall, in their best liveries, 
with the coachman and postillion to fill 
up the equipage.^^ 

Lady Wish. Have you pulvilled ^" the 
coachman and postillion, that they may 
not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland 
comes by? 

Foib. Yes, madam. 

Lady Wish. And are the dancers and the 
music ready, that he may be entertained 
in all points with correspondence to his 
passion ? 

Foib. All is ready, madam. 

Lady Wish. And — well — and how do I 
look. Foible? 

Foib. Most killing well, madam. 

Lady Wish. Well, and how shall I receive 
him? in what figure shall I give his heart 
the first impression? there is a great deal 
in the first impression. Shall I sit? — no, 
I won't sit — I '11 walk — ay, I '11 walk 
from the door upon his entrance; and 
then turn full upon him — no, that will be 
too sudden. I '11 lie, — ay, I '11 lie down — 
I '11 receive him in my little dressing- 
room, there 's a couch — yes, yes, I '11 give 
the first impression on a couch. — I won't 
lie neither, but loll and lean upon one 
elbow: with one foot a little dangling 

62 perfumed with powder. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



527 



off, jogging in a thoughtful way — yes — 
and then as soon as he apj^ears, start, ay, 
start and be surpnsed, and rise to meet 
him in a pretty disorder — yes, — 0, noth- 
ing is more alhiring than a levee from a 
couch, in some confusion : — it shows the 
foot to advantage, and furnishes with 
blushes, and recomposing airs beyond 
eomi^arison. Hark ! there 's a coach. 

Foib. 'T is he, madam. 

Lady Wish. Oh, dear! — Has my nephew 
made his addresses to Millamant? I 
ordered him. 

Foib. Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, 
madam, in the parlor. 

Lady Wish. Odds my life,*'^ I '11 send him 
to her. Call her down, Foible ; bring her 
hither. I '11 send him as I go — when 
they are together, then come to me), 
Foible, that I may not be too long alone 
with Sir Rowland. 

{Exit.) 

{Enter Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall.) 

Foib. Madam, I stayed here, to tell your 
ladyship that Mr. Mirabell has waited 
this half hour for an opportunity to talk 
with you : though my lady's orders were 
to leave you and Sir Wilfull together. 
Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at 
leisure ? 

3Irs. Mil. No, — what would the dear man 
have? I am thoughtful, and would 
amuse myself — bid him come another 
time. 

"There never yet was woman made 
Nor shall, but to be cursed." ^* 
{Repeating and walking about.) 
That 's hard ! 

Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of Sir John 
Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the 
poets. 

Mrs. Mil. He? Ay, and filthy verses — so 
I am. 

Foib. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. 
Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away"? 

Mrs. Mil. Ay, if you please. Foible, send 
him away — or send him hither — just as 
you will, dear Foible. — I think I '11 see 
him — shall I? Ay, let the wretch come. 

{Exit Foible.) 
"Thyrsis, a youth of the inspir'd train." 

{Repeating.) 
Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull — thou 
hast philosophy to undergo a fool, thou 



art married and hast patience — I would 
confer with my own thoughts. 
Mrs. Fain. I am obliged to you, that you 
would make me your proxy in this af- 
fair; but I have business of my own. 

{Enter Sir Wilfull.) 

Mrs. Fain. Sir Wilfull, you are come at 
the critical instant. There 's your mis- 
tress up to the ears in love and contem- 
plation ; pursue your point now or never. 

Sir Wil. Yes ; my aunt would have it so — 
I would gladly have been encouraged with 
a bottle or two, because I 'm somewhat 
wary at first before I am acquainted. — 
{This while Millamant walks about re- 
peating to herself.) — But I hojoe, after a 
time, I shall break my mind — that is, 
upon further acquaintance — so for the 
present, cousin, I '11 take my leave — if so 
be you '11 be so kind to make my excuse, 
I '11 return to my company — 

Mrs. Fain. 0, fy. Sir Wilfull! What, 
you must not be daunted. 

Sir Wil. Daunted ! no, that 's not it, it is 
not so much for that — for if so be that I 
set on 't, I '11 do 't. But only for the 
present, 't is sufficient till further ac- 
quaintance, that 's all — your servant. 

Mrs. Fain. Nay, I '11 swear you shall 
never lose so favorable an opportunity, if 
I can help it. I '11 leave you together, 
and lock the door. 

{Exit.) 

Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin — I have forgot 
my gloves — what d' ye do ? — S'heart, 
a'has locked the door indeed, I think — 
nay. Cousin Fainall, open the dooi* — 
pshaw, w^hat a vixen trick is this? — Nay, 
now a' has seen me too. — Cousin, I made 
bold to pass through as it Avere — I think 
this door 's enchanted ! 

Mrs. Mil. {Repeating.) 

"1 prithee spare me, gentle boy. 
Press me no more for that slight toy." 

Sir Wil. Anan?°^ Cousin, your servant. 

Mrs. Mil. {Repeating.) 

"That foolish trifle of a heart." 
Sir Wilfull ! 

Sir Wil. Yes — ^your servant. No offence, 
I hope, cousin. 

Mrs. Mil. {Repeating.) 

"I swear it will not do its part, 
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy 

power and art." 
Natural, easy Suckling. 



63 A corrupted oath 
or asseveration ; 
perhaps "God 

save my lifel" 



r.4 This and the later 
bits of verse are 
from Suckling 



and Waller (mid- 
17 th century ly- 
ric poets). 



65 "I beg your par- 
don, I don't un- 
derstand you" 



(originally anon, 
meaning immedi- 
ately). 



'528 



THE RESTORATION 



Sir Wil. Anan? Suckling! no such suck- 
ling neither, cousin, nor sti'ipling: I 
thank Heaven, I 'm no minor. 

Mrs. Mil. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic! 

Sir Wil. Well, well, I shall understand 
your lingo one of these days, cousin; in 
the meanwhile I must answer in plain 
English. 

Mrs. Mil. Have you any business with 
me, Sir WilfulH 

Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin — yes, I 
make bold to see, to come and know if 
that how you were disposed to fetch a 
walk this evening, if so be that I might 
not be troublesome, I would have sought 
a walk with you. 

3Irs. Mil. A walk! what then? 

Sir Wil. Nay, nothing — only for the 
walk's sake, that 's all. 

Mrs. Mil. I nauseate walking; 'tis a 
country diversion ; I loathe the country, 
and everything that relates to it. 

Sir Wil. Indeed ! ha ! Look ye, look ye, 
you do ? Nay, 't is like you may — ^here 
are choice of pastimes here in town, as 
plays and the like; that must be con- 
fessed indeed. 

Mrs. Mil. Ah, Vetourdi! '^^ I hate the 
town too. 

Sir Wil. Dear heart, that 's much — ha ! 
that you should hate 'em both ! Ha ! 't is 
like you may; there are some can't relish 
the town, and others can't away with the 
country — 't is like you may be one of 
those, cousin. 

Mrs. Mil. Ha! ha! ha! yes, 'tis like I 
may. — You have nothing further to say 
to me? 

Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin. — 'T is 
like when I have an opportunity to be 
more private — I may break my mind in 
some measure — I conjecture you partly 
guess — however, that 's as time shall try 
— but spare to speak and spare to 
speed, '^'^ as they say. 

Mrs. Mil. If it is of no great importance. 
Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave 
me; I have just now a little business — 

Sir Wil. Enough, enough, cousin : yes, 
yes, all a ease — when you 're disposed, 
when you 're disposed : now 's as well as 
another time; and another time as well 
as now. All 's one for that — yes, yes, 
if your concerns call you, there 's no 
haste; it will keep cold, as they say. — 
Cousin, your servant — I think this 
door 's locked. 

Mrs. Mil. You may go this way, sir. 



Sir Wil. Your servant; then with your 
leave I '11 return to my comiDany. 
{Exit.) 
Mrs. Mil. Ay, ay; ha! ha! ha! 

"Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous 
boy." 

{Enter Mirdbell.) 

Mir. "Like Daphne she, as lovely and as 
coy." Do you lock yourself up from me, 
to make my search more curious'? or is 
this pretty artifice contrived to signify 
that here the chase must end, and my 
pursuit be crowned? For you can fly no 
further. 

Mrs. Mil. Vanity! no — I'll fly, and be 
followed to the last moment. Though I 
am upon the very verge of matrimony, I 
expect you should solicit me as much as 
if I were wavering at the grate of a 
monastery, with one foot over the 
threshold. I '11 be solicited to the very 
last, nay, and afterwards. 

Mir. What, after the last? 

Mrs. Mil. Oh, I should think I was poor 
and had nothing to bestow, if I were re- 
duced to an inglorious ease, and freed' 
from the agreeable fatigues of solicita- 
tion. 

Mir. But do not you know, that when fa- 
vors are conferred upon instant ^^ and 
tedious solicitation, that they diminish in 
their value, and that both the giver loses 
the grace, and the receiver lessens his 
pleasure? 

Mrs. Mil. It may be in things of common 
application ; but never sure in love. Oh, 
I hate a lover than can dare to think he 
draws a moment's air, independent on 
the bounty of his mistress. There is not 
so impudent a thing in nature, as the 
saucy look of an assured man, confident 
of success. The pedantic arrogance of a 
very husband has not so pragmatical an 
air. Ah ! I '11 never marry, unless I 
am first made sure of my will and pleas- 
ure. 

Mir. Would you have 'em both before 
marriage? or will you be contented with 
the first now, and stay for the other till 
after grace? 

Mrs. Mil. Ah ! don't be impertinent. — T\Iy 
dear liberty, shall I leave thee? my faith- 
ful solitude, my darling contemplation, 
must I bid you then adieu? Ay-li adieu 
— \ny morning thoughts, agreeable wak- 
ings, indolent slumbers, all ye douceurs, 
ye sommeils du matin, adieu! — I can't 



Gi) The giddy creature I (The title of a play by Moliere.) 



G7 prosper. 



C8 insistent. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



529 



do 't, 't is more than impossible — posi- 
tively, Mirabell, I '11 lie abed in a morn- 
ing as long as I please. 

3lir. Then I '11 get up in a morning as 
early as I please. 

3Irs. Mil. Ah ! idle creature, get up when 
you will — and d' ye hear, I won't be called 
names after I 'm married ; positively I 
won't be called names. 

Mir. Names ! 

,Ji5<^s. 3Iil. Ay, as wife, spouse, my deai', 
joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest 
of that nauseous cant, in which men and 
their wives are so fulsomely familiar — I 
shall never bear that — good Mirabell, 
don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss 
'before folks, like my Lady Fadler and 
Sir Francis: nor go to Hyde Park to- 
gether the first Sunday in a new chariot, 
■iiuj/to provoke eyes and whispers, and then 
%'y\ne\ei' to be seen there together again; as 
^"\|[^if we were proud of one another the first 
A ■' week, and ashamed of one another for 
^^y^jever after. Let us never visit together, 
^ I nor go to a play together; but let us be 
\^ I very strange and well-bred : let us be as 
^ ; strange as if we had been married a 
I great /while ; and as well-bred as if we 
were not married at all. 

Mir. Have you any more conditions to 
otfer? Hitherto your demands are 
pretty reasonable. 

Mrs. Mil. Trifles! — As liberty to pay and 
receive visits to and from whom I please ; 
to write and receive letters, without in- 
terrogatories or wry faces on your part ; 
to wear what I please; and choose con- 
versation with regard only to my own 
taste; to have no obligation upon me to 
converse with wits that I don't like, be- 
cause they are your acquaintance : or to 
be intimate with fools, because they may 
be your relations. Come to dinner when 
I please; dine in my dressing-room when 
I 'm out of humor, without giving a rea- 
son. To have my closet inviolate; to be 
sole empress of my tea-table, which you 
must never presume to approach without 
first asking leave. And lastly, whei-ever 
I am, you shall always knock at the door 
before you come in. These articles sub- 
scribed, if I continue to endure you a lit- 
tle longer, I may by degrees dwindle into 
a wife. 

Mir. Your bill of fare is something ad- 
vanced in this latter account. — Well, have 
I liberty to offer conditions — that when 
you are dwindled into a wife, I may not 

69 A kind of mask. 



be beyond measure enlarged into a hus- 
band ? 

Mrs. Mil. You have free leave; propose 
your utmost, speak and spare not. 

Mir. I thank you. — Imprimis then, I cove- 
nant, that your acquaintance be general; 
that you admit no sworn confidant, or 
intimate of your own sex; no she-friend 
to screen her affairs under your counte- 
nance, and tempt you to make trial of a 
mutual secrecy. No decoy-duck to 
wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the play 
in a mask — then bring you home in a pre- 
tended fright, when you think you shall 
be found out — and rail at me for missing 
the play, and disappointing the frolic 
which you had to pick me up, and prove 
my constancy. 

Mrs. Mil. Detestable imprimis! I go to 
the play in a mask! 

Mir. Item, I article, that you continue to 
like your own face, as long as I shall: 
and while it passes cuiTent with me, that 
you endeavor not to new-coin it. To 
which end, together with all vizards ^^ for 
the day, I j^rohibit all masks for the 
night, made of oiled-skins, and I know 
not what — hogs' bones, hares' gall, pig- 
water, and the marrow of a roasted cat. 
In short, I forbid all commerce with the 
gentlewoman in what-d'ye-call-it court. 
Item, I shut my doors against all bawds 
with baskets, and pennyworths of mus- 
lin, china, fans, atlases, '^" etc. — Item, 
when you shall be breeding — 

Mrs. Mil. Ah ! name it not. 

Mir. Which may be jDresumed with a 
blessing on our endeavors — 

Mrs. Mil. Odious endeavors ! 

Mir. I denounce against all strait lacing, 
squeezing for a shape, till you mould my 
boy's head like a sugar-loaf, and instead 
of a man-child, make me the father to a 
crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion 
of the tea-table I submit — but with pro- 
viso, that you exceed not in your prov- 
ince ; but restrain yourself to native and 
simple tea-tf.ble drinks, as tea, chocolate, 
and coffee: as likewise to genuine and 
authorized tea-table talk — such as mend- 
ing of fashions, spoiling reputations, rail- 
ing at absent friends, and so forth — but 
that on no account you encroach n])nn 
the men's prerogative, and presume to 
drink healths, or toast fellows; for pre- 
vention of which I banish all foreign 
forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, as 
orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, 

70 An oriental silk or satin. 



530 



THE RESTORATION 



citron, and Barbadoes waters, together 
with ratafia, and the most noble spirit of 
clary '^^ — but for eowslija wine, poppy 
water, and all dormitives, those I allow. 
— These provisos admitted, in other 
things I may prove a tractable and com- 
plying husband. 

lilrs. Mil. horrid provisos ! filthy strong- 
waters ! I toast fellows ! odious men ! I 
hate your odious provisos. 

Mir. Then we are agreed! Shall I kiss 
your hand upon the contract ? And here 
comes one to be a witness to the sealing 
of the deed. 

{Enter Mrs. Fainall.) 

Mrs. Mil. Fainall, what shall I do? shall 
I have him? I think I must have him. 

Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, take him, take him, 
what should you do? 

Mrs. MU. Weil then— I '11 take my death 
I'm in a horrid fright — Fainall, I shall 
never say it — well — I think — I '11 endure 
you. 

3Irs. Fain. Fy! fy! have him, have him, 
and tell him so in plain terms : for I am 
sure you have a mind to him. 

Mrs. Mil. Are you? I think I have — and 
the horiid man looks as if he thought so 
too — well, you ridiculous thmg you, I '11 
have you — I won't be kissed, nor I won't 
be thanked — here kiss my hand though. — 
So, hold your tongue noAV, and don't say 
a WGi'd. 

Mrs. Fain. Mirabell, there's a necessity 
for your obedience ; you have neither time 
to talk nor stay. My mother is coming; 
and in my conscience if she should see 
you, would fall into fits, and maybe not 
recover time enough to return to Sir 
Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, is in a 
fair way to succeed. Therefore spare 
your ecstasies for another occasion, and 
slip down the backstairs, where Foible 
waits to consult you. 

Mrs. Mil. Ay, go, go. In the meantime 
I suppose you have said something to 
please me. 
Mir. I am all obedience. 
{Exit.) 
Mrs. Fain. Yonder Sir "Wilfull 's drunk, 
and so noisy that my mother has been 
forced to leave Sir Rowland to appease 
him; but he answers her only with sing- 
ing and drinking — what they may have 
done by this time I know not; but 
Petulant and he were upon quarrelling as 
I came by. 



71 Sweetened and 
flavored wiiie. 



Mrs. Mil Well, if Mirabell should not 
make a good husband, I am a lost thing, 
for I find I love him violently. 

Mrs. Fain. So it seems, when you mind 
not what 's said to you. — If you doubt 
him, you had best take up with Sir Wil- 
full. 

3Irs. Mil. How can you name that super- 
annuated lubber? fob! 

{Enter Witwoud from drinking.) 

Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that 
you have left 'em? 

Wit. Left 'em? I could stay no longer — 
I have laughed like ten christenings — I 
am tipsy with laughing — if I had stayed 
any longer I should have burst — I must 
have been let out and pieced in the sides 
like an unsized camlet. ''^- — Yes, yes, the 
fray is composed ; my lady came in like 
a noli prosequi,''^ and stopped their pro- 
ceedings. 

Mrs. Mil. What was the dispute? 

Wit. That's the jest; there was no dis- 
pute. They could neither of 'em speak 
for rage, and so fell a sputtering at one 
another like two roasting apples. 

{Enter Petulant, drunk.) 

Wit. Now, Petulant, all 's over, all 's well. 
Gad, my head begins to whim it about — 
why dost thou not speak? thou art both 
as drunk and as mute as a fish. 

Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millamant — if you 
can love me, dear nymph — say it — and 
that's the conclusion — pass on, or pass 
off— that's all. 

Wit. Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in 
less than decimo sexto, my dear Lacede- 
monian. Sirrah, Petulant, thou art an 
epitomizer of words. 

Pet. Witwoud — you are an annihilator of 
sense. 

Wit. Thou art a retailer of phrases; and 
dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a 
maker of pincushions — thou art in truth 
(metaphorically speaking) a speaker of 
shorthand. 

Pet. Thou art (without a figure) just one- 
half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy 
half-brother, is the rest. — A Gemini of 
asses split would make just four of you. 

Wit. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard 
seed; kiss me for that. 

Pet. Stand off ! — I '11 kiss no more males 
— I have kissed your twin yonder in a 
humor of reconciliation, till he {Hiccup) 

73 A notice to stop 
a prosecution. 



72 A kind of woolen material ; unsized, unstiffened. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



531 



rises upon my stomach like a radish. 

Mrs. Mil. Eh? tilthy creature! what was 
the quarrel? 

Pet. There was no quarrel — there might 
have been a quarrel. 

Wit. If there had been words enow be- 
tween 'em to have expressed provocation, 
they had gone together by the ears like a 
pair of castanets. 

Pet. You were the quarrel. 

Mrs. Mil. Me! 

Pet. If I have a humor to quarrel, I can 
make less matters conclude premises. — If 
you are not handsome, what then, if I 
have a humor to prove it? If I shall 
have my reward, say so ; if not, fight for 
your face the next time yourself — I '11 go 
sleep. 

Wit. Do, wrap thyself up like a wood- 
louse, and dream revenge — and hear me, 
if thou canst learn to Avrite by to-mor- 
row morning, pen me a challenge. — ^I '11 
carry it for thee. 

Pet. Carry your mistress's monkey a 
spider! — Go flea dogs, and read ro- 
mances ! — I '11 go to bed to my maid. 
(Exit.) 

Mrs. Fain. He 's horribly drunk. — How 
came you all in this pickle? 

Wit. A plot ! a plot ! to get rid of the 
night — your husband's advice; but he 
sneaked off. 

{Enter Lady Wish fort, and Sir Wilfull, 
drunk.) 

Lady Wish,. Out upon 't, out upon 't ! At 
years of disci'etion, and comport yourself 
at this rantipole '^^ rate ! 
Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. 
Lady Wish. Offence! as I'm a person, 
I 'm ashamed of you — fob ! how you stink 
of wine ! D'ye think my niece will ever 
endure such a Borachio ! '^^ you 're an ab- 
solute Borachio. 
Sir Wil. Borachio? 

Lady Wish. At a time when you should 
commence an amour, and put your best 
foot foremost — 
Sir Wit. S'heart, an you gi'utch me your 
liquor, make a bill — give me more drink, 
and take my purse. — 

(Sings.) ■ 
'Trithee fill me the glass, 
Till it laugh in my face. 
With ale that is potent and mellow ; 
He that whines for a lass. 
Is an ignorant ass, 
For a bumper has not its fellow." 



But if you would have me marry my 
cousin — say the word, and I '11 do 't — 
Wilfull will do 't, that 's the word— Wil- 
full will do 't, that 's my crest — my motto 
I have forgot. 

Lady Wish. My nephew 's a little over- 
taken, cousin — but 't is with drinking 
your health. — 0' my word you ai'e obliged 
to him. 

Sir Wil. In vino Veritas, aunt. — If I 
drunk your health to-day, cousin — I am a 
Borachio. But if you have a mind to be 
married, say the word, and send for the 
piper; Wilfull will do 't. If not, dust it 
away, and let 's have t' other round. — 
Tony ! — Odds heart, where 's Tony ! — 
Tony 's an honest fellow ; but he spits 
after a bumper, and that 's a fault. — 
(Sings.) 

"We'll drink, and we'll never ha' done, 
boys, 
Put the glass then around with the sun, 
boys. 

Let Apollo's example invite us; 
For he 's drunk eveiy night, 
And that makes him so bright, 

That he's able next morning to light us." 
The sun 's a good pimple,^*' an honest 
soaker; he has a cellar at your Antipo- 
des. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your 
Antipodes. — Your Antipodes are a good, 
rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows: if I 
had a bumper, I 'd stand upon my head 
and drink a health to 'em. — A match or 
no match, cousin with the hard name? — 
Aunt, Wilfull will do 't. If she has her 
maidenhead, let her look to 't ; if she has 
not, let her keep her own counsel in the 
meantime, and cry out at the nine 
months' end. 

Mrs. Mil. Your pardon, madam, I can 
stay no longer — Sir Wilfull grows veiy 
powerful. Eh ! hoAv he smells ! I shall 
be overcome, if I stay. — Come, cousin. 

(Exeunt Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall.) 

Lady Wish. Smells ! He would poison a 
tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly 
creature, I know not what to do with 
him ! — Travel, quotha ! ay, travel, travel, 
get thee gone, get thee gone, get thee but 
far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tar- 
tars, or the Turks ! — for thou art not fit 
to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou 
beastly pagan ! 

Sir Wil. Turks, no ; no Turks, aunt : your 
Turks are infidels, and believe not in the 
grape. Your Mahometan, your Mussul- 
man, is a dry stinkard — no offence, aunt. 



74 disorderly. 



75 Wine-bag used in Spain ; hence a drunkard. 



76 boon companion. 



532 



THE RESTORATION 



My map says that your Turk is not so 
honest a man as your Christian. I can- 
not lind by the map that your Mufti is 
orthodox — whereby it is a phun case, that 
orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and (Hic- 
cup) Greek for claret. — 
(Sings.) 

"To drink is a Christian diversion, 

Unknown to the Turk and the Persian : 
Lot Mahometan fools 
Live by heathenish rules. 

And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. 
But let Ih-itish lads sing, 
Crown a health to the king'. 

And a fig' for your sultan and sophy !" ''^ 
Ah, Tony ! 

(Enter Foible, and whispers Lady Wish- 
fort.) 

Lady Wish. Sir Rowland impatient ? 
Cood lack! what shall I do with this 
beastly tumbril? ^^ Go lie down and 
sleep, you sot ! — or, as I 'm a person, I '11 
have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. — 
Call up the wenches. 

(Exit Foible.) 

Sir Wil. Ahey! wenches, where are the 
wenches'? 

Lady Wisli. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get 
him away, and you will bind me to you 
inviolably. I have an affair of moment 
that invades me with some precipita- 
tion — you will oblige me to all futur- 

Wit. Come, knight. — Pox on him, I don't 
know what to say to him. — Will you go 
to a cock-match? 

Sir Wil. With a wench, Tony! Is she a 
shakebag,'''" sirrah? Let me bite your 
cheek for that. 

Wit. Horrible ! he has a breath like a bag- 
pipe ! — Ay, ay; come, will you march, my 
Salopian ? 

Sir Wil. Lead on, little Tony—I'll fol- 
low thee, my Anthonj'^, my Tantony, 
sirrah, fhou sha 't be my Tantony,**'' and 
I '11 be thy pig. 

"And a fig for your sultan and sophy." 
(Exeunt singing with Witwoud.) 

Lady Wish. This will never do. Tt will 
never make a match — at least before he 
has been abroad. 

[Enter Waitwcll, disguised as Sir Row- 
land.) 

Lady Wish. Dear Sir Rowland, T am con- 
founded with confusion at the retrospec- 

77 Shah. or hont for carry- sn St. Anthony, pa- 

78 Dnmlcen fellow inp; n hoavy load). tron .saint of piss. 
(originally a cart 79 A fighting-cock. ^i Frame for 



tion of my own rudeness ! — I have more 
pardons to ask than the pope distributes 
in the year of jubilee. But 1 hope, 
where there is likely to be so near an al- 
liance, we may unbend the severity of de- 
corums, and dispense with a little cere- 
mony. 

Wait. My impatience, madam, is the ef- 
fect of my transport ; and till I have the 
l)ossession of your adorable person, I am 
tantalized on a rack; and do but hang, 
madam, on the tenter ^^ of expectation. 

Lady Wislt. You have excess of gallantry, 
Sir Rowland, and press things to a con- 
clusion with a most prevailing vehemence. 
— But a day or two for decency of mar- 
riage — 

Wait. For decency of funeral, madam ! 
The delay will break my heart — or, if 
that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My 
nephew will get an inkling of my de- 
signs, and poison me — and I would will- 
ingly starve him before I die — I would 
gladly go out of the world with that satis- 
faction. — That would be some comfort to 
me, if I could but live so long as to be 
revenged on that unnatural viper! 

Lady Wish. Is he so unnatural, say you? 
Truly I would contribute much both to 
the saving of your life, and the accom- 
plishment of your revenge. — Not that I 
respect myself, though he has been a per- 
fidious wretch to me. 

Wait. Perfidious to you ! 

Ladjf Wish. Sir Rowland, the hours 
that he has died away at my feet, the 
tears that he has shed, the oaths that he 
has sworn, the palpitations that he has 
felt, the trances and the trcnfijlings, the 
ardors and the ecstasies, the kneelings 
and the risings, the heart-heavings and 
the handgripings, the pangs and the pa- 
thetic regards of his protesting eyes ! — 
Oh, no memory can register! 

Wait. What, my rival ! is the rebel my 
rival? — a' dies. 

Lady Wish. No, don't kill him at once. 
Sir RoAvland, starve him gradually, inch 
by inch. 

Waif. I'll do'l. In three weeks he shall 
be liarefoot; in a month out at knees with 
begging an alms. — He shall starve up- 
wnrd and upward, till he has nothing liv- 
ing but his liead, and then go out in a 
stink like a candle's end u]ion a save- 

Lady Wish. Well, Sir Rowland, you have 



Rtrot''hin£r cloth. 
'. Oandlostick which 
allows the candle 



to burn 
end. 



to the 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



533 



the way — you aie no novice in the hiby- 
rinth of love — you have the chie. — But as 
I am a person, Sir Howland, you must 
not attribute my yielding to aii.\ sinister 
appetite, or indigestion of widowhood ; 
nor impute niy complacency to any leth- 
arti:y of continence — 1 hope you do not 
think me prone to any iteration of nup- 
tials— 

Wait. Far be it from me — 

Lady Wish. If you do, I protest I nmst 
recede — or think that I have made a pros- 
titution of decorums; but in the velic- 
mence of compassion, and to save the lilc 
of a person of so much importance — 

Wait. I esteem it so. 

Ladi/ Wish. Or else you wrong my con- 
descension. 

Wait. I do not, I do not! 

Lady Wish. Indeed you do. 

Wait. I do not, fair shrine of virtue ! 

Lady Wish. If you tliink tlie least scruple 
of carnality was an ingredient, — 

Wait. Dear madam, no. You are all cam- 
phor and frankincense, all cliastity and 
odor. 

Lady Wish. Or that — 

{Enter Foible.) 

Foib. Madam, the dancei-s are ready; and 
there 's one with a letter, who must de- 
liver it into your own hands. 

Lady Wish. Sir Rowland, will you give 
me leave"? Think favorably, judge can- 
didly, and conchide you have found a 
person who would suffer racks in honor's 
cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait 
on you incessantly. 

(kxit.) 

Wait. Fy, fy! — What a slavery have I 
undergone ! Spouse, hast thou any cor- 
dial"? I want spirits. 

Foib. What a washy ^^ rogue art thou, to 
pant thus for a quarter of an hour's lying 
and swearing to a fine lady! 

Wait. Oh, she is tlie antidote to desire! 
Spouse, thou wilt fare tlie worst for't — 
T sliall liave no appetite to iteration of 
nu]itials this eight-and-forty liours. — By 
this hand I 'd rather be a cliairman ^* in 
the dog-days — than act Sir Rowland till 
this time to-morrow! 

{Enter Lady Wishfort, rvith a letter.) 

Ladji Wish. Call in the dancers. — Sir 
Rowland, we '11 sit, if you please, and see 

83 feeble. 



the entertainment, {Dance.) Now, with 
your pei'uiission, Sir Rowland, 1 will pe- 
ruse my letter. — I would open it in your 
presence, because 1 would not make you 
uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, 1 
would burn it. — Speak, if it does—but 
you may see the superscription is like a 
woman's hand. 

Foib. By Heaven! Mrs. Mai-wood's, I 
know it. — My heart aches — get it from 
her. 

{To him..) 

Wait. A woman's hand ! no, madam, that 's 
no woman's hand, I see that ah^eady. 
That 's somebody whose throat must be 
cut. 

Lady Wish. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you 
give me a proof of your passion by your 
jealousy, I promise you I '11 make a re- 
turn, by a frank communication. — You 
shall see it — we '11 open it together — look 
you here. — {Reads.) — "Madam, though 
unknown to you" — Look you there, 'tis 
from nobody that I know — "I have that 
lionor for your character, that I think 
myself obliged to let you know you ai'e 
abused. He who pretends to be Sir 
Rowland, is a cheat and a rascal." — Oh, 
Heavens! what's this? 

Foib. {Aside.) Unfortunate ! all 's ruined ! 

Wait. How, how, let me see, let me see ! — 
{Beading.) "A rascal, and disguised 
and suborned for that imposture," — O 
villainy! villainy! — "by the contrivance 
of—" ■ 

Lady Wish. I shall faint, I shall die, I 
shall die ; oh ! 

Foib. Say 'tis your nephew's hand — 
quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! 
{To him.) 

Wait. Here 's a villain ! Madam, don't 
you perceive it, don't you see it? 

Lady Wish. Too well, too well! I have 
seen too much. 

Wait. I told you at first I knew the hand. 
— A wonum's hand ! The rascal writes a 
sort of a large hand; your Roman hand — 
I saw there was a throat to be cut pres- 
ently. If he were my son, as he is my 
nephew, I 'd pistol him ! 

Foib. O treachery ! — But are you sure, Sir 
Rowland, it is his writing? 

Wait. Sure! am I here? Do T live? Do 
I love tliis pearl of India? I have 
twenty letters in my pocket from him in 
the same cliaracter. 

Lady Wish. How ! 

Foil). Oh, what luck it is. Sir Rowland, 

81 A carrier of a sedan-chair. 



534 



THE RESTORATION 



that you were present at this juncture! — 
This was the business that brought Mr. 
Mirabell disguised to Madam MilUimant 
this afternoon. I thought something was 
contriving, when he stole by me and 
would have hid his face. 

Lady Wish. How, how ! — I heard the vil- 
lain was in the house indeed ; and now I 
remember, my niece went away abruptly, 
when Sir Wilfull was to have made his 
addresses. 

Foib. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell 
waited for her in her chamber! but I 
would not tell your ladyship to discom- 
pose you when you were to receive Sir 
Rowland. 

Wait. Enough, his date is short. 

Foih. No, good Sir Rowland, don't mcur 
the law. 

Wait. Law ! I care not for law. I can 
but die, and 't is in a good cause. — My 
lady shall be satisfied of my truth 
and innocence, though it cost me my 
life. 

Lady Wish. No, dear Sir Rowland, don't 
fight ; if you should be killed I must never 
show my face ; or hanged — 0, consider 
my reputation, Sir Rowland ! — No, you 
shan't fight — I '11 go in and examine my 
niece; I'll make her confess. I conjure 
you, Sir Rowland, by all your love, not 
to fight. 

Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. 
But some proof you must let me give 
you ; I '11 go for a black box, which 
contains the writings of my whole 
estate, and deliver that into your 
hands. 

Lady Wish. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that 
Avill be some comfort, bring the black 
box. 

Wait. And may I presume to bring a con- 
tract to be signed this night *? may I hope 
so far? 

Lady Wish. Bring what you will; but 
come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is 
a happy discovery ! 

Wait. Dead or alive I '11 come — and mar- 
ried we will be in spite of treachery; ay, 
and get an heir that shall defeat the last 
remaining glimpse of hope in my aban- 
doned nephew. Come, my buxom 
widow : 

Ere long you shall subslantinl proofs re- 
ceive, 
That I'm an arrant ^^ knight — 
Foih. {Aside.) Or arrant knave. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. Scene continues. 
{Lady Wishfort and Foible.) 

Lady Wish. Out of my house, out of my 
house, thou viper ! thou serpent, that I 
have fostered ! thou bosom traitress, that 
I raised from nothing ! — Begone ! begone ! 
begone ! — go ! go ! — That I took from 
washing of old gauze and weaving of 
dead hair, with a bleak blue nose over a 
chafing-dish of starved embers, and din- 
ing behind a traverse rag, in a shop no 
bigger than a bird-cage ! — Go, go ! starve 
again, do, do ! 

Foib. Dear madam, I '11 beg pardon on my 
knees. 

Lady Wish. Away ! out ! out ! — Go, set up 
for yourself again ! — Do, drive a trade, 
do, with your three-pennyworth of small 
ware, flaunting upon a packthread, under 
a brandy-seller's bulk, or against a dead 
wall by a ballad-monger! Go, hang out 
an old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of 
yellow colbertine again ! Do ; an old 
gnawed mask, two rows of pins, and a 
child's fiddle ; a glass necklace with the 
beads broken, and a quilted night-cap 
with one ear! Go, go, drive a trade! — 
These were your commodities, you treach- 
erous trull ! this was your merchandise 
you dealt in when I took you into my 
house, placed you next myself, and made 
you governante of my whole family ! 
You have forgot this, have you, now you 
have feathered your nest? 

Foib, No, no, dear madam. Do but hear 
me, have but a moment's patience, I '11 
confess all. Mr. Mirabell seduced me ; I 
am not the first that he has wheedled with 
his dissembling tongue; your ladyshiji's 
own wisdom has been deluded by him ; 
then how should I, a poor ignorant, de- 
fend myself? madam, if you knew 
but what he promised me, and how he 
assured me your ladyship should come to 
no damage ! — Or else the wealth of the 
Indies should not have bribed me to con- 
spire against so good, so sweet, so kind 
a lady as you have been to me. 

Lady Wish. No damage! "\^^^at, to be- 
tray me, to marry me to a cast serving- 
man ! to make me a receptacle, an hos- 
pital for a decayed pimp ! No damage ! 
thou frontless impudence, more than a 
big-bellied actress ! 

Foib. Pray, do but hear me, madam; he 



8S i.e., errant. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



535 



could not marry your ladyship, madam. 
— No, indeed, his marriage was to have 
been void in law, for he was married to 
me first, to secure your ladyship. He 
could not have bedded your ladyship ; for 
if he had consummated with your lady- 
ship, he must have run the risk of the 
law, and been put upon his clergy.**' — 
Yes, indeed, I inquired of the law in that 
case before I would meddle or make. 

Lady Wish. What, then, I have been your 
property, have If I have been conven- 
ient to you, it seems ! — While you were 
catering for Mirabell, I have been broker 
for you ! What, have you made a pas- 
sive bawd of me? — This exceeds all prece- 
dent; I am brought to fine uses, to be- 
come a botcher of second-hand marriages 
between Abigails and Andrews ! *^ — I '11 
couple you ! — Yes, I '11 baste you to- 
gether, you and your Philander ! I '11 
Duke's-place you:, as I 'm a person ! 
Your turtle is in custody already : you 
shall coo in the same cage, if there be 
constable or warrant in the parish. 
{Exit.) 

Foib. Oh, that ever I was born ! Oh, that 
I was ever married ! — A bride ! — ay, I 
shall be a Bridewell-bride. — Oh ! 

(Enter Mrs. Fainall.) 

Mrs. Fain. Poor Foible, what 's the mat- 
ter? 

Foib. madam, my lady 's gone for a 
constable. I shall be had to a justice, 
and put to Bridewell to beat hemp. Poor 
Waitwell 's gone to prison already. 

Mrs. Fain. Have a good heart. Foible ; 
Mirabell 's gone to give security for him. 
This is all Marwood's and my husband's 
doing. 

Foib. Yes, yes; I know it, madam: she 
was in my lady's closet, and overheard 
all that you said to me before dinner. 
She sent the letter to my lady; and that 
missing effect, Mr. Fainall laid this plot 
to arrest Waitwell, when he pretended to 
go for the papers; and in the meantime 
Mrs. Marwood declared all to m^^ lady. 

Mrs. Fain. Was there no mention made of 
me in the letter"? My mother does not 
suspect my being in the confederacy? I 
fancy Marwood has not told her, though 
she has told my husband. 

Foib. Yes, madam ; but my lady did not 
see that part; we stifled the letter before 
she read so far. — Has that mischievous 



devil told Mr. Fainall of your ladyship, 
then? ^ ^' 

Mrs. Fain. Ay, all 's out — my affair with 
Mirabell — everything discovered. This is 
the last day of our living together, that 's 
my comfort. 

Foib. Indeed, madam; and so 'tis a com- 
fort if you knew all; — he has been even 
with your ladyshij^, which I could have 
told you long enough since, but I love to 
keep peace and quietness by my good- 
will. I had rather bring friends to- 
gether, than set 'em at distance: but 
Mrs. Marwood and he are nearer related 
than ever their parents thought for. 

Mrs. Fain. Sayest thou so, Foible? 
Canst thou prove this? 

Foib. I can take my oath of it, madam; 
so can Mrs. Mincing. We have had 
many a fair word from Madam Mar- 
w^ood, to conceal something that passed 
in our chamber one evening when you 
were at Hyde Park ; and we were thought 
to have gone a-wa Iking, but we went up 
unawares; — though we were SAvorn to se- 
crecy, too. Madaiti Marwood took a 
book and swore ns upon it, but it was 
but a book of verses and poems. So 
long as it was not a bible-oath, we may 
break it with a safe conscience. 

Mrs. Fain. This discovery is the most op- 
portune thing I could wish. — Now, Minc- 
ing! 

(Enter Mincing.) 

Min. My lady would speak with Mrs. Foi- 
ble, mem. Mr. Mirabell is with her; he 
has set your spouse at liberty, Mrs. Foi- 
ble, and would have you hide yourself 
in my lady's closet till my old lady's 
anger is abated. Oh, my old lady is in a 
perilous passion at something Mr. Fain- 
all has said ; he swears, and my old lady 
cries. There 's a fearful hurricane, I 
vow. He says, mem, how that he '11 have 
my lady's fortune made over to him, or 
he '11 be divorced. 

Mrs. Fain. Does your lady and Mirabell 
know that? 

Min. Yes, mem ; they have sent me to see 
if Sir Wilfull be sober, and to bring him 
to them. My lady is resolved to have 
him. I think, rather than lose such a vast 
sum as six thousand pound. — Oh, come, 
Mrs. Foible, T hear my old lady. 

Mrs. Fain. Foible, you must tell Mincing 
that she must prepare to vouch when I 
call her. 



86 i. e., have been arraigned (had to claim benefit of clergy). 



87 Maids and valets. 



536 



THE RESTORATION 



Foib. Yes, yes, madam. 
Min. Oh, yes, mem, I'll vouch anything' 
for your ladyshijo's service, be what it 
will. 

{Exeunt Mincing and Foible.) 
{Enter Lady Wishfort, and Mrs. Mar- 
wood.) 

Lady Wish. Oh, my dear friend, how can 
I enumerate the benelits that I have re- 
ceived from your goodness! To you I 
owe the timely discovery of the false 
vows of Mirabell; to you the detection of 
the impostor Sir Rowland. And now 
you are become an intei'cessor with my 
son-in-law, to save the honor of my 
house, and compound for the frailties of 
my daughter. Well, friend, you are 
enough to reconcile me to the bad world, 
or else I would retire to deserts and soli- 
tudes, and feed harmless sheep by groves 
and purling streams. Dear ]Marwood, lot 
us leave the world, and retire by our- 
selves and be shepherdesses. 

Mrs. Mar. Let us tirst dispatch the affair 
in hand, madam. • We shall have leisure 
to think of retirement afterwards. Here 
is one who is conceimed in the treaty. 

Lady Wish. Oh, daughter, daughter! is it 
possible thou shouldst be my child, bone 
of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and, 
as I may say, another me, and yet trans- 
gress the most minute particle of severe 
virtue? Is it possible yon should lean 
aside to iniquity, who have been east in 
the direct mould of virtue"? I have not 
only been a mould but a pattern for you, 
and a model for you, after you were 
brought into the world. 

Mrs. Fain. I don't understand your lady- 
ship. 

Lady Wish. Not understand ! Why, have 
you not been naught*?®^ have you not 
been sophisticated f Not understand! 
here I am ruined to compound for your 
caprices and your cuekoldoms. I must 
pawn my plate and my je\A'els, and ruin 
my niece, and all little enough — 

3Irs. Fain. I am wronged and abused, and 
so are you. 'T is a false accusation, as 
false as hell, as false as your friend 
there, ay, or your fnend's friend, my 
false husband. 
Mrs. Mar. My friend, Mrs. Fainall! your 
husl)and my friend! what do you moan"? 
Mrs. Fain. T know wliat T mean, madam, 
and so do yon; and so shall the world ai 
a time convenient. 

•SS Fi-;iil, no lietter thiin voii should be. 



Mrs. Mar. I am sorry to see you so pas- 
sionate, madam. More temper ^^ would 
look more like innocence. But I have 
done. I am sorry my zeal to serve your 
ladyship and family should admit of mis- 
construction, or make me liable to af- 
fronts. You will pardon me, madam, if 
I meddle no more with an att'air in which 
I am not i;)ersonally concerned. 

Lady Wish. dear friend, I am so 
ashamed that you should meet with such 
returns! — {To il/rs. Fainall.) Y^'ou ought 
to ask pardon on your knees, ungrateful 
creature ! she deserves more from you 
than all your life can accomplish. — {To 
Mrs. Marwood.) Oh, don't leave me des- 
titute in this perplexity! — no, stick to 
me, my good genius. 

Mrs. Fain. I tell you, madam, you're 
abused. — Stick to you; ay, like a leech, 
to suck your best blood — she '11 drop off 
when she 's full. Madam, you sha'not 
pawn a bodkin, nor part with a brass 
counter, in composition for me. I defy 
'em all. Let 'em prove their aspersions; 
I know my own innocence, and dare 
stand a trial. 

{Exit.) 

Lady Wish. Why, if she should be inno- 
cent, if she should be wronged ai'ter all, 
ha? — I don't know Avhat to think; — and 
I promise you her education has been un- 
exceptionable — I may say it; for I 
chiefly made it my own care to initiate 
her very infancy in the rudiments of vir- 
tue, and to impress upon her tender years 
a young odium and aversion to the very 
sight of men: ay, friend, she would ha' 
shrieked if she had but seen a man, till 
she Avas in her teens. As I 'm a person 
't is true ; — she Avas never suffered to play 
Avith a male child, though but in coats; 
nay, her very babies ^° Avcre of the femi- 
nine gender. Oh, she never looked a man 
in the face but her OAvn father, or the 
chai"»lain, and him we made a shift to put 
upon her for a Avoman, by the help of 
his long garments, and his sleek face, till 
she was going in her fifteen. 

3Irs. Mar. 'T Avas much she should be de- 
ceiA'ed so long. 

Lady Wish. I warrant you, or she Avould 
never have borne to have been catechized 
by him; and liaA'e heard his long lectures 
againsi singing and dancing, and such 
debaucheries; and going to filthy plays, 
and profane music-meetings, AA'here the 
leAvd ti'ebles s(]ueak nothing but bawdy, 



sn composure. 



90 dolls. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



537 



and the basses roar blasphemy. Oh, she 
would have swooned at the sight or name 
of an obscene play-book ! — and can I 
think, after all this, that my daughter 
can be naught? What, a whore? and 
thought it excommunieation to set her 
foot within the door of a playhouse ! 
dear friend, I can't believe it, no, no ! 
As she says, let him prove it, let him 
prove it. 

Mrs. Mar. Prove it, madam ! What, and 
have your name prostituted in a public 
court ! Yours and your daughter's repu- 
tation worried at the bar by a pack of 
bawling lawyers ! To be ushered in with 
an Yez ®^ of scandal ; and have your 
case opened by an old fumbling- lecher in 
a quoif "- like a man-midwife; to bring 
your daughter's infamy to light; to be a 
theme for legal punsters and quibblers 
by the statute ; and become a jest against 
a rule of court, where there is no prece- 
dent for a jest in any record — not even 
in doomsday-book ; ^^ to discompose the 
gravity of the bench, and provoke 
naughty interrogatories in more naughty 
law Latin; while the good judge, tickled 
with the proceeding, simpers under a 
grey beard, and fldges '** off and on his 
cushion as if he had swallowed canthari- 
des, or sat upon cow-iteh ! — 

hady Wish. Oh, 't is very hard ! 

3Irs. Mar. And then to have my young 
revellers of the Temple take notes, like 
'prentices at a conventicle ; and after talk 
it over again in commons, or before 
drawers in an eating-house. 

Lady Wish. Worse and worse ! 

Mrs. Mar. Nay, this is nothing; if it 
would end here 't were well. But it 
must, after this, be consigned by the 
shorthand writers to the public loress; 
and from thence be transferred to the 
hands, nay into the throats and lungs of 
hawkers, with voices more licentious than 
the loud flounder-man's or the woman 
that cries grey-pease; and this you must 
hear till you are stunned ; nay, you must 
hear nothing else for some days. 

Lady Wish. Oh, 't is insupportable ! No, 
no, dear friend, make it up, make it up ; 
ay, ay, I '11 compound. I 'II give up all, 
myself and my all. my niece and her all 
— anything, eveiything for composition. 

Mrs. Mar. Nay, madam, I advise nothing, 
I only lay before you, as a friend, the in- 



conveniences which perhaps you have 
overseen. Here comes Mr. Fainall ; if he 
will be satisfied to huddle up all in si- 
lence, I shall be glad. You must think I 
would rather congratulate than condole 
with you. 

{Enter Fainall.) 

Lady Wish. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, 
dear Marwood; no, no, I do not doubt it. 

Fain. Well, madam; I have suffered my- 
self to be overcome by the importunity of 
this lady your friend; and am content 
you shall enjoy your own proper estate 
during life, on condition you oblige your- 
self never to marry, under such penalty 
as I think convenient. 

Lady Wish. Never to marry ! 

Fain. No more Sir Rowlands; the nest im- 
posture may not be so timely detected. 

Mrs. Mar. That condition, I dare answer, 
my lady will consent to without dirfi- 
eulty; she has already but too much ex- 
perienced the perfidiousness of men. — 
Besides, madam, when we retire to our 
pastoral solitude we shall bid adieu to 
all other thoughts. 

Lady Wish. Ay, that 's true ; but in ease 
of necessity, as of health, or some such 
emergency — 

Fain. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, 
you shall be considered ; I will only re- 
serve to myself the power to choose for 
you. If your physic be wholesome, it 
matters not who is j^our aiDothecary. 
Next, my wife shall settle on me the re- 
mainder of her fortune, not made over 
already; and for her maintenance de- 
pend entirely on my discretion. 

Lady Wish. This is most inhumanly sav- 
age ; exceeding the barbarity of a Musco- 
vite husband. 

Fain. I learned it from his Czarish maj- 
esty's retinue, in a winter evening's con- 
ference over brandy and pepper, amongst 
other secrets of matrimony and policy, as 
they are at present practised in the 
northern hemisphere. But this must be 
agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, 
I will be endowed, in right of my wife, 
with that six thousand pound, which is 
the moiety of Mrs. Millamant's fortune 
in your possession ; and which she has 
forfeited (as will appear by the last will 
and testament of your deceased husband, 
Sir Jonathan Wishfort) by her disobedi- 



!H Oyez (French, 
hear ye), used to 
proclaim silence 



at the opening of 
court. 
92 A white cap for- 



by 



merly worn 
lawyers. 
03 A record of land 



dating from the an unlikely place 
reign of William for a jest, 
the Conqueror; ^■i Fidge, to move 
restlessly, fidget. 



538 



THE RESTORATION 



ence in contracting herself against your 
consent or knowledge; and by refusing 
tlie offered match with Sir Wilfull Wit- 
Avoud, which you, like a careful aunt, had 
provided for her. 

Lady Wish. My nephew was 7ion com- 
pos/'^ and could not make his addresses. 

Fain. I come to make demands — I '11 hear 
no objections. 

Lady Wish. Yoii will grant me time to 
consider ■? 

Fain. Yes, while the instrument is draw- 
ing, to which you must set your hand till 
more sufficient deeds can be perfected : 
which I will take care shall be done Avith 
all possible speed. In the meanwhile I 
will go for the said instrument, and till 
my return you may balance this matter 
in your own discretion. 
(Exit.) 

Lady Wish. This insolence is beyond all 
jirecedent, all parallel : must I be sub- 
ject to this merciless villain'? 

3Irs. Mar. 'T is severe indeed, madam, 
that you should smart for your daugh- 
ter's wantonness. 

Lady Wish. 'T was against my consent 
that she married this barbarian, but she 
would have him, though her year was not 
out. — Ah ! her first husband, my son Lan- 
guish, would not have carried it thus. 
Well, that was my choice, this is hers : 
she is matched now with a witness. — I 
shall be mad, dear friend, is there no 
comfort for me? must I live to be confis- 
cated at this rebel-rate? — Here come two 
more of my Egyi^tian plagues too. 

{Enter Millamant and Sir Wilfull) 

Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 

Lady Wish. Out, caterpillar, call not me 
aunt ! I know thee not ! 

Sir Wil. I confess I have been a little in 
disguise, as they say. — S'heart ! and I 'm 
sorry f or 't. What would you have? I 
hope I committed no offence, aunt — and 
if I did I am willing to make satisfac- 
tion; and what can a man say fairer? 
If I have broke anything I '11 pay for 't, 
an it cost a pound. And so let that eon- 
tent for what 's past, and make no more 
words. For what 's to come, to pleasure 
you I 'm willing to rnarry my cousin. So 
pray let's all be friends; she and I are 
agreed upon the matter before a witness. 

Lady Wish. How 's this, dear niece ? 
Have I any comfort? Can this be true? 

95 Not himself (not sober). 



Mrs. Mil. I am content to be a sacrifice 
to your repose, madam ; and to convince 
you that I had no hand in the plot, as 
you were misinformed, I have laid my 
commands on Mirabell to come in person, 
and be a witness that I give my hand to 
this flower of knighthood: and for the 
contract that passed between Mirabell 
and me, I have obliged him to make a 
resignation of it in your ladyship's pres- 
ence; — he is without, and waits your 
leave for admittance. 

Lady Wish. Well, I '11 swear I am some- 
thing revived at this testimony of your 
obedience: but I cannot admit that trai- 
tor. — I fear I cannot fortify myself to 
support his api^earance. He is as terri- 
ble to me as a gorgon ; if I see him I fear 
I shall turn to stone, and petrify inces- 
santly. 

Mrs. Mil. If you disoblige him, he may 
resent your refusal, and insist iipon the 
contract still. Then 't is the last time he 
will be offensive to you. 

Lady Wish. Are you sure it will be the 
last time? — If I were sure of that — shall 
I never see him again? 

Mrs. Mil. Sir Wilfull, you and he are to 
travel together, are you not? 

Sir. Wil. S'heart, the gentleman 's a civil 
gentleman, aunt, let him come in ; wli3% 
we are sworn brothers and fellow-trav- 
ellers. — We are to be Pylades and Oi'es- 
tes, he and I. — He is to be my inter- 
preter in foreign parts. He has been 
over-seas once already; and with proviso 
that I marry my cousin, will cross 'em 
once again, only to bear me company. — 
S'heart, I '11 call him in, — an I set on 't 
once, he shall come in ; and see who '11 
hinder him. 

(Exit.) 

Mrs. Mar. This is precious fooling, if it 
would i^ass ; but I '11 know the bottom of 
it. 

Lady Wish. dear Marwood, you are not 
going? 

Mrs. Mar. Not far, madam; I'll return 
immediately. 

(Exit.) 

{Be-enter Sir Wilfull and MirahcU.) 

Sir Wil. Look up, man, I'll stand by 
you; 'sbud,^^ an she do frown, she can't 
kill you; besides — harkee, she dare n6t 
frown desperately, because her face is 
none of her own. S'heart, an she should, 
her forehead would wrinkle like the coat 

96 A corrupted oath. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



539 



of a cream-cheese; but uium for that, 
fellow-traveller. 

Mir. If a deep sense of the many injuries 
I have offered to so good a lady, Avith a 
sincere remorse, and a hearty contrition, 
can but obtain the least glance of com- 
passion, I am too happy. — Ah, madam, 
there was a time ! — but let it be forgot- 
ten — I confess I have deservedly for- 
feited the high place I once held of sigh- 
ing at your feet. Nay, kill me not, by 
turning from me in disdain. — I come not 
to plead for favor ; nay, not for pardon ; 
I am a suppliant only for your pity — I 
am going where I never shall behold you 
more — • 

Sir Wil. How, fellow-traveller! you shall 
go by youi;self then. 

Mir. Let me be pitied first, and after- 
wards forgotten. — I ask no more. 

Sir Wil. By'r Lady, a very reasonable re- 
quest, and will cost you nothing, aunt ! 
Come, come, forgive and forget, aunt. 
Why, you must, an you are a Christian. 

Mir. Consider, madam, in reality, you 
could not receive much prejudice; it was 
an innocent device; though I confess it 
had a face of guiltiness, — it was at most 
an artifice which love conti'ived; and 
errors which love produces have ever 
been accomited venial. At least think it 
is pmiislunent enough, that I have lost 
what in my heart I hold most dear, that 
to your cruel indignation I have offered 
up this beauty, and with her ray peace 
and quiet; nay, all my hopes of future 
comfort. 

Sir Wil. An he does not move me, would 
I may never be o' the quorum ! ^'^ — an it 
were not as good a deed as to drink, to 
give her to him again, I would I might 
never take shipping ! — Aunt, if you don't 
forgive quickly, I shall melt, I can tell 
you that. My contract went no farther 
than a little mouth glue, and that 's 
hardly diy ; — one doleful sigh more from 
my fellow-traveller, and 't is dissolved. 

Ladij Wish. Well, nephew, upon your ac- 
count — Ah, he has a false insinuating 
tongue! — Well, sir, I will stifle my just 
resentment at my nephew's request. — I 
will endeavor what I can to forget, but 
on proviso that you resign the contract 
with my niece immediately. 

Mir. It is in writing, and with papers of 
concern ; but I have sent my servant for 
it, and will deliver it to you, with all 



acknowledgments for your transcendent 
goodness. 
Ladi/ Wish. Oh, he has witchcraft in his 
eyes and tongue ! — When I did not see 
him, I could have bribed a villain to his 
assassination; but his appearance rakes 
the embers which have so long lain 
smothered in my breast. 

(Apart.) 

{Enter Fainall and Mrs. Marwood.) 

Fain. Your date of deliberation, madam, 
is expired. Here is the instrument; are 
you prepared to sign? 

Lady Wish. If I were prepared, I am not 
impowered. My niece exerts a lawful 
claim, having matched herself by my di- 
rection to Sir WilfuU. 

Fain. That sham is too gross to pass on 
me — though 't is imposed on you, madam. 

Mrs. Mil. Sir, I have given my consent. 

Mir. And, sir, I have resigned my pre- 
tensions. 

Sir Wil. And, sir, I assert my right : and 
will maintain it in defiance of you, sir, 
and of your instrument. S'heart, an you 
talk of an instrument, sir, I have an old 
fox ^^ by my thigh that shall hack your 
instrument of ram vellum to shreds, sir ! 
It shall not be sufficient for a mittimus ^^ 
or a tailor's measure. Therefore with- 
draw your instrument, sir, or by'r Lady, 
I shall draw mine. 

Lady Wish. Hold, nephew, hold ! 

Mrs. Mil. Good Sir Wilfull, respite your 
valor. 

Fain. Indeed ! Are you provided of your 
guard, with your single beef-eater there? 
but I 'm prepared for you, and insist 
upon my first proposal. You shall sub- 
mit your own estate to my management, 
and absolutely make over my wife's to 
my sole use. As pursuant to the purport 
and tenor of this other covenant, I sup- 
pose, madam, your consent is not I'equi- 
site in this case; nor, Mr. Mirabel!, your 
resignation ; nor. Sir Wilfull, your right. 
— You may draw your fox if you please, 
sir, and make a bear-garden flourish 
somewhere else : for here it will not avail. 
This, my Lady Wishfort, must be sub- 
scribed, or your darling daughter 's 
turned adrift, like a leaky hulk, to sink 
or swim, as she and the current of this 
lewd town can agree. 

Lady Wish. Is there no means, no rem- 



97 Sit as one of the justices of the peace. "8 sword. 

9a Order for some one's imprisonment, addressed to the keeper of a prison. 



540 



THE RESTORATION 



edy to stop my ruin? Ungrateful 
wretch ! dost thou not owe thy being, thy 
subsistence, to my daughter's fortune'? 

Fain. I '11 answer you when I have the 
rest of it in my possession. 

Mir. But that you would not accept of a 
remedy from my hands — I own I have 
not deserved you should owe any obli- 
gation to me ; or else perhaps I could ad- 
vise — 

Lady Wish. 0, what 1 what? To save me 
and my child from ruin, from want, I '11 
forgive all that 's past ; nay, I '11 consent 
to anything to come, to be delivered from 
this tyranny. 

Mir. Ay, madam; but that is too late, my 
reward is intercepted. You have dis- 
posed of her who only could have made 
me a compensation for all my services; 
but be it as it may, I am resolved I '11 
serve you! you shall not be wronged in 
this savage manner. 

Lady Wish. How ! dear Mr. Mirabell, can 
you be so generous at last ! But it is not 
possible. Harkee, I '11 break my neph- 
ew's match; you shall have my niece yet, 
and all her fortune, if you can but save 
me from this imminent danger. 

3Iir. Will you? I take you at your word, 
I ask no more. I must have leave for 
two criminals to appear. 

Lady Wish. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody! 

Mir. Foible is one, and a penitent. 

(Enter Mrs. Fainall, Foible, and Mincing.) 

Mrs. Mar. Oh, my shame! {Mir ah ell and 

Lady Wish fort go to Mrs. Fainall and 

Foible.) These corrupt things are 

bought and brought hither to expose me. 

{To'^Fainall.) 

Fain. If it must all come out, why let 'em 
know it ; 't is but the way of the world. 
That shall not urge me to relinquish or 
abate one tittle of my terms; no, I will 
insist the more. 

Foib. Yes, indeed, madam, I'll take my 
bible-oath of it. 

Min. And so will I, mem. 

Lady Wish. Marwood, Marwood, art 
thou false? my friend deceive me! hast 
thou been a wicked accomplice with that 
profligate man? 

Mrs. Mar. Have you so much ingratitude 
and injustice to give credit against your 
friend, to the aspersions of two such 
mercenary trulls? 

Min. Mercenary, mem? I scorn your 
words. 'T is true we found you and Mr. 



Fainall in the blue garret; by the same 
token, you swore us to secrecy upon 
Messalinas's ^ poems. Mercenary ! No, 
if we would have been mercenary, we 
should have held our tongues; you would 
have bribed us sufficiently. 

Fain. Go, you are an insignificant thing! 
— Well, what are you the better for this ; 
is this Mr. Mirabell's expedient? I '11 be 
put off no longer. — You thing, that was a 
wife, shall smart for this ! I will not leave 
thee wherewithal to hide thy shams ; your 
body shall be as naked as your reputation. 

Mrs. Fain. I despise you, and defy your 
malice ! — you have aspersed me wrong- 
fully — I have proved your falsehood — 
go, you and your treacherous — I will not 
name it, but starve together — perish ! 

Fain. Not while you are worth a groat, 
indeed, my dear. — Madam, I '11 be fooled 
no longer. 

Lady Wish. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small 
comfort, the detection of this affair. 

Mir. Oh, in good time — your leave for the 
other offender and penitent to appear, 
madam. 

{Enter Waitivell ivith a box of writings.) 

Lady Wish. Sir Rowland !— Well, ras- 
cal! 

Wait. What your ladyship pleases. I 
have brought the black box at last, 
madam. 

3Iir. Give it me. — Madam, you remember 
your promise. 

Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir. 

Mir. Where are the gentlemen? 

Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes — 
just risen from sleep. 

Fain. 'Sdeath, what's this to me? I'll 
not wait your private concerns. 

{Enter Petulant and Witwoud.) 

Pet. How now? What's the matter? 
Whose hand 's out ? 

Wit. Heyday! what, are you all got to- 
gether, like players al the end of the last 
act? 

Mir. You may remember, gentlemen, I 
once requested your hands at witnesses to 
a certain parchment. 

Wit. Ay, I do, my hand T remember— 
Petulant set his mark. 

Mir. You wrong him, his name is fairly 
vrritten, as shall appear. — You do not 
remember, gentlemen, anything of what 
that parchment contained? — 
{Undoing tJie box.) 



1 Of course Messalina. the wife of the Emperor Claudius, left no 
poems; but Congreve's joke is that she was a very vicious woman. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 



541 



Wit. No. 

Pet. Not I; I writ, I read nothing. 

Mir. Very well, now you shall know. — 
Madam, your promise. 

Lady Wish. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honor. 

Mir. Mr. Faiuall, it is now time that you 
should know that your lady, while she 
Avas at her own disposal, and before you 
had by your insinuations wheedled her 
out of a pretended settlement of the 
greatest part of her fortur.e — 

Fain. Sir ! pretended ! 

Mir. Yes, sir. I say that this lady while 
a widow, having it seems received some 
cautions respecting your inconstancy and 
tyranny of temper, which from her own 
partial opinion and fondness of you she 
could never have suspected — she did, I 
say, by the wholesome advice of friends, 
and of sages learned in the laws of this 
land, deliver this same as her act and 
deed to me in trust, and to the uses 
within mentioned. You may read if you 
please — {Holding out the parchment) 
though perhaps what is inscribed on the 
back may serve your occasions. 

Fain. Very likely, sir. What's here"? — 
Damnation! (Beads.) A deed of con- 
veyance of the whole estate real of Ara- 
bella Languish, icidoic, in trust to Ed- 
ward Mirabell. — Confusion! 

Mir. Even so, sir ; 't is the way of the 
world, sir, of the widows of the world. I 
suppose this deed may bear an elder date 
than what you have obtained from your 
lady. 

Fain. Perfidious fiend ! then thus I '11 be 
revenged. 

(Offers to run at Mrs. Fainall.) 

Sir Wil. Hold, sir! Now you may make 
your bear-garden flourish somewhere else, 
sir. 

Fain. Mirabel!, you shall hear of this, sir, 

be sure you shall. — Let me pass, oaf! - 

(Exit.) 

Mrs. Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle 
your resentment; you had better give it 
vent. 

Mrs. Mar. Yes, it shall have vent — and 
to your confusion ; or I '11 perish in the 
attempt. 

(Exit.) 

Lady Wish. daughter, daughter ! 'T is 
plain thou hast inherited thy mother's 
prudence. 

Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cau- 
tious friend, to whose advice all is owing. 

Lady Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have 

2 dolt, booby. 



kept your promise — and I must perform 
mme. — First, I pardon, for your sake. 
Sir Rowland there, and Foible; the next 
thing is to break the matter to my 
nephew — and how to do that — 
Mir. For that, madam, give yourself no 
trouble; let me have your consent. Sir 
Wilf ull is my friend ; he has had compas- 
sion upon lovers, and generously engaged 
a volunteer in this action, for our service; 
and now designs to prosecute his travels. 
Sir Wil. S' heart, aunt, I have no mind to 
marry. My cousin 's a fine lady, and the 
gentleman loves her, and she loAes him, 
and they deserve one another; my reso- 
lution IS to see foreign parts — I have set 
on 't — and when I 'm set on 't I must 
do 't. And if these two gentlemen would 
travel too, I think they may be spared. 
Pet. For my part, I say little — I think 

thing's are best off or on.^ 
Wit. I'gad, I understand nothing of the 
matter ; I 'm in a maze yet, like a dog in 
a dancing-school. 
Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with 

her all the joy I can give you. 
Mrs. Mil. Why does not the man take me? 
Would you have me give myself to you 
over again? 
Mir. Ay, and over and over again; for 
(Kisses her hand) I would have you as 
often as possibly I can. Well, Heaven 
grant I love you not too well, that's all 
my fear. 
Sir Wil. S' heart, you '11 have him time 
enough to toy after you 're married ; or 
if you will toy now, let us have a dance 
in the meantime, that we who are not 
lovers may have some other employment 
besides looking on. 
Mir. With ajl my heart, dear Sir Wilfull. 

What shall Ave do for music? 
Foih. Oh, sir, some that were provided 
for Sir Rov/land's entertainment are yet 
within call. 

(A dance.) 
Lady Wish. As I am a person, I can hold 
out no longer; I have wasted my spirits 
so to-day already, that I am ready to 
sink under the fatigue; and I cannot but 
have some fears upon me yet, that my 
son Fainall will pursue some desperate 
course. 
Mir. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that 
account ; to my knowledge his circum- 
stances are such he must of force comply. 
For my part, I will contribute all that 
in me lies to a reunion ; in the meantime, 

3 Either one way or the other. 



542 



THE RESTORATION 



madam, let me — {To Mrs. Fainall) be- 
fore these witnesses restore to you this 
deed of trust : it may be a means, well- 
managed, to make you live easily to- 
gether. 
From hence let those be warned, who 

mean to wed; 
Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal 

bed; 
For each deceiver to his cost may find 
That marriage-frauds too oft are paid in 

kind. 

{Exeunt omnes.) 

EPILOGUE. 

Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle. 

After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, 
I 'm thinking how this play '11 be pulled 

to pieces. 
But pray consider, ere you doom its fall. 
How hard a thing 't would be to please 

you all. 
There are some critics so with spleen dis- 
eased. 
They scarcely come inclining to be 

pleased : 
And sure he must have more than mortal 

skill, 
Who pleases any one against his will. 
Then all bad poets we are sure are foes, 
And how their number 's swelled, the 

town well knows: 
In shoals I 've marked 'em judging in the 

pit; 
Though they 're, on no pretence, for 

judgment fit, 
But that they have been damned for want 

of wit. 



Since when, they by their own offences 
taught. 

Set up for spies on plays, and finding 
fault. 

Others there are whose malice we 'd pre- 
vent ; 

Such who watch plays with scurrilous in- 
tent 

To mark out who by characters arc 
meant. 

And though no perfect likeness they can 
trace, 

Yet each pretends to know the copied 
face. 

These with false glosses feed their own 
ill nature. 

And turn to libel what was meant a 
satire. 

May such malicious fops this fortune 
find. 

To think themselves alone the fools de- 
signed : 

If any are so arrogantly vain. 

To think they singly can support a scene, 

And furnish fool enough to entertain. 

For well the learn'd and the judicious 
know 

That satire scorns to stoop so meanly 
low. 

As any one abstracted fop to show. 

For, as when painters form a matchless 
face, 

They from each fair one catch some dif- 
ferent grace ; 

And shining features in one portrait 
blend, 

To which no single beauty must pretend ; 

So poets oft do in one piece expose 

Whole belles-assemblees of coquettes and 
beaux. 



IV. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

JOSEPH xVDDISON 



CATO 



Joseph Addison (1672-1719), distinguished 
himself at Oxford for "elegant scliolarship," 
knowledge of Latin poetry, and skill in com- 
posing it. He first rose to prominence 
through his poem. The Campaign (1704), 
which celebrated Marlborough's victory at 
Blenheim, and for which the Whigs gave him 
a government office. He was in Parliament 
from 1708 till his death, and became a Secre- 
tary of State. In a literary way he is best 
known, of course, for his essays, of a some- 
what fresh type, the short familiar essay, 
contributed especially to The Tatler and Tlie 
Spectator (1709-12). 

The eighteenth century, though not highly 
distinguished in drama, was notably an era 
of comedy. Its best work followed the ex- 
ample less of the Elizabethan than of the Res- 
toration comic writers, but raised their moral 
tone. Tlie chief new feature in comedy was 
the taste for the superficially ethical and 
emotional, generally known as sentimental- 
ism. In tragedy the age did not excel. 
Addison's Cato is the most celebrated 
tragedj^ and as representative as any. 

Cato, mostly written as early as 1703, was 
finished, performed in London twenty times 
and published in eight editions, in 1713. As 
a curious illustration of the lack of historical 
knowledge and imagination in that day, it is 
interesting to know that (in Macaulay's 
words) " Juba's waistcoat blazed with gold 
lace; Marcia's hoop was worthy of a Duchess 
on the birthday; and Cato wore a wig worth 
fifty guineas." Tlie play was based on Plu- 
tarch's life of Cato, and perhaps on reminis- 
cences of a poor tragedy which Addison had 
seen in Venice. Its great success with 
both spectators and readers was partly due 
to Addison's prestige and the loyalty of his 
friends, partly to its merits, partly to cir- 
cumstances. Though he disclaimed partizan 
intentions, the play was timely. The end of 
Queen Anne's reign was approaching (she 
died in 1714), there was no direct heir, and 
the prospective coming of the Hanoverian 
dynasty involved danger to English liberty 
through insurrections in favor of the tyran- 
nical Stuarts, such as actually followed in 
1715. A play exciting sympathy for old 
Roman liberty was sure of attention. The 
Whigs, Dr. Johnson said, applauded all refer- 
ences to freedom, and the Tories applauded 
just as loudly lest they should be thought 



543 



less zealous in its behalf. The Duke of Marl- 
borough's attempt to gain the office of Cap- 
tain General for life was felt to give point 
to Cato's denunciation of Caesar the military 
dictator. Though .some critics felt the play, 
as we do, to be luidramatic, its success at the 
time passed into permanent appreciation; 
Voltaire praised it as the first regular Eng- 
lish tragedy, because it followed French rules 
(an outward and visible sign of which is its 
observance of the French practice of begin- 
ning a new scene on an important exit or en- 
trance) ; and its popularity in the past is 
shown by numerous bits wiiich have become 
proverbial, such as 

Tlie woman that deliberates is lost, 
and 

Plato, thou reason'st well. 
But taste has changed; the play in our time 
would be impossible to put on the stage, and 
is read chiefly because Addison wrote it. 

Addison was looked up to in his own age as 
a man of high character, perfect taste, and 
highly developed sense of propriety, but 
lacked the spontaneity and warmth for the 
love of which some men will readily forgive 
lapses from propriety, taste, and even virtue. 
It would excite an unfair prejiulice against 
him to compare him to a. Pharisee or the 
Prodigal Son's elder brother,, for his caution 
and moderation were due to his modesty and 
diffidence, and all testify to his personal 
charm; but he was more akin to them than 
to the Publican or the Prodigal himself. He 
had another side, which expressed itself in 
the grace, the gentle irony, the human nature, 
of his essays. But he was well fitted to de- 
termine and express the more ambitious liter- 
ary orthodoxy of the age of Queen Anne, a 
classicism Latin and critical rather than 
Greek and original, uninterested in feeling, 
restrained, dignified. The more formal liter- 
ary ideals of the age, and the personality of 
Addison, are not unfairly represented by 
Cato. 

No criticism of it has oftener been made 
than that it is emotionally frigid, and the 
charge is true. None of the characters ex- 
cites vivid interest, none except Cato excites 
much sympathy. Hardest of all is for us to 
give ourselves up to the love-episodes. A 
man whose first known love-art'air was at the 
age of forty-four with an elderly widowed 



544 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



peeress was perhaps not likely to excel in 
portraying passion. When Sempronius, Juba, 
and Marcia, Fortius, Marcus, and Lucia talk, 
and even when they rant, we have to take 
tlieir word for it that they are in love. There 
is not one of those simple natural phrases 
which show a poet's insight, not one syllable 
which speaks the language of the heart. The 
language of emotion in poetry of course is not 
always necessarily that of emotion in real 
life; Romeo speaks not as a lover would, but 
as a romantic lover would if he could. But 
no lover would wish to speak as Addison's 
do. The polished style, faultily faultless 
some call it, indirect and highly literary, 
heightens the sense of coolness, but the feel- 
ing throughout is one of detachment. 

The composition of the play is what we 
might expect of the early eighteenth century, 
and of Addison. JNlore than at any other 
time men felt then that literary art might 
be produced by rule rather than by inspira- 
tion. Addison had no innate dramatic gift, 
and little dramatic experience. The creator 
of Sir Roger de Cover ley might have done 
well in comedy, especially in a delicate and 
subtle kind such as was scarcely written in 
the eighteenth century. His literary convic- 
tions, rather than his genius, drew him to 
tragedy. Even in his day the play was cen- 
sured as not well constructed. Tlie love- 
stories have little to do with the main action, 
yet most of what suspense and surprise ex- 
ists is in them. The strict observance of the 
unities of time and place leads to an arti- 
ficiaIit3^ Yet throughout we can see con- 
scientious and well-informed workmanship, 
according to classical taste. The characters 
may not be vividly human or individual, but 
still they are clearly and broadly distin- 
guished from each other. Fortius is cool and 
reflective, Marcus is emotional. Juba the 
Numidian has the fiery impulsiveness com- 
monly associated with the south. The treach- 
ery of Sempronius and Syphax are well moti- 
vated. Addison follows the convention of 
giving his various characters confidantes, by 
conversation with whom their feelings are dis- 
closed to the audience without excessive use 
of the artificial soliloquy. He also complied 
in this play with the preference of the mod- 
ern classicists for dealing out strict poetic 
justice, so that all shall end as nearly as pos- 
sible in complete satisfaction. This they 
esteemed more than the crash of rviin, involv- 
ing guilty and innocent alike, with which 



Elizabethan tragedy ends, and from which the 
spectator almost feels that he himself has 
barely escaped, alive but shaken. In Vato 
the traitors meet tlieir deserved harsh end, 
which we relish the more for Sempronius be- 
cavise of his carelessness and stupidity. Tlie 
good ]\Iarcus by a heroic death escapes the 
pain he could not have avoided receiving and 
giving, had he lived to learn that his brother 
was his favored rival. Cato's willing death 
was his only way out of a situation impos- 
sible for him. Nothing better than this play 
could illustrate tlie fundamental optimism 
of the eighteenth century, the most optimistic 
because the most theoretical period in his- 
tory. 

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right, 

announced its greatest English poet ; and 
people expected literary art to support their 
faith that this was a truth. 

The most permanently valuable thing in 
the play, which enables us still to read it 
with esteem if not with admiration, is the 
stately pathos of the central situation — the 
grand old man of Rome at the end of the 
strait and narrow path whence he had never 
deviated, and finding an impassable wall ; 
and his calm acceptance of the only way out ; 
though Addison makes a concession to Chris- 
tian morals at the end, where Cato regrets 
his suicide when it is too late, and there is a 
tragic irony in the summons to him as he is 
dying to lead the forces of Fompey against 
Ca'sar. In portraying Cato Addison had not 
to make the efl'ort which he could not conceal 
in the love-seenes. And here his calm style 
is not out of place. Cato is hardly a dra- 
matic hero, for he has no struggle, and the 
emotions he excites are hardly' those that 
warm ; the average playgoer is unfortunately 
but little stirred by " inward greatness, unaf- 
fected wisdom, and sanctity of manners." 
But Addison's tribute is no less sincere and 
worthy than Dante's. In the Purgatorio the 
greatest of Christian poets, who has just 
witnessed the pains of suicides and pagans in 
hell, places this pagan suicide as the director 
of righteous souls upon the path of complete 
purification ; this he did because he regarded 
Cato as the type of perfect freedom of the 
will, which Dante exalts throughout his poem. 
Addison's Cato, though the world and the 
future may be against him, is firm in his con- 
victions. As a late Roman poet says, 

Victrix causa deis placuit, sed victa Catoni. 



CATO 



545 



CATO 

A Tragedy 



PROLOGUE. 

By Mr. Pope. 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold. 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they be- 
hold ;— 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream through every 

age; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue Avondered how they wej^t. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to 

move 
The hero's gloiy, or the virgin's love. 
In pitying love, we but our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more generous 

cause. 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws. 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor 

rise. 
And calls forth Roman drops from British 

eyes. 
Virtue confessed in human shape he draws. 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
No common object to your sight displays. 
But, what with pleasure heaven itself sur- 
veys, 
A brave man struggling in the storms of 

fate, 
And greatly falling with a falling state! 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's 
cause"? 



Who sees him act, but envies every deed? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to 

bleed? 
Ev'n when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal 

cars. 
The sjDoils of nations, and the pomp of 

wars, 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great. 
Showed Rome her Cato's figui'e drawn in 

state; 
As her dead father's reverend image past. 
The pomp was darkened, and the day o'er- 

cast, 
The triumph ceased — tears gushed from 

every eye, 
The world's great victor passed unheeded 

by; 

Her last good man dejected Rome adored. 
And honored Caesar's less than Cato's 

sword. 
Britons, attend : be worth like this ap- 
proved, 
And show you have the virtue to be moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato 

viewed 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she 

subdued. 
Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song: 
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the 

stage. 
Be justly warmed with your own native 

rage. 
Such plays alone should please a British 

ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. 



MEN 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^ 



Cato. 

Lucius, a Senator. 

Sempeonius, a Senator. 

JUBA, Prince of Numidia. 

Syphax, General of the 'Numidians, 

Fortius, \^^^^ ^^ ^ato. 

Marcus, J 



Decius, Ambassador from Ccesar. 
Mutineers, Guards, etc. 

WOMEN 

Marcia, Daughter to Cato. 
Lucia, Daughter to Lucius 



Scene. — A 



Large Hall in the 
Palace of Utica. 



Governor's 



546 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ACT I. 



Scene 1. 
{Fortius, Marcus.) 

For. The dawn is overcast, the moraing 

lowers, 
And heavily in clouds brings on the day, 
The great, the important day, big with 

the fate 
Of Cato and of Rome. Our father's 

death 
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, 
And close the scene of blood. Already 

Caesar 
Has ravaged more than half the globe, 

and sees 
Mankind gTown thin by his destructive 

sword : 
Should he go further, numbers would be 

wanting 
To form new battles,^ and support his 

crimes. 
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make 
Among your works! 
31ar. Thy steady temper, Fortius, 

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and 

Ciesar, 
In the calm lights of mild philosophy ; 
I 'm tortured ev'n to madness, when I 

think 
On the proud victor : eveiy time he 's 

named 
Pharsalia rises to my view ! — I see 
The insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the 

field 
Strowed with Rome's citizens, and 

drenched in slaughter. 
His horse's hoofs wet with patrician 

blood. 
Oh, Fortius ! is there not some chosen 

curse, 
Some hidden thunder in the stores of 

heaven. 
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the 

man 
Who owes his greatness to his country's 

ruin "? 
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 't is an impious 

greatness, 
And mixed with too much horror to be 

envied. 
How does the luster of our father's ac- 
tions, 
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover 

him. 
Break out, and buni with more tri- 
umphant brightness! 

1 Battalions 



His sufferings shine, and spread a glory 
around him ; 

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause 

Of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome. 

His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty 
head ; 

Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped, 

Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 
'em. 
Mar. Who knows not this? But what 
can Cato do 

Against a world, a base, degenerate 
Avorld, 

That courts the yoke, and bows the neck 
to Cajsar? 

Pent up in Utica he vainly forms 

A poor epitome of Roman greatness, 

And, covered with Numidian guards, di- 
rects 

A feeble army, and an empty senate, 

Remnants of mighty battles fought in 
vain. 

By heavens, such virtues, joined with 
such success. 

Distract my very soul : our father's for- 
tune 

Would almost tempt us to renounce his 
precepts. 
Por. Remember what our father oft has 
told us : 

The ways of heaven are dark and intri- 
cate, 

Fuzzled in mazes, and perplexed with 
errors ; 

Our undeistanding traces 'em in vain, 

Lost and bewildered in the fruitless 
search ; 

Nor sees with how much art the wind- 
mgs run, 

Nor where the regular confusion ends. 
Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at 
ease: 

Oh, Fortius ! didst thou taste but half the 
griefs 

That wring my soul, thou eouldst not talk 
thus coldly. 

Fassion unpitied, and successless love, 

Flant daggers in my heart, and aggra- 
vate 

My other griefs. Were but my Lucia 
kind !— 
For. Thou seest not that thy brother is 
thy rival ; 

But I must hide it, for I know thy tem- 
per. 

(Aside.) 

Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue 's on the 
proof : 



CATO 



547 



Put forth thy utmost strength, work 
every nerve, 

And call up all thy father in thy soul : 

To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy 
heart 

On this weak side, where most our nature 
fails. 

Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. 
Mar. Fortius, the counsel which I can- 
not take, 

Instead of healing, but upbraids my 
weakness. 

Bid me for honor plunge into a war 

Of thickest foes, and rush on certain 
death, 

Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not 
slow 

To follow glory, and confess his father. 

Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost 

In high ambition, and a thirst of great- 
ness ; 

'T is second life, it grows into the sovil, 

Warms every vein, and beats in every 
pulse, 

I feel it here : my resolution melts — 
For. Behold young Juba, the Nuraidian 



prince 



With how much care he forms himself to 

glory. 
And breaks the fierceness of his native 

temper 
To copy out our father's bright example. 
He loves our sister Mareia, greatly loves 

her, 
His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray 

it: 
But still the smothered fondness burns 

within him. 
When most it swells, and labors for a 

vent, 
The sense of honor and desire of fame 
Drive the big passion back into his heart. 
What!, shall an African, shall Juba's 

heir, 
Reproach great Cato's son, and show the 

world 
A virtue wanting in a Roman soulf 
3Iar. Fortius, no more ! your words leave 

stings behind 'em. 
Whene'er did Juba, or did Fortius, show 
A virtue that has cast me at a distance, 
And thrown me out in the pursuits of 

honor? 
For. Marcus, I know thy generous tem- 
per well; 
Fling but the appearance of dishonor on 

It straight takes fire, and mounts into 
a blaze. 



Mar. A brother's sufferings claim a 

brother's pity. 
For. Heaven knows I pity thee: behold 
my eyes 
Even whilst I speak. — Do they not swim 

in tears'? 
Were but my heart as naked to thy view, 
Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. 
Mar. Wliy then dost treat me with re- 
bukes, instead 
Of kind, condoling cares and friendly 
sorrow *? 
For. Marcus! did I know the way to 
ease 
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy 

pains, 
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. 
Mar. Thou best of brothers, and thou best 
of friends! 
Fardon a weak, distempered soul, that 

swells 
With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in 

calms, 
The sport of passions — but Sempronius 

comes : 
He must not find this softness hanging 
on me. 

[Exit.) 



Scene 2. 

{Sempronius, Fortius.) 

Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be 
formed 

Than executed. What means Fortius 
here? 

I like not that cold youth. I must dis- 
semble. 

And speak a language foreign to my 
heart. 

(Aside.) 

Good-morrow, Fortius! let us once em- 
brace. 

Once more embrace; whilst yet we both 
are free. 

To-morrow should we thus express our 
friendship, 

Each might receive a slave into his arms : 

This sun, perhaps, this morning sun 's the 
last. 

That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty. 
For. My father has this morning called 
together 

To this poor hall his little Roman senate, 

(The leavings of Fharsalia) to consult 

If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent 

That bears down Rome, and all her gods, 
before it, 



548 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Or must at length give up the world to 
Caesar. 
Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of 
Rome 

Can raise her senate more than Cato's 
presence. 

His virtues render our assembly awful, 

They strike with something like religious 
fear, 

And make ev'n (';esar tremble at the head 

Of armies fluslied witli conquest : O my 
Fortius, 

Could I but call that wondrous man my 
father, 

Would but thy sister Marcia be propi- 
tious 

To thy friend's vows, I might be blessed 
indeed! 
For. Alas ! Sempronius, wouldst thou talk 
of love 

To Marcia, whilst her father's life 's in 
danger? 

Thou might 'st as well court the pale 
trembling vestal, 

When she beholds the holy flame expir- 
ing. 
Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy 
race, 

The more I 'm charmed. Thou must take 
heed, my Fortius! 

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son. 

Thy father's merit sets thee up to view. 

And shows thee in the fairest point of 
light, 

To make thy virtues or thy faults con- 
spicuous. 
For. Well dost thou seem to check my 
lingeiing here 

On this important hour ! — I '11 straight 
away, 

And while the fathers of the senate meet 

In close debate to weigh the events of 
war, 

I'll animate the soldiers' drooping cour- 
age. 

With love of freedom, and contempt of 
life. 

I '11 thunder in their ears their coun- 
try's cause. 

And try to rouse up all that 's Roman in 
'em. 

'T is not in mortals to command suc- 
cess, 

But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll 
deserve it. 

{Exit.) 
Sem., solus. Curse on the stripling! how 
he apes his sire ! 

Ambitiously sententious! — but I wonder 



Old Syphax comes notj his Numidian 

genius 
Is well disposed to mischief, were he 

prompt 
And eager on it ; but he must be spurred, 
And every moment quickened to the 

course. 
Cato has used me ill : he has refused 
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. 
Besides, his baffled arms and ruined cause 
Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favor. 
That showers down greatness on his 

friends, will raise me 
To Rome's first honors. If I give up 

Cato, 
I claim in my reward his captive daugh- 
ter. 
But Syphax comes ! — 



Scene 3. 

{Sypliax, Sempronius.) 

Sypli. Sempronius, all is ready; 

I 've sounded my Numidians, man by 

man. 
And find 'em ripe for a revolt : they all 
Complain aloud of Cato's discipline. 
And wait but the command to change 

their master. 
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there 's no time 

to waste; 
Even whilst we speak, our conqueror 

comes on. 
And gathers ground upon us every mo- 
ment. 
Alas! thou know'st not Caesar's active 

soul, 
With what a dreadful course he rushes 

on 
From war to war: in vain has nature 

formed 
Mountains and oceans to oppose his pas- 
sage; 
He bounds o'er all, victorious in his 

march, 
The Alps and Fyreneans sink before 

him ; 
Thi'ough winds and waves and storms he 

works his way, 
Impatient for the battle: one day more 
Will set the victor thundei'ing at our 

gates. 
But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er 

young Juba? 
That still would recommend thee more to 

Ceesar, 
And challenge better terms. 
Syph. Alas, he 's lost, 



CATO 



549 



He 's lost, Sempronius ; all his thoughts 
are full 

Of Cato's virtues : — but I '11 try once 
more 

(For every instant I expect him here) 

If yet I can subdue those stubborn prin- 
ciples 

Of faith, of honor, and I know not what. 

That have corrupted his Numidian tem- 
per, 

And struck the infection into all his 
soul. 
Sem. Be sure to press upon him every 
motive. 

Juba's surrender, since his father's death, 

Would give up Afrie into Cfesar's hands, 

And make him lord of half the burning 
zone. 
Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that 
your senate 

Is called together f Gods! thou must be 
cautious ! 

Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern 

Our frauds, unless they 're covered thick 
with art. 
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I '11 
conceal 

My thoughts in passion ('t is the surest 
way); 

I '11 bellow out for Rome and for my 
country. 

And mouth at Cassar till I shake the sen- 
ate. 

Your cold hypocrisy 's a stale device, 

A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be 
thought in earnest? 

Clothe thy feigned zeal in rage, in fire, 
in fury ! 
Syph. In troth, thou 'rt able to instruct 
grey hairs. 

And teach the wily African deceit! 
Sem. Once more, be sure to tiy thy skill 
on Juba. 

Meanwhile I '11 hasten to my Roman sol- 
diers. 

Inflame the mutiny, and vmderhand 

Blow up their discontents, till they break 
out 

Unlooked for, and discharge themselves 
on Cato. 

Remember, Syphax, we must work in 
haste : 

Oh think what anxious moments pass be- 
tween 

The birth of plots and their last fatal 
periods. 

Oh ! 't is a dreadful interval of time, 

Filled up with horror all, and big with 
death ! 



Destruction hangs on every word we 
speak. 

On every thought, till the concluding 
stroke 

Determines all, and closes our design. 
(Exit.) 
Syph., solus. I '11 try if yet I can reduce 
to reason 

This headstrong youth, and make him 
spurn at Cato. 

The time is short, CaBsar comes rushing 
on us — 

But hold ! young Juba sees me, and ap- 
proaches. 



Scene 4. 

{Juba, Syphax.) 

Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus 
alone. 

I have observed of late thy looks are fal- 
len, 

O'ercast with gloomy cares and discon- 
tent ; 

Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, 
tell me. 

What are the thoughts that knit thy 
brow in frowns. 

And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy 
prince ? 
Syph. 'T is not my talent to conceal my 
thoughts, 

Or carry smiles and sunshine in my 
face. 

When discontent sits heavy at my heart. 

I have not yet so much the Roman in me. 
Juba. Why dost thou east out such un- 
generous terms 

Against the lords and sovereigias of the 
world ? 

Dost thou not see mankind fall down be- 
fore them, 

And own the force of their superior vir- 
tue? 

Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric, 

Amidst our ban-en rocks and burning 
sands. 

That does not tremble at the Roman 
name ? 
Syph. Gods! Where's the worth that sets 
this people up 

Above your own Numidia's tawny sons ! 

Do they with tougher sinews bend the 
bow? 

Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark, 

Launched from the vigor of a Roman 
arm? 

Who like our active African instructs 



550 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



The fiery steed, and trains him to his 
hand? 

Or guides in troops the embattled ele- 
phant, 

Loaden with war? these, these are arts, 
my prince. 

In which your Zama does not stoop to 
Rome. 
Juha. These all are virtues of a meaner 
rank, 

Perfections that are placed in bones and 
nerves. 

A Roman soul is bent on higher views: 

To civilize the rude, unpolished world. 

And lay it under the restraint of laws ; 

To make man mild and sociable to man; 

To cultivate the wild, licentious savage 

With wisdom, discipline, and liberal 
arts — 

The embellishments of life; virtues like 
these 

Make human nature shine, reform the 
soul, 

And break our fierce barbarians into 
men. 
Syph. Patience, kind heavens! — excuse an 
old man's warmth. 

What are these wondrous civilizing arts. 

This Roman polish, and this smooth be- 
havior, 

That render man thus tractable and 
tame? 

Are they not only to disguise our pas- 
sions, 

To set our looks at variance with our 
thoughts. 

To check the starts and sallies of the 
soul, 

And break off all its commerce with the 
tongue ; 

In short, to change us into other crea- 
tures 

Than what our nature and the gods de- 
signed us? 
Juha. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy 
ej^es to Cato! 

There may'st thou see to what a godlike 
height 

The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. 

While good, and just, and anxious for 
his friends, 

He's still severely bent against himself; 

Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, 
and ease. 

He strives with thirst and hunger, toil 
and heat ; 

i\nd when his fortune sets before him all 

The pomps and pleasures that his soul 
can wish, 



His rigid virtue will accept of none. 
SypJi. Believe me, i^rince, there 's not an 
African 

That traverses our vast Numidian des- 
erts 

In quest of prey, and lives upon his 
bow. 

But better practises these boasted vir- 
tues. 

Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the 
chase, 

Amidst the running stream he slakes his 
thirst, 

Toils all the day, and at the approach of 
night 

On the first friendly bank he throws 
him down, 

Or rests his head upon a rock till morn : 

Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted 
game, 

And if the following day he chance to 
find 

A new repast, or an untasted spring. 

Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. 
Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't dis- 
cern 

What virtues gTow from ipiorance and 
choice. 

Nor how the hero differs from the brute. 

But grant that others could with equal 
glory 

Look down on pleasures, and the baits of 
sense ; 

Where shall Ave find the man that bears 
affliction. 

Great and majestic in his griefs, like 
Cato? 

Heavens, with what strength, what stead- 
iness of mind, 

He triumphs in the midst of all his suf- 
ferings ! 

How does he rise against a load of 
woes. 

And tliank the gods that throw the 
weight upon him ! 
Syph. 'T is pride, rank pride, and haugh- 
tiness of soul : 

I think the Romans call it stoicism. 

Had not your royal father thought so 
highly 

Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause. 

He had not fallen by a slave's hand, in- 
glorious ; . 

Nor would his slaughtered anny now 
have lain 

On Afi'ic's sands, disfigured with their 
wounds, 

To g'orge the wolves and vultures of 
Numidia. 



CATO 



551 



Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up 
afresh ? 
My father's name brings tears into my 
eyes. 
Syph. Oh, that you 'd profit by your 

father's ills ! 
Juba. What wouldst thou have me do? 
Syph. Abandon Cato. 

Juba. Syphax, I should be more than 
twice an orphan 
By such a loss. 
Syph. Ay, there 's the tie that binds you ! 
You long to call him father. Marcia's 

charms 
Work in your heart unseen, and plead 

for Cato. 
No wonder you are deaf to all I say. 
Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes im- 
portunate; 
I 've hitherto permitted it to rave, 
And talk at large ; but learn to keep it 

in, 
Lest it should take more freedom than 
I '11 give it. 
Syph. Sir, your great father never used 
me thus. 
Alas ! he 's dead 1 but can you e'er for- 
get 
The tender sorrows, and the pangs of 

nature, 
The fond embraces, and repeated bless- 
ings, 
Wliich you drew from him in your last 

farewell 1 
Still must I cherish the dear, sad remem- 
brance, 
At once to torture and to please my soul. 
The good old king at parting wrung ray 

hand, 
(His eyes biimful of tears) then sighing 

cried. 
Prithee, be careful of my son ! — his 

grief 
Swelled up so high, he could not utter 
more. 
.Juba. Alas, thy story melts away my 
soul. 
That best of fathers ! how shall I dis- 
charge 
The gratitude and duty which I owe him ! 
Syph. By laying up his counsels in your 

heart. 
Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy 
directions : 
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest 

terms, 
Vent all thy passion, and I '11 stand its 

shock. 
Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, 



When not a breath of wind flies o'er its 
surface. 
Syph. Alas, my prince, I 'd guide you to 

your safety. 
Juba. I do believe thou wouldst: but tell 

me how? 
Syph. Fly from the fate that follows 

Cassar's foes. 
Juba. My father scorned to do it. 
Syph. And therefore died. 

Juba. Better to die ten thousand thou- 
sand deaths, 

Than wound my honor. 
Syph. Rather say, your love. 

Juba. Syjohax, I 've promised to preserve 
my temper. 

Why wilt thou urge .me to confess a 
flame 

I long have stifled, and would fain con- 
ceal? 
Syph. Believe me, prince, though hard to 
conquer love, 

'T is easy to divert and break its force : 

Absence might cure it, or a second mis- 
tress 

Light up another flame, and put out 
this. 

The glowing dames of Zama's royal court 

Have faces flushed with more exalted 
charms. 

The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their 
heads. 

Works up more fire and color in their 
cheeks : 

Were you with these, my prince, you 'd 
soon forget 

The pale, unripened beauties of the 
north. 
Juba. 'T is not a set of features, or com- 
plexion. 

The tincture of a skin, that I admire. 

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover. 

Fades in his eye, and palls upon the 
sense. 

The virtuous Marcia towers above her 
sex : 

True, she is fair (oh, how divinely fair!), 

But still the lovely maid improves her 
charms 

With inward greatness, unaffected wis- 
dom, 

And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul 

Shines out in everything she acts or 
speaks. 

While winning mildness and attractive 
smiles 

Dwell in her looks, and with becoming 
grace 

Soften the rigor of her father's virtues. 



552 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Syph. How does your tongue grow wan- 
ton in her praise ! 
But on my knees I beg you would con- 
sider — 
Juha. Hah! Syphax, is 't not shel — she 
moves this way : 
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daugh- 
ter. 
My heart beats thick — I prithee, Syphax, 
leave me. 
Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on 'em 
both ! 
Now will this woman, with a single 

glance, 
Undo what I 've been laboring all this 
while, 

{Exit.) 



Scene 5. 
{Juha, Marcia, Lucia.) 

Juha. Hail, charming maid ! How does 

thy beauty smooth 
The face of war, and make even horror 

smile ! 
At sight of thee my heart shakes off its 

sorrows ; 
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me. 
And for a while forget the approach of 

Cassar. 
Mar. I should be gTieved, young prince, 

to think my presence 
Unbent your thoughts, and slackened 'em 

to arms. 
While, warm with slaughter, our vic- 
torious foe 
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the 

field. 
Juha. Marcia, let me hope thy kind 

concerns 
And gentle wishes follow me to battle! 
The thought will give new vigor to my 

arm. 
And strength and weight to my descend- 
ing sword. 
And drive it in a tempest on the foe. 
Mar. My prayers and wishes always shall 

attend 
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause 

of virtue, 
And men approved of by the gods and 

Cato. 
Juha. That Juba may deserve thy pious 

cares, 
I '11 gaze forever on thy godlike father, 
Transplanting, one by one, into my life, 
His bright perfections, till I shine like 

him. 



Mar. My father never, at a time like this, 
Would lay out his great soul in words, 

and waste 
Such precious moments. 
Juha. Thy reproofs are just, 

Thou virtuous maid ; I '11 hasten to my 

troops. 
And fire their languid souls with Cato's 

virtue ; 
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all 
The war shall stand ranged in its just 

array, 
And dreadful pomp; then will I think 

on thee ! 

lovely maid, then will I think on thee! 
And, in the shock of charging hosts, re- 
member 

What glorious deeds should gi'ace the 

man who hopes 
For Marcia's love. 

{Exit.) 

Scene 6. 
{Lucia, Marcia.) 

Luc. Marcia, you 're too severe : 

How could you chide the young good- 
natured prince, 

And drive him from you with so stern an 
air, 

A prince that loves and dotes on you to 
death? 
Mar. 'T is therefore, Lucia, that I chide 
him from me. 

His ail', his voice, his looks, and honest 
soul 

Speak all so movingly in his behalf. 

1 dare not trust myself to hear him talk. 
Luc. Why will you fight against so sweet 

a passion, 
And steel your heart to such a world of 

charms ? 
Mar. How, Lucia, wouldst thou have me 

sink away 
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in 

love, 
"^Hien evei-y moment Cato's life 's at 

stake? 
Caesar comes anned with terror and re- 
venge. 
And aims his thunder at my father's 

head. 
Should not the sad occasion swallow up 
My other cares, and draw them all into 

it? 
Luc. Wliy have not I this constancy of 

mind, 
Who have so many griefs to try its 

force? 



CATO 



553 



Sure, nature formed me of her softest 

mould, 
Enfeebled all my soul with tender pas- 
sions. 
And sunk me ev'n below my own weak 

sex: 
Pity and love, by turns, oppress my 

heart. 
3Iar. Lucia, disburthen all thy cares on me, 
And let me share thy most retired dis- 
tress ; 
Tell me who raises up this conflict in 

thee? 
Luc. I need not blush to name them, 

when I tell thee 
They 'I'e Mareia's brothers, and the sons 

of Cato. 
3Iar. They both behold thee with their 

sister's eyes, 
And often have revealed their jiassion to 

me. 
But tell me whose address thou favorest 

most ; 
I long to know, and yet I dread to hear 

it. 
Luc. "Which is it Marcia wishes for? 
Mar. For neither — 

And yet for both ; — the youths have equal 

share 
In Mareia's wishes, and divide their sis- 
ter: 
But tell me, which of them is Lucia's 

choice 1 
Luc. Marcia, they both are high in ray 

esteem. 
But in my love — why wilt thou make me 

name him? 
Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish 

passion, 
Pleased and disgusted with it knows not 

what — 
Mar. Lucia, I 'm perplexed, oh tell me 

which 
I must hereafter call my happy brother. 
Luc. Suppose 't were Fortius, could you 

blame my choice? 
O Fortius, thou hast stolen away my 

soul ! 
With what a graceful tenderness he 

loves ! 
And breathes the softest, the sincerest 

vows ! 
Complacency," and truth, and manly 

sweetness 
Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his 

thoughts. 
Marcus is over-warm, his fond com- 
plaints 



Have so much earnestness and passion in 

them, 
I hear him with a secret kind of hoiTor, 
And tremble at his vehemence of temper. 
Mar. Alas, poor youth ! how canst thou 

throw him from thee? 
Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he 

bears thee; 
"VMiene'er he speaks of thee, his heart 's 

in flames. 
He sends out all his soul in every word, 
And thinks, and talks, and looks like one 

transj^orted. 
Unhappy youth! how will thy coldness 

raise 
Tempests and storms in his afflicted 

bosom ! 
I dread the consequence. 
Luc. You seem to plead 

Against your brother Fortius. 
Mar. • Heaven forbid ! 

Had Fortius been the unsuccessful lover, 
The same compassion would have fallen 

on him. 
Luc. Was ever virgin love distressed like 

mine ! 
Fortius himself oft falls in tears before 

me, 
As if he mourned his rival's ill success, 
Then bids me hide the motions of my 

heart. 
Nor show which way it turns. So much 

he fears 
The sad effects that it would have on 

Marcus. 
Mar. He knows too well how easily he 's 

fired, 
And would not plunge his brother in de- 
spair. 
But waits for happier times, and kinder 

moments. 
Luc. Alas! too late I find myself involved 
In endless griefs, and labyrinths of woe. 
Bom to afflict my Mareia's family. 
And sow dissension in the hearts of 

brothers. 
Tormenting thought! it cuts into my 

soul. 
Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sor- 

sows. 
But to the gods permit the event of 

things. 
Our lives, discolored with our present 

woes, 
May still grow white, and smile with hap- 
pier hours. 
So the pure limpid stream, when foul 

with stains 



Desire to please. 



554 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Of rushing torrents and descending rains, 

Works itself clear, and as it runs, re- 
fines ; 

Till, by degrees, the floating mirror 
shines, 

Reflects each flower that on the border 
grows, 

And a new heaven in its fair bosom 
shows. 

(Exeunt.) 

ACT II. 

Scene 1. The Senate. 

Sem. Rome still survives in this assem- 
bled senate ! 
Let us remember we are Cato's friends. 
And act like men who claim that glorious 
title. 
Luc. Cato will soon be here, and open to 
us 
The occasion of our meeting. Hark ! he 
comes ! 

[A sound of trumpets.) 
May all the guardian gods of Rome di- 
rect him! 

{Enter Cato.) 

Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in 
council. 

Caesar's approach has summoned us to- 
gether. 

And Rome attends her fate from o\ir re- 
solves : 

How shall we treat this bold, as])ii'ing 
man ? 

Success still follows him and backs his 
crimes ; 

Pharsalia gave him Rome; Egyjit has 
since 

Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is 
Caesar's. 

Why should I mention -Tuba's overthrow. 

And Sciyiio's death? Numidia's burning 
sands 

Still smoke with blood, 'T is time Ave 
should decree 

What course to take. Our foe advances 
on us. 

And envies us even Libya's sultry des- 
erts. 

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are 
they still fixed 

To hold" it out. and fight it to the last ? 

Or are your hearts subdued at length. 
and wrought 

By time and ill success to a submission'? 

Sempronius, speak. 



Sem. My voice is still for war. 

Gods, can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or 

death ! 
No, let us rise at once, gird on our 

swords. 
And, at the head of our remaining 

troops. 
Attack the foe, break through the thick 

array 
Of his throng*'d legions, and charge home 

upon him. 
Perhaps some arm, more luckj^ tlian tlie 

rest, 
May reach his heart, and free the world 

from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! 't is Rome demands 

your help ! 
Rise, and revenge her slaughtei^ed citi- 
zens. 
Or share their fate ! the corps of half her 

senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here, deliberating in cold debates. 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, 
Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
Rouse up, for shame ! our brothers of 

Pharsalia 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud — 

To battle ! 
Great Pomjiey's shade complains that we 

are slow. 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged 

amongst us ! 
Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds 

of reason : 
True fortitude is seen in great exploits, 
That justice waiTants, and that wisdom 

guides, 
All else is towering frenzy and distrac- 
tion. 
Are not the lives of those who draw the 

sword 
In Rome's defence intrusted to our care? 
Should we tlins lead them to a field of 

slaugliter. 
Might not the impartial world with rea- 
son say 
We lavished at our deaths the blood of 

thousands, 
To grace our fall, and make our ruin 

glorious ? 
Lucius, we next would know what 's your 

opinion. 
TjUc. My thouglds, T must confess, are 

turned on peace. 
Already have our quarrels filled the 

world 



CATO 



555 



With widows and with orphans : Scythia 
mourns 

Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest re- 
gions 

Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of 
Rome : 

'T is time to sheathe the sword, and spare 
mankind. 

It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathei's, 

The gods declare against us, and repel 

Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to 
battle, 

(Prompted by blind revenge and wild 
despair) 

"Were to refuse the awards of Providcneo, 

And not to rest in heaven's determina- 
tion. 

Already have we shown our love to 
Rome, 

Now let us show submission to the gods. 

We took up arms, not to revenge our- 
selves. 

But free the commonwealth ; when this 
end fails, 

Arms have no further use: our coun- 
try's cause. 

That drew our swords, now wrests 'em 
from our hands. 

And bids us not delight in Roman blood, 

Unprofitably shed ; what men could do 

Is done already: heaven and earth will 
witness, 

If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 
Sem. This smooth discourse and mild be- 
havior oft 

Conceal a traitor — something whispers 
me 

All is not right — Cato, beware of Lucius. 
{Aside to Cato.) 
Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffi- 
dent: 

Immoderate valor swells into a fault, 

And fear, admitted into public councils, 

Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em 
both. 

Fathers, I cannot sec that our affairs 

Are grown thus desperate. We have 
bulwarks round us; 

Within our walls are troops inured to 
toil 

In Afrie's heats, and seasoned to the 
sun ; 

Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind 
us, 

Rondy to rise at its young prince's call. 

While there is hope, do not distrust tl'.e 
gods ; 

But wait at least till Caesar's near ap- 
proach 



Force us to yield. 'T will never be too 

late 
To sue for chains and own a conqueror. 
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her 

time ? 
No, let us draw her term of freedom out 
In its full length, and spin it to the last. 
So shall we gain still one day's liberty; 
And let me perish, but in Cato's judg- 
ment, 
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty 
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. 

{Enter Marcus.) 

Mar. Fathers, this moment, as I watched 

the gates, 
Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived 
From Caesar's camp, and with him comes 

old Decius, 
The Roman knight; he carries in his 

looks 
Impatience, and demands to speak with 

Cato. 
Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid 

him enter. 

{Exit Marcus.) 
Decius was once my friend, but otlier 

prospects 
Have loosed those ties, and bound him. 

fast to CfEsar. 
His message may determine our resolves. 

Scene 2. 

{Decius, Cato, <f'c.) 

Dec. Ccesar sends health to Cato. — 
Cato. Could he send it 

To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would 

be welcome. 
Are not your orders to address the sen- 
ate? 
Dec. My business is with Cato : Caesar 
sees 
The straits to which you 're driven ; and. 

as he knows 
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your 
life. 
Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of 
Rome: 
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his 

country. 
Tell your dictator this: and tell him, 

Cato 
Disdains a life wliich he has power to 
offer. 
Dec. Rome and her senators submit to 
Ca3sar ; 
Her generals and her consuls are no 
more. 



556 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Who checked his conquests, and denied 

his triumphs. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's 
friend? 
Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged 

forbid it. 
Dec. Cato, I 've orders to expostulate 
And reason with you, as from friend to 

friend : 
Think on the storm that gathers o'er 

your head, 
And threatens every hour to burst upon 

it; 
Still may you stand high in your coun- 
try's honors. 
Do but comply, and make your peace 

with Ca3sar. 
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on 

Cato, 
As on the second of mankind. 
Cato. No more! 

I must not think of life on such condi- 
tions. 
Dee. Cffisar is well acquainted with your 
virtues, 
And therefore sets this value on your 

life: 
Let him but know the price of Cato's 

friendship. 
And name your terms. 
Cato. Bid him disband his legions; 

Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
Submit his actions to the public cen- 
sure. 
And stand the judgment of a Roman 

senate : 
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 
Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your 

wisdom — 
Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was 
ne'er employed 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish 

crimes. 
Myself will mount the rostrum in his 

favor. 
And strive to gain his pardon from the 
people. 
Dec. A style like this becomes a con- 
queror. 
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a 

Roman. 
Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's 

foe? 
Cato. Greater than Ceesar, he's a friend 

to virtue. 
Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, 
And at the head of your own little sen- 
ate; 
You don't now thunder in the Capitol, 



With all the mouths of Rome to second 
you. 
Cato. Let him consider that who drives us 
hither: 

'T is Caesar's sword has made Rome's 
senate little, 

And thinned its ranks. Alas! thy daz- 
zled eye 

Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 

Which conquest and success have thrown 
. upon him; 

Didst thou but view him right, thou 'dst 
see him black 

With murder, treason, sacrilege, and 
crimes 

That strike my soul with horror 'but to 
name 'em. 

I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch 

Beset with ills, and covered with mis- 
fortunes ; 

But, by the gods I swear, millions of 
worlds 

Should never buy me to be like that 
Caesar. 
Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to 
Cffisar, 

For all his generous cares, and proffered 
friendship ? 

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and 
vain: 

Presumptuous man! the gods take care 
of Cato. 

Would Csesar show the greatness of his 
soul, 

Bid him employ his care for these my 
friends. 

And make good use of his ill-gotten 
power, 

By sheltering men much better than him- 
self. 
Dec. Your high unconquered heart makes 
you forget 

You are a man. You rush on your de- 
struction — 

But I liave done. When I relate here- 
after 

The tale of this unhappy embassy, 

All Rome will be in tears. 
{Exit Decius.) 

Scene 3. 

(Sempronius, Lucius, Cato, d:c.) 

Sem. Cato, we thank thee. 

The mighty genius of immortal Rome 
Speaks in thy voice, thy soul breathes 

liberty : 
Caesar will shrink to hear the words 
thou utterest, 



CATO 557 



And shudder in the midst of all his con- 
quests. 
Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to 
Cato, 
Who with so great a soul consults its 

safety, 
And guards our lives, while he neglects 
his own. 
Sem. Sempronius gives no thanks on this 
account. 
Lucius seems fond of life; hut what is 

life? 
'T is not to stalk about, and draw fresh 

air 
From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; 
'T is to be free. When liberty is gone. 
Life grows insipid, and has lost its 

relish. 
Oh, could my dying hand but lodge a 

sword 
In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my coun- 
try, 
By heavens, I could enjoy the pangs of 

death. 
And smile in agony. 
Luc. Others perhaps 

May serve their country with as warm 

a zeal, 
Though 't is not kindled into so much 
rage. 
Sem. This sober conduct is a mighty vir- 
tue 
In lukewarm patriots. 
Cato. Come ! no more, Sempronius, 

All here are friends to Eome, and to 

each other. 
Let us not weaken still the weaker side 
By our divisions. 
Sem. Cato, my resentments 

Are sacrificed to Rome — I stand re- 
proved. 
Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a 

resolve. 
Luc. Cato, we all go into your opinion, 
Caesar's behavior has convinced the sen- 
ate 
We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. 
Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; 
but, Cato, 
My private voice is drowned amid the 
senate's. 
Cato. Then let us rise, my friends, and 
strive to fill 
This little interval, this pause of life, 
(While yet our liberty and fates are 

doubtful ) 
With resolution, friendship, Roman 

bravery. 
And all the virtues we can crowd into it; 



That heaven may say, it ought to be pro- 
longed. 

Fathers, farewell — The young Numidian 
prince 

Comes forward, and expects to know our 
counsels. 



Scene 4. 

{Cato, Juha.) 

Cato. Juba, the Roman Senate has re- 
solved, 

Till time give better prospects, still to 
keep 

The sword unsheathed, and turn its edge 
on Cassar. 
Juba. The resolution fits a Roman senate. 

But, Cato, lend me for a while thy pa- 
tience, 

And condescend to hear a young man 
speak. 

My father, when some days before his 
death 

He ordered me to march for Utica, 

(Alas! I thought not then his death so 
near) 

Wept o'er me, pressed me in his aged 
arms. 

And, as his griefs gave way, "My son,"' 
said he, 

"Whatever fortune shall befall thy fa- 
ther, 

Be Cato's friend ; he '11 train thee up to> 
great 

And virtuous deeds: do but observe him 
well, 

Thou 'It shun misfortunes, or thou 'It 
learn to bear 'em." 
Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy 
prince, 

And merited, alas! a better fate; 

But heaven thought otherwise. 
Juba. My father's fate, 

In spite of all the fortitude that shines 

Before my face, in Cato's great example, 

Subdues my soul, and fills my eyes with 
tears. 
Cato. It is an honest sorrow, and becomes 

thee. 
Juha. My father drew respect from for- 
eign climes : 

The kings of Afric sought him for their 
friend ; 

Kings far remote, that n;le, as fame re- 
ports, 

Behind the hidden sources of the Nile, 

In distant worlds, on t' other side the 
sun: 



558 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Oft have their black ambassadors ap- 
peared, 

Loaden with gifts, and filled the courts 
of Zama. 
Cato. I am no stranger to thy father's 

greatness, 
Juba. I would not boast the greatness of 
my father, 

But point out new alliances to Cato. 

Had we not better leave this Utiea, 

To arm Numidia in our cause, and court 

The assistance of my father's powerful 
friends ? 

Did they know Cato, our remotest kings 

Would pour embattled multitudes about 
him; 

Their swarthy hosts would darken all 
our plains, 

Doubling the native horror of the war, 

And making death more grim. 
Cato. And canst thou think 

Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar? 

Reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief 

From court to court, and wander up and 
down, 

A vagabond in Af ric ! 
Juba. Cato, perhaps 

I 'm too officious, but my forward cares 

Would fain preserve a life of so much 
value. 

My heart is wounded, when I see such 
virtue 

Afflicted by the weight of such misfor- 
tunes. 
Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. 

But know, young prince, that valor soars 
above 

What the world calls misfortune and af- 
fliction. 

These are not ills; else wovild they never 
fall 

On heaven's first favorites, and the best 
of men : 

The gods, in bounty, Avork up storms 
about us, 

That give mankind occasion to exert 

Their hidden strengtli, and throw out 
into practice 

Virtues that slum the day, and lie con- 
cealed 

In the smooth seasons and the calms of 
life. 
Juba. I 'm charmed whene'er thou talk'st ! 
I pant for virtue 

And all my soul endeavors at perfection. 
Cato. Dost thou love watchings, absti- 
nence, and toil, 

Laborious virtues all? learn them from 
Cato : 



Success and fortune must thou learn 
from Caesar. 
Juba. The best good fortune that can fall 
on Juba, 
The whole success at wliich my heart 

aspires. 
Depends on Cato. 
Cato. What does Juba say? 

Thy words confound me. 
Juba. I would fain retract them, 

Give 'em me back again. They aimed at 
nothing. 
Cato. Tell me thy wish, young prince; 
make not my ear 
A stranger to thy thoughts. 
Juba. Oh ! they 're extravagant ; 

Still let me hide them. 
Cato. What can Juba ask 

That Cato will refuse? 
Juba. I fear to name it. 

Marcia — inherits all her fathei*'s virtues. 
Cato. What wouldst thou say? 
Juba. Cato, thou hast a daughter. 

Cato. Adieu, young prince; I would not 
hear a word 
Should lessen thee in my esteem : re- 
member 
The hand of fate is over us, and heaven 
Exacts severity from all our thoughts : 
It is not now a time to talk of aught 
But chains or conquest, liberty or death. 

Scene 5. 

{Syphax, Juba.) 

Sypli. How 's this, my prince, what ! cov- 
ered with confusion? 
You look as if yon stern philosopher 
Had just now chid you. 
Juba. Syphax, I 'm undone ! 

Sypli. I know it well. 

Juba. Cato thinks meanly of me. 

Sypli. And so will all mankind. 
Juba. I 've opened to him 

The weakness of my soul, my love for 
Marcia. 
Syph. Cato 's a proper person to intrust 

A love-tale with ! 
Juba. Oh ! I could pierce my heart, 

My foolish heart ! was ever "w-retch like 
Juba? 
Syph. Alas ! my prince, how are you 
changed of late ! 
I 've known young Juba rise before the 

sun. 
To beat the thicket where the tiger slept, 
Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts : 
How did the color mount into your 
cheeks. 



CATO 



559 



When first you roused him to the chase! 

I 've seen you, 
Even in the Libyan dog-days, hunt hiui 

down. 
Then charge him close, provoke him to 

tlie rage 
Of fangs and claws, and stooping from 

your horse 
Rivet the panting savage to the ground. 
Juba. Prithee, no more ! 
Syph. How would the old king smile 

To see you weigh the paws, when tipped 

with gold, 
And throw the shaggy spoils about your 
shoulders ! 
Juba. Syphax, this old man's talk 
(though honey flowed 
In every word) would now lose all its 

sweetness. 
Cato 's displeased, and Marcia lost for- 
ever ! 
Syph. Young prince, I yet could give you 
good advice. 
Marcia might still be yours. 
Juba. What say'st thou, Syphax? 

By heavens, thou turn'st me all into at- 
tention, 
Syph. Marcia might still be yours. 
Juba. As how, dear Syphax? 

Syph. Juba commands Numidia's hardy 
troops. 
Mounted on steeds, unused to the re- 
straint 
Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the 

winds : 
Give but the word, we '11 snatch this 

damsel up 
And bear her off. 
Juba. Can such dishonest thoughts 

Rise up in man ! wouldst thou seduce my 

youth 
To do an act that would destroy my 
honor? 
Syph. Gods! I could tear my beard to 
hear you talk! 
Honor 's a fine imaginary notion, 
That draws in raw and unexperienced men 
To real mischiefs, while they hunt a 
shadow. 
Juba. Wouldst thou degrade thy prince 

into a ruffian? 
Syph. The boasted ancestors of these 
great men, 
Whose virtues you admire were all such 

ruffians. 
This dread of nations, this almighty 

Rome, 
That comprehends in her wide empire's 
bounds 



All under heaven, was founded on a rape. 
Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and 

your Catos, 
(These gods on earth) are all the spuri- 
ous brood 
Of violated maids, of ravished Sabines. 
Juba. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of 
thine 
Abounds too much in our Numidian 
wiles. 
Syph. Indeed, my prince, you want to 
know the world; 
You have not read mankind; your youth 

admires 
The throws and swellings of a Roman 

soul, 
Cato's bold flights, the extravagance of 
virtue. 
Juba. If knowledge of the world makes 
man perfidious. 
May Juba ever live in ignorance ! 
Syph. Go, go, you 're young. 
Juba. Gods ! must I tamely bear 

This arrogance unanswered ! thou 'rt a 

traitor, 
A false old 'traitor. 
Syph. I have gone too far, 

{Aside.) 
Juba. Cato shau know the baseness of thy 

soul. 
Syph. I must appease this storm, or per- 
ish in it. 

{Aside.) 
Young prince, behold these locks that 

are grown white 
Beneath a helmet in your father's battles, 
Juba. Those locks shall ne'er protect thy 

insolence. 
Syph. Must one rash word, the infirmity 
of age. 
Throw down the merit of my better 

years ? 
This the reward of a whole life of serv- 
ice? 
Curse on the boy! how steadily he hears 
me! 

{Aside.) 
J id) a. Is it because the throne of my fore- 
fathers 
Still stands unfilled, and that Numidia's 

crown 
Hangs doubtful yet, whose head it shall 

enclose. 
Thou thus presumest to treat thy prince 
with scorn ? 
Syph. Why will you rive my heart with 
such expressions? 
Does not old Syphax follow you to war? 



560 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



What are his aims? why does he load 

with darts 
His trembling hand, and crush beneath 

a casque 
His wrinkled brows'? what is it he as- 
pires to? 
Is it not this, to shed the slow remains. 
His last poor ebb of blood, in your de- 
fense ? 
Juba. Syphax, no more! I would not 

hear you talk. 
Si/ph. Not hear me talk! what, when my 
faith to Juba, 
My royal master's son, is called in ques- 
tion? 
My prince may strike me dead, and I '11 

be dumb: 
But whilst I live, I must not hold my 

tongue, 
And languish out old age in his dis- 
pleasure. 
Juba. Thou know'st the way too well into 
my heart, 
I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. 
Si/ph. What greater instance can I give? 
I Ve offered 
To do an action which my soul abhors, 
And gain you whom you love at any 
price. 
Juba. Was this thy motive? I have been 

too hasty. 
Syph. And 'tis for this my prince has 

called me traitor. 
Juba. Sure thou mistakest; I did not call 

thee so. 
Syph. You did indeed, my prince, you 
called me traitor: 
Nay, further, threatened you 'd complain 

to Cato. 
Of what, my prince, would you complain 

to Cato? 
That Syphax loves you, and would sacri- 
fice 
His life, nay, more, his honor in your 
service. 
Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me, but 
indeed 
Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far. 
Honor 's a sacred tie, the law of kings, 
The noble mind's distinguishing perfec- 
tion. 
That aids and strengthens virtue where 

it meets her, 
And imitates her actions, where she is not : 
It ought not to he sported with. 
Syph. By heavens, 

I 'm ravished when you talk thus, though 

you chide me! 
Alas ! I 've hitherto been used to think 



A blind, officious zeal to serve my king 
The ruling principle that ought to burn 
And quench all others in a subject's 

heart. 
Happy the people, who preserve their 

honor 
By the same duties that oblige their 



prmce 



Juba. Syphax, thou now begin'st to speak 
thyself. 
Numidia 's grown a scorn among the na- 
tions 
For breach of public vows. Our Punic 

faith 
Is infamous, and branded to a proverb. 
Syphax, we '11 join our cares, to purge 
away 
Our country's crimes, and clear her rep- 
utation. 
Syph. Believe me, prince, you make old 
Syphax weep 
To hear you talk — but 'tis with tears of 

joy. 
If e'er your father's crown adorn your 

brows, 
Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures. 
Juba. Syphax, thy hand ! we '11 mutually 
forget 
The warmth of youth, and frowardness 

of age: 
Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves 

thy person. 
If e'er the scepter comes into my hand, 
Syphax shall stand the second in my 
kingdom. 
Syph. Why will you overwhelm my age 
with kindness? 
My joy grows burdensome, I shan't sup- 
port it. 
Juba. Syphax, farewell, I '11 hence, and 
try to find 
Some blest occasion that may set me 

right 
In Cato's thoughts. I 'd rather have 

that man 
Approve my deeds, than worlds for my 
admirers. 

(Exit.) 
Syph. solus. Young men soon give, and 
soon forget affronts; 
Old age is slow in both — A false old 

traitor ! 
Those words, rash boy, may chance to 

cost thee dear. 
My heart had still some foolish fondness 

for thee: 
But hence ! 't is gone : I give it to the 

winds : 
Caesar, I 'm wholly thine — 



CATO 



561 



Scene 6, 

{Sypliax, Sempronius.) 

Syph. All hail, Sempronius! 

Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait 
The fury of a siege before it yields. 
Sem. Syphax, we both were on the verge 

of fate : 
Lucius declared for peace, and terms 

were offered 
To Cato by a messenger from Caesar. 
Should they submit, ere our designs are 

ripe, 
"We both must perish in the common 

wreck, 
Lost in a general, undistinguished ruin. 
Syph. But how stands Cato? 
tSem. Thou hast seen Mount Atlas: 

While storms and tempests thunder on 

its brows. 
And oceans break their billows at its 

feet, 
It stands unmoved, and glories in its 

height. 
Such is that haughty man; his towering 

soul, 
'Midst all the shocks and injuries of 

fortune. 
Rises superior, and looks down on 

CcBsar. 
Syph. But what's this messenger? 
Sem. I 've practised with him. 

And found a means to let the victor 

know 
That Syphax and Sempronius are his 

friends. 
But let me now examine in my turn : 
Is Juba fixed? 
Syph. Yes — but it is to Cato. 

I 've tried the force of every reason on 

him, 
Soothed and caressed, been angry, 

soothed again^ 
Laid safety, life, and interest in his 

sight, 
But all are vain, he scorns them all for 

Cato. 
Sem. Come, 't is no matter, we shall do 
without him. 
He '11 make a pretty figure in a triumph, 
And serve to trip before the victor's 

chariot. 
Syphax, I now may hope thou hast for- 
sook 
Thy Juba's cause, and wishest Mareia 

mine. 
Syph. May she be thine as fast as thou 

wouldst have her! 



Sem. Syphax, I love that woman; though 
I curse 

Her and myself, ^et, spite of me, I love 
her. 
Syph. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica, 

Caesar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle. 

But are thy troops prepared for a re- 
volt? 

Does the sedition catch from man to 
man. 

And run among their ranks? 
Sem. All, all is ready. 

The factious leaders are our friends, that 
spread 

Murmurs and discontents among the sol- 
diers. 

They count their toilsome marches, long 
fatigues. 

Unusual fastings, and will bear no more 

This medley of philosophy and war. 

Within an hour they '11 storm the senate- 
house. 
Syph. Meanwhile I '11 draw up my Nu- 
midian troops 

Within the square, to exercise their 
arms, 

And, as I see occasion, favor thee. 

I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato 

Will look aghast, while unforeseen de- 
struction 

Pours in upon him thus from every side. 

So, where our wide Numidian wastes ex- 
tend. 

Sudden, the impetuous hurricanes de- 
scend. 

Wheel through the air, in circling eddies 

play, 

Tear up the sands, and sweep whole 
plains away. 

The helpless traveller, with wild sur- 
prise, 

Sees the dry desert all around him rise, 

And smothered in the dusty whirlwind 
dies. 

ACT in. 

Scene 1. 
(Marcus, Fortius.) 

Mar. Thanks to my stars, I have not 

ranged about 
The wilds of life, ere I could find a 

friend ; 
Nature first pointed out my Fortius to 

me, 
And early taught me, by her secret force, 
To love thy person, ere I knew thy 

merit ; 



562 



THE EIG-HTEENTH CENTURY 



Till, what was instinct, grew up into 
friendship. 
For. Marcus, the friendships of the world 
are oft 

Confederacies in vice, or leagues of 
pleasure ; 

Ours has severest virtue for its basis, 

And such a friendship ends not but with 
life. 
Mar. Fortius, thou know'st my soul in 
all its weakness; 

Then prithee spare me on its tender 
side, 

Indulge me but in love, my other pas- 
sions 

Shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest 
rules. 
For. AVhen love 's well-timed, 't is not a 
fault to love. 

The strong, the brave, the virtuovis, and 
the wise 

Sink in the soft captivity together. 

I would not urge thee to dismiss thy pas- 
sion, 

(I know 'twere vain) but to suppress 
its force, 

Till better times may make it look more 
graceful. 
Mar. Alas! thou talk'st like one who 
never felt 

The impatient throbs and longings of a 
soul 

That pants and reaches after distant 
good. 

A lover does not live by vulgar time : 

Believe me. Fortius, in my Lucia's ab- 
sence 

Life hangs upon me, and becomes a 
burden ; 

And yet, when I behold the charming 
maid, 

I 'm ten times more undone ; while hope, 
and fear, 

And grief, and rage, and love, rise up at 
once. 

And with variety of pain distract me. 
For. What can thy Fortius do to give 

thee help? 
Mar. Fortius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair 
one's presence : 

Then undertake my cause, and plead it 
to her 

With all the strength and heats of elo- 
quence 

Fraternal love and friendship can in- 
spire. 

Tell her thy brother languishes to death, 

And fades away, and withers in his 
bloom; 



That he forgets his sleep, and loathes 

his food. 
That youth, and health, and war, are 

joyless to him. 
Describe his anxious days and restless 

nights, 
And all the torments that thou seest me 

suffer. 
For. Marcus, I beg thee give me not an 

office 
That suits with me so ill. Thou know'st 

my temper. 
Mar. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my 

woes? 
And wilt thou not reach out a friendly 

arm. 
To raise me from amidst this plunge of 

sorrows ? 
For. Marcus, thou canst not ask what 

I 'd refuse. 
But here, believe me, I 've a thousand 

reasons — 
Mar. I know thou 'It say my passion 's 

out of season; 
That Cato's great example and misfor- 
tunes 
Should both conspire to drive it from my 

thoughts. 
But what 's all this to one who loves like 

me! 
Oh, Fortius, Fortius, from my soul I 

wish 
Thou didst but know thyself what 't is 

to love! 
Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy 

brother. 
For. What should I do? If I disclose 

my passion, 
Our friendship 's at an end : if I conceal 

it. 
The world will call me false to a friend 

and brother. 

{Aside.) 
Mar. But see where Lucia, at her wonted 

hour, 
Amid the cool of yon high marble 

arch, 
Enjoys the noon-day breeze ! observe her. 

Fortius ! 
That face, that shape, those eyes, that 

heaven of beauty ! 
Observe her well, and blame me, if thou 

canst. 
For. She sees us, and advances — 
Mar. I '11 withdraw, 

And leave you for a while. Remember, 

Fortius, 
Thy brother's life depends upon thy 

tongue. 



CATO 



563 



Scene 2. 
(Lucia, Portius.) 

Luc. Did not I see your brother Marcus 

here? 
Why did he fly the place, and shun my 

presence ? 
Por. Oh, Lucia, hinguage is too faint to 

show 
His rage of love; it preys upon his life; 
He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he 

dies: 
His passions and his virtues lie confused. 
And mixed together in so wild a tumvilt, 
That the whole man is quite disfigured in 

him. 
Heavens ! would one think 't were possi- 
ble for love 
To make such ravage in a noble soul ! 
Oh, Lucia, I 'm distrest ! my heart bleeds 

for him; 
Even now, while thus I stand blest in thy 

presence, 
A secret damp of grief comes o'er my 

thoughts, 
And I 'm unhappy, though thou smil'st 

upon me. 
Luc. How wilt thovi guard thy honor, in 

the shock 
Of love and friendship ! think betimes, 

my Portius, 
Think how the nuptial tie, that might in- 
sure 
Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a 

height 
Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps 

destroy him. 
Por. Alas, poor youth! what dost tliou 

think, my Lucia? 
His generous, open, undesigning heart 
Has begged his rival to solicit for him. 
Then do not strike him dead with a de- 
nial, 
But hold him up in life, and cheer his 

soul 
With the faint glimmering of a doubtful 

hope: 
Perhaps when we have passed these 

gloomy hours, 
And weathered ovit the storm that beats 

upon us — 
Luc. No, Portius, no! I see thy sister's 

tears, 
Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's 

death. 
In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. 
And, Portius, here I swear, to heaven I 

swear, 



To heaven, and all the powers that judge 

mankind. 
Never to mix my plighted hands with 

thine. 
While such a cloud "of mischiefs hangs 

about us. 
But to forget our loves, and drive thee 

out 
From all my thoughts, as far — as I am 

able. 
Por. What hast thou said ! I 'm thunder- 
struck ! — recall 
Those hasty words, or I am lost for 

ever. 
Luc. Has not the vow already passed my 

lips? 
The gods have heard it, and 't is sealed 

in heaven. 
May all the vengeance that was ever 

poured 
On i3erjured heads o'erwhelm me, if I 

break it! 
Por. Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon 

thee ; 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from 

heaven. 
Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet 

alive, 
In dreadful looks — a monument of 

wrath ! 
Luc. At length I 've acted my severest 

part, 
I feel the woman breaking in upon me. 
And melt about my heart! my tears will 

flow. 
But oh I '11 think no more ! the hand of 

fate 
Has torn thee from me, and I must for- 
get thee. 
Por. Hard-hearted, cruel maid ! 
Liic. Oh stop those sounds, 

Those killing sounds! why dost thou 

frown upon me? 
My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to 

heave, 
And life itself goes out at thy displeas- 
ure. 
The gods forbid us to indulge our loves. 
But oh ! I cannot bear thy hate and live ! 
Por. Talk not of love, thou never knew'st 

its force, 
I 've been deluded, led into a dream 
Of fancied bliss. Oh Lucia, cri;el maid ! 
Thy dreadful vow, loaden with death, 

still sounds 
In my stunned ears. What shall I say 

or do? 
Quick, let us part ! perdition 's in thy 

presence, 



564 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



And horror dwells about thee! — hah, she 

faints ! 
Wretch that I am ! what has my rashness 

done! 
Lucia, thou injured innocence! thou best 
And loveliest of thy sex! awake, my 

Lucia, 
Or Fortius rushes on his sword to join 

thee. 
— Her imprecations reach not to the 

tomb, 
They shut not out society in death — 
But, hah! she moves! life wanders up 

and down 
Through all her face, and lights up 

every charm. 
Luc. O Fortius, was this well ! — to frown 

on her 
That lives upon thy smiles! to call in 

doubt 
The faith of one expiring at thy feet, 
That loves thee more than ever woman 

loved ! 
— What do I say? my half-recovered 

sense 
Forgets the vow in which my soul is 

bound. 
Destruction stands betwixt us! we must 

part. 
For. Name not the word, my frighted 

thoughts run back. 
And startle into madness at the sound. 
Luc. What wouldst thou have me do? 

consider well 
The train of ills our love would draw be- 
hind it. 
Think, Fortius, think, thou seest thy dy- 
ing brother 
Stabbed at his heart, and all besmeared 

with blood. 
Storming at heaven and thee! thy awful 

sire 
Sternly demands the cause, th' accursed 

cause. 
That robs him of his son! poor Mareia 

trembles. 
Then tears her hair, and frantic in her 

griefs 
Calls out on Lucia! What could Lucia 

answer? 
Or how stand up in such a scene of sor- 
row? 
Par. To my confusion and eternal grief, 
I must approve the sentence that de- 
stroys me. 
The mist that hung about my mind 

clears up; 
And now, athwart the terrors that thy 

vow 



Has planted round thee, thou appear'st 
more fair. 

More amiable, and risest in thy charms. 

Loveliest of women! heaven is in thy 
soul, 

Beauty and virtue shine for ever round 
thee. 

Brightening each other! thou art all di- 
vine! 
Luc. Fortius, no more! thy words shoot 
through my heart, 

Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love. 

Why are those tears of fondness in thy 
eyes? 

Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy 
soul with sorrow? 

It softens me too much — farewell, my 
Fortius, 

Farewell, though death is in the word, 
forever. 
For. Stay, Lucia, stay! what dost thou 

say? Forever? 
Luc. Have I not sworn? if. Fortius, thy 
success 

Must throw thy brother on his fate, 
farewell — 

Oh, how shall I repeat the word? — for- 
ever! 
For. Thus o'er the dying lamp the un- 
steady flame 

Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off 
by fits. 

And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 

Thou must not go, my soul still hovers 
o'er thee, 

And can't get loose. 
Luc. If the firm Fortius shake 

To hear of parting, think what Lucia 
suffers ! 
For. 'Tis true; unruffled and serene I've 
met 

The common accidents of life, but here 

Such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls 
on me. 

It beats down all my strength. I can- 
not bear it. 

We must not part. 
Luc. What dost thou say? not part? 

Hast thou forgot the vow that I have 
made ? 

Are there not heavens, and gods, and 
thunder o'er us? 

— But see! thy brother Marcus bends 
this way! 

I sicken at the sight. Once more, fare- 
well. 

Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me, 
if thou think'st 

Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine. 



CATO 



565 



Scene 3. 

{Marcus, Fortius.) 

Mar. Fortius, what hopes? how stands 
she? am I doomed 
To life or death? 
Por. What wouldst thou have me say? 
Mar. What means this pensive posture? 
thou appear'st 
Like one amazed and terrified. 
Por. I 've reason. 

Mar. Thy downcast looks and thy dis- 
ordered thoughts 
Tell me my fate. I ask not the success 
My cause has found. 
Por. I 'm grieved I undertook it. 

Mar. What! does the barbarous maid in- 
sult my heart, 
My aching lieart! and triumph in my 

pains? 
That I could cast her from my thoughts 
for ever! 
Por. Away ! you 're too suspicious in your 
griefs; 
Lucia, though sworn never to think of 

love, 
Compassionates your pains, and pities 



you 



and 



Mar. Compassionates my pains, 

pities me! 
What is compassion when 't is void of 

love? 
Fool that I was to choose so cold a 

friend 
To urge my cause ! compassionate my 

pains ! 
Prithee what art, what rhetoric didst 

thou use 
To gain this mighty boon? She pities 

me! 
To one that asks the warm return of 

love, 
Compassion 's cruelty, 't is scorn, 't is 

death — 
Por. Marcus, no more ! have I deserved 

this treatment? 
Mar. What have I said! Fortius, 

forgive me! 
A soul exasperated in ills falls out 
With everything, its friend, its self — 

but, hah ! 
What means that shout, big with the 

sounds of war? 
What new alarm? 
Por. A second, louder yet, 

Swells in the winds, and comes more full 

upon us. 
Mar. Oh for some glorious cause to fall 

in battle! 



Lucia, thou hast undone me! thy dis- 
dain 

Has broke my heart : 't is death must 
give me ease. 
Por. Quick, let us hence; who knows if 
Cato's life 

Stands sure? Marcus, I am warmed; 
my heart 

Leaps at the trumpet's voice, and burns 
for glory. 

Scene 4. 

{Sempronius with the leaders of the 
mutiny. ) 

Sem. At length the winds are raised, the 

storm blows high. 
Be it your care, my friends, to keep it 

up 
In its full fury, and direct it right. 
Till it has spent itself on Cato's head. 
Meanwhile I '11 herd among his friends, 

and seem 
One of the number, that whate'er ar- 
rive. 
My friends and fellow soldiers may be 

safe. 
First Lead. We all are safe, Sempronius 

is our friend, 
Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. 
But, hark! he enters. Bear up boldly 

to him; 
Be sure you beat him down, and bind 

him fast. 
This day will end our toils, and give us 

rest; 
Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our 

friend. 

Scene 5. 

(Cato, Sempronius, Lucius, Fortius, Mar- 
cus.) 

Cato. Where are these bold, intrepid sons 
of war, 
That greatly turn their backs upon the 

foe. 
And to their general send a brave de- 
fiance? 
Sem. Curse on their dastard souls, they 
stand astonished ! 
{Aside.) 
Cato. Ferfidious men! and will you thus 
dishonor 
Your past exploits, and sully all your 

wars? 
Do you confess 'twas not a zeal for 
Rome, 



566 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Nor love of liberty, nor thirst of honor, 

Drew you thus far; but hopes to share 
the spoil 

Of conquered towns and plundered prov- 
inces ? 

Fired with such motives you do well to 
join 

With Cato's foesj and follow Caesar's 
banners. 

Why did I scape the envenomed aspic's 
rage, 

And all the fiery monsters of the des- 
ert, 

To see this day? why could not Cato 
fall 
■ Without 3'our guilt? Behold, ungrate- 
ful men, 

Behold my bosom naked to your swords. 

And let the man that 's injured strike tlie 
blow. 

Which of you all suspects that he is 
wronged. 

Or thinks he suffers greater ills than 
Cato? 

Am I distinguished from you but by 
toils, 

Superior toils, and heavier weight of 
cares ? 

Painful pre-eminence! 
Sem. By heavens they droop ! 

Confusion to the villains ! all is lost. 
(Aside.) 
Cato. Have you forgotten Libya's burn- 
ing waste, 

Its barren rocks, parched earth, and hills 
of sand, 

Its tainted air, and all its broods of 
poison ? 

Who was the first to explore th' un- 
trodden path. 

When life was hazarded in every step? 

Or, fainting in the long, laborious march, 

When on the banks of an unlooked-for 
stream 

You sunk the river with repeated 
draughts, 

Who was the last in all your host that 
thirsted ? 
Sem. If some penurious source by chance 
appeared, 

Scanty of waters, when you scooped it 
dry. 

And offered the full helmet up to Cato, 

Did he not dash the untasted moisture 
from him? 

Did he not lead you through the mid- 
day sun, 

And clouds of dust? did not his temples 
glow 



In the same sultry winds and scorching 
heats? 
Cato. Hence, worthless men! hence! and 
complain to Caesar 

You could not undergo the toils of war, 

Nor bear the hardships that your leader 
bore. 
Lue. See, Cato, see th' unhappy men! 
they weep ! 

Fear, and remorse, and sorrow for their 
crime. 

Appear in every look, and plead for 
mercy. 
Cato. Learn to be honest men, give up 
your leaders, 

And pardon shall descend on all the rest. 
Sem. Cato, commit these wretches to my 
care. 

First let 'em each be broken on the rack. 

Then, with what life remains, impaled 
and left 

To Avrithe at leisure round the bloody 
stake. 

There let 'em hang, and taint the south- 
ern wind. 

The partners of their crime will learn 
obedience. 

When they look up and see their fellow- 
traitors 

Stuck on a fork, and blackening in the 
sun. 
Luc. Sempronius, whj^, why wilt thou 
urge the fate 

Of wretched men? 
Sem. How ! wouldst thou clear rebellion ? 

Lucius (good man) pities the poor of- 
fenders. 

That Avould imbrue their hands in Cato's 
blood. 
Cato. Forbear, Sempronius! — see they 
suffer death. 

But in their deaths remember they are 
men. 

Strain not the laws to make their tor- 
tures grievous. 

Lucius, the base, degenerate age requires 

Severity and justice in its rigor; 

This awes an impious, bold, oft'ending 
world, 

Commands obedience, and gives force to 
laws. 

When by just vengeance guilty mortals 
perish, 

The gods behold their punishment with 
pleasure, 

And lay th' uplifted thunderbolt aside. 
Sem. Cato, I execute thy will with pleas- 
ure. 
Cato. Meanwhile we '11 sacrifice to liberty. 



CATO 



567 



Remember, my friends, the laws, the 
rights, 

The generous plan of power delivered 
down, 

From age to age by your renowned fore- 
fathers, 

(So dearly bought, the price of so much 
blood) 

Oh let it never perish in your hands ! 

But piously transmit it to your children. 

Do thou, great Liberty, inspire our souls. 

And make our lives in tiiy possession 
happy. 

Or our deaths glorious in thy just de- 
fense. 

Scene 6. 

(Sempronkis and the leaders of the 

mutiny.) 

1st Lead. Sempronius, you have acted 

like yourself. 
One would have thought you had been 

half in earnest. 
Sem. Villain, stand off! base, grovelling, 

worthless wretches. 
Mongrels in faction, poor faint-hearted 

traitors ! 
2d Lead. Nay, now you carry it too far, 

Sempronius : 
Throw off the mask, there are none here 

but friends. 
Sem. Know, villains, when such paltry 

slaves presume 
To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, 
They 're tlu-own neglected by : but if it 

fails. 
They 're sure to die like dogs, as you 

shall do. 
Here, take these factious monsters, drag 

'em forth 
To sudden death. 

{Enter Guards.) 

1st Lead. Nay, since it comes to this — 
Sem. Despatch 'em quick, but tirst pluck 

out their tongues, 
Lest with their dying breath they sow 

sedition. 

Scene 7. 
(Syphax, Sempronius.) 

Syph. Our first design, my friend, has 

proved abortive; 
Still there remains an after-game to 

play: 
My troops are mounted; their Numidian 

steeds 



Snuff up the wind, and long to scour the 
desert : 

Let but Sempronius head us in our 
flight, 

We '11 force the gate where Marcus keeps 
his guard. 

And hew down all that would oppose our 
passage. 

A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. 
Sem. Confusion! I have failed of half 
my purpose : 

Marcia, the charming Marcia 's left be- 
hind ! 
Syph. How ! will Sempronius turn a 

woman's slave? 
Sem. Think not thy friend can ever feel 
the soft 

Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love. 

Syphax, I long to clasp tiiat haughty 
maid, 

And bend her stubborn virtue to my pas- 
sion: 

When I have gone thus far, I 'd cast her 
off. 
Syph. Well said ! that 's spoken like thy- 
self, Sempronius. 

What hinders then, but that thou find 
her out. 

And hurry her away by manly force? 
Sem. But how to gain admission? for 
access 

Is given to none but Juba and her broth- 
ers. 
Syph. Thou shalt have Juba's dress and 
Juba's guards: 

The doors will open, when Numidia's 
prince 

Seems to appear before the slaves that 
watch them. 
Sem. Heavens, what a thought is there! 
Marcia 's my own ! 

How will my bosom swell with anxious 
joy, 

When I behold her struggling in my 
arms, 

With glowing beauty and disordered 
charms. 

While fear and anger, with alternate 
grace. 

Pant in her breast, and vary in her face ! 

So Pluto, seized of ^ Proserpine, con- 
veyed 

To hell's tremendous gloom th' affrighted 
maid, 

There grimly smiled, pleased with the 
beauteous prize, 

Nor envied Jove his sunshine and his 
skies. 



1 possessed of. 



568 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. 

{Lucia and Marcia.) 

Luc. Now tell me, Marcia, tell me from 

thy soul, 
If thou believ'st 't is possible for woman 
To suffer greater ills than Lueia suf- 
fers? 
Mar. O Lueia, Lucia, might my big-swoln 

heart 
Vent all its griefs, and give a loose to 

sorrow : 
Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep 

pace 
With all thy woes, and count out tear for 

tear. 
Luc. I know thou 'rt doomed, alike, to be 

beloved 
By Juba and thy father's friend, Sem- 

pronius ; 
But which of these has power to charm 

like Fortius? 
Mar. Still must I beg thee not to name 

Sempronius ? 
Lucia, I like not that loud, boisterous 

man; 
Juba to all the bravery of a hero 
Adds softest love, and more than female 

sweetness ; 
Juba might make the proudest of our 

sex, 
Any of woman-kind, but Marcia, happy. 
Luc. And why not Marcia? come, you 

strive in vain 
To hide your thoughts from one who 

knows too well 
The inward glowings of a heart in love. 
Mar. While Cato lives, his daughter has 

no right 
To love or hate, but as his clioice directs. 
Luc. But should this father give you to 

Sempronius ? 
Mar. I dare not think he will: but if he 

should — 
Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I 

suffer 
Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures? 
I hear the sound of feet ! they march this 



way 



Let us retire, and try if we can drown 
Each softer thought in sense of present 

danger. 
When love once pleads admission to our 

hearts, 
(In spite of all the virtue we can boast) 
The woman that deliberates is lost. 



Scene 2. 

{Sempronius, dressed like Juba, with Nu- 
midian guards.) 

Sem. The deer is lodged. I 've tracked 

her to her covert. 
Be sure you mind the word, and when I 

give it. 
Rush in at once, and seize upon your 

prey. 
Let not her cries or tears have force to 

move you. 
— How will the young Numidian rave, to 

see 
His mistress lost ! if aught could glad 

my soul. 
Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a 

prize, 
'T would be to torture that young gay 

barbarian. 
— But, liark^ what noise ! death to my 

hopes ! 't is he, 
'T is Juba's self ! there is but one way 

left- 
He must be murdered, and a passage cut 
Through those his guards — Hah ! das- 
tards, do you tremble! 
Or act like men, or by yon azure 

heaven — 

{Enter Juba.) 

Juba. What do I see? who's this that 
dare usurp 
The guards and habit of Numidia's 
prince ? 
Sem. One that was born to scourge thy 
arrogance, 
Presumptuous youth ! 
Juba. What can this mean? 

Sempronius ! 
Sem. My sword shall answer thee. Have 

at thy heart. 
Juba. Nay, then beware thy own, proud, 

barbarous man ! 
{Sempronius falls. His guards surrender.) 
Sem. Curse on my stars! am I then 
doomed to fall 
By a boy's hand, disfigured in a vile 
Numidian dress, and for a worthless 

woman ? 
Gods, I 'm distracted ! this my close of 

life! 
Oh for a peal of thunder that would 

make 
Earth, sea, and air, and heaven, and 
Cato tremble! 

{Dies.) 
Juba. With what :i spring his furious 
soul broke loose. 



CATO 



560 



And left the limbs still quivering on 

the ground ! 
Hence let us carry off those slaves to 

Cato, 
That we may there at length unravel 

all 
This dark design, this mystery of fate. 

Scene 3. 
(Lucia and Marcia.) 

Luc. Sure 't was the clash of swords ; my 

troubled heart 
Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its 

sorrows, 
It throbs with fear and aches at every 

sound. 

Marcia, should thy brothers for my 

sake ! — 

1 die away with horror at the thought. 
3Iar. See, Lucia, see ! here 's blood ! 

here 's blood and murder ! 
Hah, a Numidian! heavens preserve the 

prince ; 
The face lies muffled up within the gar- 
ment. 
But hah! death to my sight, a diadem, 
And purple robes ! Gods ! 't is he, 't is 

he! 
Juba, the loveliest youth that ever 

warmed 
A virgin's heart, Juba lies dead before 

us! 
Luc. Now, Marcia, now call up to thy 

assistance 
Thy wonted strength and constancy of 

mind; 
Thou canst not put it to a greater trial. 
Mar. Lucia, look there, and wonder at 

my patience. 
Have I not cause to rave, and beat my 

breast. 
To rend my heart with grief, and iiin 

distracted ? 
Luc. What can I think or say to give 

thee comfort? 
Mar. Talk not of comfort, 't is for lighter 

ills: 
Behold a sight that strikes all comfort 

dead. 

{Enter Juba, listening.) 

I will indulge my sorrows, and give 

way 
To all the pangs and fury of despair, 
That man, that best of men, deserved 

it from me. 
Juha. What do I hear! and was the false 

Sempronius 



The best of men? Oh had I fallen like 

him. 
And could have thus been mourned, I 
had been happy ! 
Luc. Here will I stand, companion in thy 
woes. 
And help thee with my tears! when I 

behold 
A loss like thine, I half forget my own. 
Mar. 'T is not in fate to ease my tor- 
tured breast. 
This empty world, to me a joyless des- 
ert, 
Has nothing left to make poor Marcia 
happy. 
Juba. I 'm on the rack ! was he so near 

her heart? 
Mar. Oh ! he was all made up of love and 
charms. 
Whatever maid could wish or man ad- 
mire: 
Delight of every eye! when he appeared, 
A secret pleasure gladdened all that 

saw him; 
But when he talked, the proudest Roman 

blushed 
To hear his virtues, and old age grew 
wise. 
Juba. I shall run mad — 
Mar. Juba! Juba! Juba! 

Juba. What means that voice? did she 

not call on Juba? 
Mar. Why do I think on what he was ! 
he 's dead ! 
He 's dead, and never knew how much 

I loved him. 
Lucia, who knows but his poor bleeding 

heart, 
Amidst its agonies, remembered Marcia, 
And the last words he uttered called me 

cruel ! 
Alas! he knew not, hapless youth, he 

knew not 
Marcia's whole soul was full of love and 
Juba. 
Juba. Where am I? do I live! or aiii 
indeed 
What Marcia thinks! all is Elysium 
round me! 
Mar. Ye dear remains of the most loved 
of men ! 
Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid 
A last embrace, while thus — 
Juba. — See, Marcia, see, 

(Throiving himself before her.) 
The happy Juba lives! he lives to catch 
That dear embrace, and to return it too 
With mutual warmth and eagerness of 
love. 



570 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Mar. With pleasure and amaze, I stand 
transported ! 
Sure 't is a dream ! dead and alive at 

once! 
If thou art Juba, wlio lies there? 
Juba. A wretch, 

Disguised like Juba, on a cursed design. 
The tale is long, nor have I heard it 

out; 
Thy father knows it all. I could not 

bear 
To leave thee in the neighborhood of 

death, 
But flew, in all the haste of love, to 

find thee; 
I found thee weeping, and confess this 

once. 
Am rapt with joy to see my Marcia's 
tears. 
Mar. I 've been surprised in an un- 
guarded hour. 
But nuxst not now go back: the love, 

that lay 
Half smothered in my breast, has broke 

through all 
Its weak restraints, and burns in its full 

luster; 
I cannot, if I would, conceal it from 
thee. 
Juba. I 'm lost in ecstasy ! and dost thou 
love. 
Thou charming maid? 
31ar. And dost thou live to ask it? 

Juba. This, this is life indeed! life worth 
preserving. 
Such life as Juba never felt till now! 
Mar. Believe me, prince, before I thought 
thee dead, 
I did not know myself how much I loved 
thee. 
Juba. fortunate mistake! 
Mar. Oh happy Marcia! 

Juba. My joy ! my best beloved ! my only 
wish ! 
How shall I speak the transport of my 
soul? 
Mar. Lucia, thy arm ! oh let me rest upon 
it!— 
The vital blood, that had forsook my 

heart. 
Returns again in such tumultuous tides. 
It quite o'ercomes me. Lead to my 

apartment. — 
prince! I blusli to think what I have 

said, 
But fate has wrested the confession from 

me; 
Go on, and prosper in the paths of 
honor. 



Thy virtue will excuse my passion for 

thee. 
And make the gods propitious to our 

love. 

{Exeunt Marcia and Lucia.) 

Juba. I am so blest, I fear 't is all a 
dream. 

Fortune, thou now hast made amends 
for all 

Thy past unkindness. I absolve my 
stars. 

What though Numidia add her con- 
quered towns 

And provinces to swell the victor's tri- 
umph ! 

Juba will never at his fate repine; 

Let Cassar have the world, if Marcia 's 
mine. 



Scene 4. A March at a Distance. 
{Cato and Lucius.) 

Luc. I stand astonished! what, the bold 

Sempronius ! 
That still broke foremost through the 

crowd of patriots, 
As with a hurricane of zeal transported, 
And virtuous even to madness — 
Cato. Trust me, Lucius, 

Our civil discords have produced such 

crimes. 
Such monstrous crimes, I am surprised 

at nothing. 
— Lucius! I am sick of this bad 

world ! 
The day-light and the sun grow painful 

to me. 

{Enter Fortius.) 

But see where Fortius comes! What 

means this haste? 
Why are thy looks thus changed? 
For. My heart is grieved. 

I bring such news as will afllict my 

fatiier. 
Cato. Has Caesar shed more Roman 

blood? 
For. Not so. 

The traitor Syphax, as witiiin the square 
He exercised his troops, the signal given, 
Flew off at once with his Numidian horse 
To the south gate, where Marcus holds 

the watch. 
I saw, and called to stop him, but in 

vain, 
He tossed his arm aloft, and proudly 

told me, 



CATO 



571 



He would not stay and perish like Seui- 
pronius. 
Cato. Perfidious men ! but haste, my son, 
and see 

Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman's 
part. 

{Exit For.) 

— Lucius, the torrent bears too hard 
upon me: 

Justice gives way to force : the conquered 
world 

Is Csesar's: Cato has no business in it. 
Luc. While pride, oppression, and injus- 
tice reign, 

The world will still demand her Cato's 
presence. 

In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, 

And reconcile thy mighty soul to life. 
Cato. Would Lucius have me live to swell 
the number 

Of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submis- 
sion 

Give up the cause of Kome, and own a 
tyrant? 
Luc. The victor never will impose on 
Cato 

Ungenerous terms. His enemies confess 

The virtues of humanity are Csesar's. 
Cato. Curse on his virtues ! they 've un- 
done his country. 

Such popular humanity is treason — 

But see young Juba ! the good youth ap- 
pears 

Full of the guilt of his perfidious sub- 
jects. 
Luc. Alas! poor prince! his fate deserves 
compassion. 

{Enter Juba.) 

Juba. I blush and am confounded to ap- 
pear 
Before thy presence, Cato. 
Cato. ' What's thy crime? 

Juba. I 'm a Numidian. 
Cato. And a brave one too. 

Thou hast a Roman soul. 
Juba. ' Hast thou not heard 

Of my false countrymen? 
Cato. Alas ! young prince. 

Falsehood and fraud shoot up in every 

soil, 
The product of all climes — Rome has its 
Caesars. 
Juba. 'T is generous thus to comfort the 

distressed. 
Cato. 'T is just to give applause where 
't is deserved ; 
Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of 
fortune. 



Like purest gold, that, tortured in the 
furnace. 

Comes out more briglit, and brings forth 
all its weight. 
Juba. What shall I answer thee? my 
ravished heart 

O'erflows with secret joy ; I 'd rather 
gain 

Thy praise, Cato, than Numidia's em- 
pire. 

{Re-enter Fortius.) 

For. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on 

grief ! 
My brother Marcus — 
Cato. Hah! what has he done? 

Has he forsook his post? has he given 

way? 
Did he look tamely on, and let 'em 

pass? 
For. Scarce had I left my father, but I 

met him 
Borne on the shields of his surviving 

soldiers. 
Breathless and pale, and covered o'er 

with wounds. 
Long, at the head of his few faithful 

friends, 
He stood the shock of a whole host of 

foes. 
Till, obstinately brave, and bent on 

death, 
Oppressed with multitudes, he greatly 

fell. 
Cato. 1 'm satisfied. 

For. Nor did he fall before 

His sword had pierc'd through the false 

heart of Syphax. 
Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor 
Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the 

ground. 
Cato. Thanks to the gods ! my boy has 

done his duty. 
— Fortius, when I am dead, be sure thou 

place 
His urn near mine. 
For. Long may they keep asunder. 

Luc. Cato! arm thy soul with all its 

patience ; 
See where the corpse of thy dead son 

approaches ! 
The citizens and senators, alarmed, 
Have gathered round it, and attend it 

weeping. 
{Cato, meeting the corpse.) 
Welcome, my son! here lay him down, 

my friends. 
Full in my sight, that I may view at 

leisure 



572 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



The bloody corse, and count those glo- 
rious wounds. 
How beautiful is death, when earned by 

virtue ! 
Who would not be that youth? what 

pity is it 
That we can die but once to serve our 

country ! 
Why sits this sadness on your brows, 

my friends? 
I should have blushed if Cato's house 

had stood 
Secure, and flourished in a civil war. 
— Fortius, behold thy brother, and re- 
member 
Thy life is not thy own, when Rome de- 
mands it. 
Juba. Was ever man like this ! 

{Aside.) 
Cato. Alas! my friends! 

Why mourn you thus? let not a private 

loss 
Afflict your hearts. 'T is Rome requires 

our tears. 
The mistress of the world, the seat of 

empire, 
The nurse of heroes, the delight of 

gods. 
That humbled the proud tyrants of the 

earth, 
And set the nations free, Rome is no 

more. 
Oh liberty! Oh virtue! Oh my country! 
Juba. Behold that upright man! Rome 

fills his eyes 
With tears, that flowed not o'er his own 

dead son. 

{Aside.) 
Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has 

subdued. 
The sun's whole course, the day and 

year, are Ccesar's. 
For him the self-devoted Deeii died, 
The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios 

conquered ; 
Even Pompey fought for CfBsar. Oh ! 

my friends ! 
How is the toil of fate, the work of 

ages. 
The Roman empire fallen! Oh curst 

ambition ! 
Fallen into Cfesar's hands! Our great 

forefathers 
Had left him nought to conquer but his 

country. 
Juba. While Cato lives, Cgesar will blush 

to see 
Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of 

empire. 



Cato. Caesar ashamed! has not he seen 

Pharsalia? 
Luc. Cato, 't is time thou save thyself 

and us. 
Cato. Lose not a thought on me; I'm 

out of danger. 
Heaven will not leave me in the victor's 

hand. 
Ccesar shall never say, I conquered Cato. 
But, oh! my friends, your safety fills 

my heart 
With anxious thoughts : a thousand se- 
cret terrors 
Rise in my soul: how shall I save my 

friends ! 
'T is now, Caesar, I begin to fear thee. 
Luc. Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of 

him. 
Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you! let him 

know 
Whate'er was done against him, Cato did 

it. 
Add, if you please, that I request it of 

him, 
The virtue of my friends may pass un- 
punished. 
— Juba, my heart is troubled for thy 

sake. 
Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, 
Or seek the conqueror? — 
Juba. If I forsake thee 

Whilst I have life, may heaven abandon 

Juba ! 
Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee 

aright, 
Will one day make thee great; at Rome, 

hereafter, 
'T will be no crime to have been Cato's 

friend. 
Fortius, draw near! my son, thou oft 

hast seen 
Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state. 
Wrestling with vice and faction: now 

thou seest me 
Spent, overpowered, despairing of suc- 
cess; 
Let me advise thee to retreat betimes 
To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, 
Where the great Censor toiled with his 

own hands, 
And all our frugal ancestors were 

blessed 
In humble virtues, and a rural life. 
There live retired, pray for the peace of 

Rome: 
Content thyself to be obscurely good. 
When vice prevails, and impious men 

bear sway, 
The post of honor is a private station. 



For. I hope my father does not recom- 
mend 

A life to Fortius that he scorns him- 
self. 
Cato. Farewell, my friends! if there be 
any of you 

Who dare not trust the victor's clem- 
ency, 

Know, there are ships prepared by my 
command, 

(Their sails already opening to the 
winds ) 

That shall convey you to the wished-for 
port. 

Is there aught else, my friends, I can do 
for you? 

The conqueror draws near. Once more 
farewell ! 

If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet 

In happier climes, and on a safer shore. 

Where Caesar never shall approach us 
more. 
{Pointing to his dead son.) 

There the brave youth, with love of vir- 
tue fired, 

Who greatly in his country's cause ex- 
pired. 

Shall know he conquered. The firm 
patriot there, 

(Who made the welfare of mankind his 
care) 

Though still, by faction, vice, and for- 
tune crost, 

Shall find the generous labor was not 
lost. 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. 

{Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful pos- 
ture: in his hand Plato's Book on the 
Immortality of the Soul. A drawn 
sword on the table by him.) 
It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st 

well!— 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond 

desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward 

horror, 
Of falling into naught? why shrinks the 

soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruc- 
tion? 
'T is the divinity that stirs within us ; 
'T is heaven itself, that points out an 
hereafter, 



CATO 573 

And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful 

thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes 

must we pass ! 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies 

before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest 

upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there 's a power 

above us, 
(And that tliere is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works) he must delight 

in virtue: 
And that which he delights in, must be 

happy. 
But when! or where! — This world was 

made for Caesar. 
I 'm weary of conjectures — This must 

end 'em. 
{Laying Ins hand on his sword.) 
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and 

life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before 

me: 
This in a moment brings me to an 

end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its 

point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun him- 
self 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in 

years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal 

youth. 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of 

worlds. 
What means this heaviness that hangs 

upon me? 
This lethargy that creeps through all 

my senses? 
Nature, oppressed and harassed out with 

care. 
Sinks down to rest. This once I '11 

favor her. 
That my awakened soul may take her 

flight. 
Renewed in all her strength, and fresh 

with life. 
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or 

fear 
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither 

of 'em, 
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or 

die. 



574 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Scene 2. 

(Cato, Fortius.) 

Cato. But, hall! how's this, my son? 
why this intrusion? 
Were not my orders that I would be 

private ? 
Why am I disobej^ed? 
For. Alas! my father! 

What means this sword, this instrument 

of death? 
Let me convey it hence! 
Cato. Rash youth, forbear! 

For. Oh let the prayers, th' entreaties 
of 3^our friends. 
Their tears, their common danger, wrest 
it from 30U. 
Cato. Wouldst tliou betray me? wouldst 
thou give me up 
A slave, a captive, into CjBsar's hands? 
Retire, and learn obedience to a father. 
Or know, young man ! — 
For. Look not thus sternly on me; 

You know I 'd rather die than disobey 
you. 
Cato. 'T IS well ! again I 'm master of my- 
self. 
Now, Cajsar, let thy troops beset our 

gates, 
And bar each avenue, thy gathering 

fleets 
O'erspread the sea, and stop up every 

port ; 
Cato shall open to himself a passage, 
And mock thy hopes — 
For. Oh, sir! forgive your son, 

Whose grief hangs heavy on him ! Oh 

my father! 
How am I sure it is not the last time 
I e'er shall call you so! be not dis- 
pleased, 
Oh be not angry with me whilst I weep. 
And, in the anguish of my heart beseech 

you 
To quit the dreadful purpose of your 
soul! 
Cato. Thou hast been ever good and duti- 
ful. 

{Embracing him.) 
Weep not, my son. All will be well 

again. 
The righteous gods, whom I have sought 

to please. 
Will succor Cato, and preserve his chil- 
dren. 
For. Your words give comfort to my 

drooping heart. 
Cato. Fortius, thou may'st rely upon my 
conduct. 



Thy father will not act what misbe- 
comes him. 

But go, my son, and see if aught be 
wanting 

Among thy father's friends; see them 
embarked ; 

And tell me if the winds and seas be- 
friend them. 

My soul is quite weighed down with 
care, and asks 

The soft refreshment of a moment's 
sleep. 

(Exit.) 
For. My thoughts are more at ease, my 
heart revives. 

Scene 3. 

{Fortius and Marcia.) 

For. Marcia, my sister, still there 's 
hope! 

Our father will not cast away a life 

So needful to us all, and to his coun- 
try. 

He is retired to rest, and seems to 
cherish 

Thoughts full of peace. He has de- 
spatched me hence 

With orders, that bespeak a mind com- 
posed, 

And studious for the safety of his 
friends. 

Marcia, take care that none disturb his 
slumbers. 
Mar. ye immortal powers, that guard 
the just, 

Watch round his couch, and soften his 
repose. 

Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 

With easy dreams ; remember all his vir- 
tues ! 

And show mankind that goodness is 
your care. 

Scene 4. 

{Lucia and Marcia.) 

Luc. Where is vour father, Marcia, where 

is Cato? " 
Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to 
rest. 
Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning hope 
Rise in my soul. We shall be happy 
still. 
Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on 
Cato, 
In [ejvery view, in every thought I 
tremble ! 



CATO 



575 



Cato is stern, and awful as a god; 

He knows not how to wink at human 
frailty, 

Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 
Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes 
of Rome, 

He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, 

Compassionate, and gentle to his friends. 

Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best, 

The kindest father! I have ever found 
him 

Easy, and good, and bounteous to my 
wishes. 
Luc. 'T is his consent alone can make us 
blest. 

Marcia, we both are equally involved 

In the same intricate, perplexed dis- 
tress. 

The cruel hand of fate, that has de- 
stroyed 

Thy brother Marcus, whom we both la- 
ment — 
Mar. And ever shall lament, unhappy 

youth ! 
Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now 
I stand 

Loose of my vow. But who knows 
Cato's thoughts? 

Who knows how yet he may dispose of 
Fortius, 

Or how he has determined of thyself? 
Mar. Let him but live! commit the rest 
to heaven. 

[Enter Lucius.) 

Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the vir- 
tuous man! 

Marcia, I have seen thy godlike 

father : 
Some power invisible supports his soul, 
And bears it up in all its wonted great- 
ness. 
A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon 
him : 

1 saw him stretched at ease, his fancy 

lost 
In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his 

couch, 
He smiled, and cried, "Caesar, thou canst 
not hurt me." 
Mar. His mind still labors with some 

dreadful thought. 
Luc. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods 
of sorrow? 
Dry up thy tears, my child, we all are 

safe 
While Cato lives — his presence will pro- 
tect us. 

{Enter Juba.) 



Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned 

from viewing 
The number, strength, and posture of 

our foes. 
Who now encamp within a short hour's 

march. 
On the high point of yon bright western 

tower 
We ken them from afar, the setting sun 
Plays on their shining arms and bur- 
nished helmets, 
And covers all the field Avith gleams of 

fire. 
Luc. Marcia, 't is time we should awake 

thy father. 
Csesar is still disposed to give us terms. 
And waits at distance till he hears from 

Cato. 

{Enter Fortius.) 

Fortius, thy looks speak somewhat of 
importance, 

What tidings dost thou bring? methinks 
I see 

Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. 
For. As I was hasting to the port, 
where now 

My father's friends, impatient for a pas- 
sage. 

Accuse the lingering winds, a sail ar- 
rived 

From Fompey's son, who through the 
realms of Spain 

Calls out for vengeance on his father's 
death. 

And rouses the whole nation up to arms. 

Were Cato at their head, once more 
might Rome 

Assert her rights and claim her liberty. 

But, hark ! what means that groan ! Oh 
give me way. 

And let me fly into my father's presence. 
{Exit Fortius.) 
Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on 
Rome, 

And in the wild disorder of his soul 

Mourns o'er his country, — Hah! a sec- 
ond groan ! — 

Heaven guard us all — 
Mar. Alas ! 't is not the voice 

Of one who sleeps ! 't is agonizing pain, 

'T is death is in that sound — 

{Re-enter Fortius.) 

For. Oh sight of woe! 

Marcia, what we feared is come to 
pass ! 

Cato is fallen upon his sword — 
Luc. Fortius, 



576 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Hide all the horrors of thy mournful 
tale, 

And let us guess the rest. 
For. I 've raised him up, 

And placed him in his chair, where, pale 
and faint, 

He gasps for breath, and, as his life 
flows from him, 

Demands to see his friends. His serv- 
ants weeping, 

Obsequious to his orders, bear him 
hither. 
{The hack scene opens and discovers Cato.) 
Mar. heaven, assist me in this dread- 
ful hour 

To pay the last sad duties to my father. 
Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy ex- 
ploits, Caesar! 
Luc. Now is Rome fallen indeed! 

(Cato brought forward in his chair.) 
Cato. Here set me down — 

Fortius, come near me — are my friends 
embarked ? 

Can anything be thought of for their 
service? 

Whilst I yet live, let me not live in 
vain. 

— Lucius, art thou here? — thou art too 
good ! — 

Let this our friendship live between our 
children ; 

Make Fortius happy in thy daughter 
Lucia. 

Alas ! poor man, he weeps ! — Marcia, my 
daughter — 

— Oh bend me forward! — Juba loves 
thee, Marcia. 

A senator of Rome, while Rome survived. 

Would not have match'd his daughter 
with a king, 



But Caesar's arms have thrown down all 

distinction ; 
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Ro- 
man. — 
— I 'm sick to death — Oh when shall I 

get loose 
From this vain world, tli' abode of guilt 

and sorrow! 
— And yet metliinks a beam of light 

breaks in 
On my departing soul. Alas! I fear 
I 've been too hasty ! ye powers that 

search 
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost 

thoughts, 
If I have done amiss, impute it not! — 
The best may err, but you are good, 

and — oh ! 

(Dies.) 
Luc. There fled the greatest soul that 

ever warmed 
A Roman breast. Cato! my friend! 
Thy will shall be religiously observed. 
But let us bear this awful corpse to 

Caesar, 
And lay it in his sight, that it may 

stand 
A fence betwixt us and the victor's 

wrath ; 
Cato, though dead; shall still protect his 

friends. 
From hence, let fierce contending nations 

know 
What dire effects from civil discord flow. 
'T is this that shakes our country with 

alarms, 
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman 

arms, 
Froduces fraud, and cruelty, and strife, 
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729), born in 
Dublin, son of a well-to-do Irish attorney, 
was educated and passed most of his life in 
England. Lil;e the later Irish dramatist 
Sheridan, he rose to prominence in both poli- 
tics and literature. Active and versatile, he 
passed some of his early years in the army, 
and later contributed to political journalism, 
entered Parliament and was knighted. A 
lifelong friend of Addison, from the age of 
fourteen, like him he won his chief fame by 
contributing essays to The Tatler and The 
Spectator, 1709-12. 

The origin and influence of The Conscious 
Lovers and its type of l)Iay are what give 
the work its main interest. Of itself it is 
not a particularly good jjlay, and makes us 
smile oftener when the author did not intend 
Ave should than when he did. But all the 
same it is a landmark of a profound change 
in social history and in the drama. In 
Steele's plays conscious morality, and senti- 
mentalism, came into the drama of real life. 
In Elizabethan domestic tragedy, such as 
Heywood's A Woman Killed icith Kindness, 
there had been conscious morality, but witli 
Steele we get a new combination and a new 
literary efi'ect. 

Two chief influences led Steele to make the 
innovation. In 1UU8 Jeremy Collier, a Ison- 
juring clergyman, had attacked the con- 
temporary drama in his book A Short View 
of the Immorality and J'rofancness of the 
English Stage, a work, thougli not without 
fallacies, remarkable for learning, wit, so- 
briety, and sense. On Steele it created a 
profound impression. Again, in 1701, while 
still in the army, he had published The Chris- 
tian Hero, as a check on his own expansive 
though conscientious nature, declaring Chris- 
tian principles a better guide for a man than 
the principles of honor so-called which were 
the ideals of most persons of station; the 
chief result of which book among liis mates 
was " that from being reckoned no unde- 
lightful companion he was soon reckoned a 
disagreeable fellow." Feeling a challenge to 
prove himself after all no prig, he undertook 
in 1701 " to enliven his character " by the 
production of a comedy — with the unexpected 
title The Funeral. This and several which 
followed, though not lacking cleverness and 
humor, are notable chiefly for their attempt 
to teach or at least not to ofl'end morality and 
virtue. TIius he served both Gad and Mam- 
mon. 

The Conscious Lovers was written later in 



Steele's life, after the Spectator period. He 
worked over it for some two years; it ap- 
peared in 1722, and ran for twenty-six nights, 
which then meant a considerable success. It 
evoked much discussion, especially as to act 
IV, where Bevil as a matter of principle 
avoids flghting a duel, the strongest and most 
genuine scene in the play. Steele states in 
his preface that he wrote the play for the 
sake of this point. Early in his life he had 
been forced into a duel, and came to feel 
keenly the iniquity of the conventional code 
of honor ; in the play he imaginatively em- 
bodies and applies the principles which he had 
laid down in The Christian Hero. Other 
timely and practical matters which find a 
voice in the play are the question as to the 
relative dignity of the landed aristocracy and 
the merchant class, discussed by Sealand and 
the elder Bevil in act IV, and the duty of a 
father to look sharply into the character 
of the man to whom he is to intrust his 
daughter. At such points we feel a decidedly 
new and modern spirit, and are conscious, 
under the artificial exterior, of a humane and 
independent thinker. In other places we get 
a vivid light on the roughness of contempo- 
rary life, even among the sentimental ; the 
coarse talk of Cimberton seems to anger the 
pride rather than to shock the modesty even 
of the proffer Lucinda. Likewise we are sur- 
prised, though rather relieved, to hear this 
well-conducted young woman now and then 
exclaim "Deuce on 'em!" On the whole, 
however, the play represents rather things 
as they supi)osedly ought to be than as they 
are. Its moral idealism is more prominent 
than its realism. Some credit must doubt- 
less be given to such plays as Steele's, as to 
novels like Godwin's Caleb Williams (1794), 
also written against duelling, for such 
changes in public feeling as have, for ex- 
ample, abolished the duel from the Anglo- 
Saxon world. The seriousness which was 
genially satirized by Fielding through the 
mouth of Parson Adams in Joseph zindreics 
was one reason for the play's long hold on 
people — " I never heard of any plays fit for 
a Christian to read, but Cato and the Con- 
scious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter 
there are some things almost solemn enough 
for a sermon." Tlie appealing emotionality 
of sentimental drama fitted it to be an in- 
strument of social reform. 

The words sentiment and sentimentalism as 
used of til is and later plays have really two 
applications. I hey refer to a soft emotional- 



577 



578 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ism — pity, mild unpassionate love, gentle 
admiration, over-delicacy, and sensitiveness; 
and also to the fondness of the characters 
for sententious expression of laudable opin- 
ions. A " man of sentiment " is a man of 
feeling, and given to moralizing. The de- 
velopment of sentimentalism, unlike that of 
classicism and romanticism, was not well de- 
fined enough to be called a movement; but 
all of them were alike in this, that each was 
at bottom merely a taste, a liking for a cer- 
tain kind of esthetic impression, a liking 
which has always existed, but at a particular 
time became especially general and self-ex- 
pressive. Since these plays attempted to sub- 
stitute something harmless for the reckless 
wit and unscrupulous intrigue of Restora- 
tion comedy, they were cut ofl' from a source 
of strong sensation; and it may truly be said 
that sentimentalism is an endeavor not only 
to secure the ethical character which the 
earlier comedy had lacked, but also to retain 
the interest and piquancy which it had se- 
cured in another way. It remained for 
Goldsmith and Sheridan to show that comedy 
could abandon its licentiousness without sub- 
stituting tears for laughter. Yet such was 
the genuine originality and vitality of senti- 
mentalism that even these men, its enemies, 
could not escape its influence. 

The sentimentalism of this play is not ex- 
treme or offensive, yet it is ever present. The 
delicacy of young Bevil toward his father is 
almost as fine-drawn as that of ]Mrs. Ann 
Radcliife's romantic heroine, later in the cen- 
tury, who had too much delicacy to tell her 
parents of a proposal of marriage. Old 
Bevil is arrogant and domineering, " yet their 
fear of giving each other pain is attended 
with constant mutual uneasiness." The 
music-master is introduced merely to let 
Bevil show that " the distinguishing part 
of a gentleman " is " to make his superiority 
of fortune as easy to his inferiors as he can," 
and to win for him Indiana's " smile of ap- 
probation." When we first see him he is lay- 
ing in moral fuel for the day's run by read- 
ing Addison's Vision of Mirza. Bevil ap- 
pears to us a prig, and we dislike him; he 
pays the penalty of practically all faultless 
heroes in realistic fiction. The reason for 
this all but universal feeling is not a mean 
and envious streak in human nature, but a 
pardonable resentment at seeing what we 
know to be rare and dilficult represented as so 
easy as complete virtue is to tliese unnatural 
heroes. Indiana has all the swooning, cling- 
ing sensibility of a long line of later heroines; 
in the epoch of sensii)ility women were not 
expected to control themselves. The moral 
delicacy of the play is expressed in its very 
title. Alluding to the couplet with which 
Indiana closes the second act, — 

As conscious lionor all his actions steers. 
So conscious innocence dispels my fears. — 

the word " conscious " in " Conscious Lovers " 



means " who know what they are about." 
" Conscious love " was a household substitute 
for the reckless passion which the drama has 
usually preferred. 

The ideality, representmg things as better 
or more convenient than in life, is not con- 
fined to the characters. As a further substi- 
tute for dash and wit, we have an elaborate 
plot in which probability is not allowed to 
stand in the way of somewhat crude humor, 
or the niceties of poetic justice — in which 
all things work together for good for those 
who love good, and in which the most childish 
disguises and intrigues are made to work. 
The facts of the world give way before the in- 
terests of both the characters and the drama- 
tist. Sentimental comedy is thoroughly arti- 
ficial and conventional in the elements of its 
plot. There is a curious contrast between the 
highly sophisticated and fragile characters 
and the traditional sort of story through 
which they move, with its disguises, long- 
lost children, new-found wills, and the like. 
For free comedy in tins p!a,v we have to re- 
sort to Tom and Phillis, who are not bound 
by the code which trammels their betters, and 
who are an early instance of a device com- 
mon in later novel and drama, a comic and 
every-day pair of lovers alongside a romantic 
pair. No critic has failed to relish Tom's 
description (111. i) of his Pyramuslike 
courtship of Phillis through the window-glass 
which she was cleaning But unfortunately 
this ia only told, not acted. 

The traditional, artificial character of the 
plot is partly accounted for by its source, 
the Andria of Terence, to which the first two 
acts and the last are especially indebted; 
almost every character and every essential 
incident in Steele's work has its counter- 
part in the admirable Latin play. Glj'cerium, 
lost by her father in infancy and now kept 
mistress of Pamphilus, turns into the deli- 
cate-minded Indiana, innocently supported 
for a time by Bevils bounty. Charinus, in 
love with the girl whom Pamphilus' father 
would have him marry, jealously quarrels 
with his unwilling rival; from this Steele 
develops the incident of the averted duel 
The recognition of the long-lost daughter at 
the end he does his best to make as plausible 
as it seems in Terence ; even the change of 
old Sealand's name is paralleled in Terence 
by a change of the daughter's. It is of the 
greatest interest to S(>e how the stock char- 
acters of Latin comedy — the tyrannical old 
man, the wild son, the rascally slave — have 
been translated as it were into the native 
English vernacular, or refined into ideality. 

The soundest estimate of this and like 
plays is that they are a hybrid, attempting 
to combine the entertainment afforded by 
comedy with the dignity and " uplift " of 
tragedy. - 'J he comic muse, grown too Avild, 
was to be reformed by tlie inlluence of her 
sedate sister. The idealized personalties, 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 



579 



the inditlerence to evory-day jirobability, and 
the moral teaching of contemporary tragedy 
are fully adopted ; its violent emotions are 
toned down to a degree which will not rend 
the frailer fabric of comedy, and become 
sentimentalism ; so far as possible its poetic 
vesture is preserved. In The Conscious 
Lovers much of the talk is not meant to be 
that of daily life; it is formal, rhetorical, 
rhythmical, and, toward the end especially, 
much of it is actually blank verse (though 
printed as prose). This heavy and edifying 
side of the play is relieved by comic ele- 
ments, partly realistic (as in the talk of 
Tom), partly fantastic (as in the figure of 
Cimberton and in the various disguises). 
But the lighter element is made to know its 
place; sentimentalism in the person of 
Lucinda rebukes comedy in the person of 
Phillis as "a pert merry hussy" (ITI. i). 
The novelty and a certain merit in the com- 
bination gave it success with the imcritical; 
and though it was fair game for the ridicule 
it was to receive from tlie great comic 
dramatists, Goldsmith and Sheridan, even 



the critical will give a certain sympathy to 
its well-meaning optimism. This is the 
fundamental trait it has in common with 
contemporary tragedy, and is also what gave 
the type its long life. The improving senti- 
ments poured out, and the upright intentions 
of the characters, seem to gain validity and 
even divine approval from the complete satis- 
faction in which everything ends. The pic- 
ture of life afforded by the play justifies 
the moral optimism of the concluding 
couplet : 

Whate'er the generous mind itself denies. 
The secret care of Providence supplies. 

The Conscious Lovers was played in the 
principal theaters of London for generations, 
and sentimentalism more or less modified has 
lived on even to the present day, in dramas 
of lower grade; more important yet, it built 
itself a more stately mansion in the novel, 
beginning with Richardson. Sometimes com- 
bined with romance, it flourished in the nine- 
teenth century, and is one of the main ele- 
ments in the novels of Dickens. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



" Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis 
positum est, debet habere sermonis festivita- 
tem, animorura dissimilitudinem, gravitatem, 
lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desider- 
ium, dissimulationem, misericordiam, rerum 



varietates, fortunse commutationem, inspera- 
tum incommodum, subitam letitiam, jucun- 
dum exitum rerum." * — CiCERO, Rhetor, ad 
Herenn. Lib. i. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Sir John BE^^L. 

Mr. Sealand. 

Bevil, Jun., in love it-ith Ixdiana. 

Myrtle, in love with Lucinda. 

Cimberton, a Coxcomb. 

Humphry, an old Servant to Sib John. 

Tom, Servant to Bevil, Jun. 

Daniel, a Country Boy, Servant to Indiana. 

ACT THE FIRST. 

ScEKE 1. Sir John BeviVs House. 
(Enter Sir John Bevil and Humphry.) 

Sir J. Bev. Have you ordered that I 
should not be interrupted while I am 
dressing"? 

Humph. Yes, sir; I believed you had 
something of moment to say to me. 

Sir J. Bev. Let me see, Humphry; I 
think it is now full forty years since I 
first took thee to be about myself. 

Humph. I thank you, sir, it has been an 
easy forty years; and I have passed 'em 



Mrs. Sealand, second Wife to Sealanp. 

IS.VBELLA, Sister to Sealand. 

Indiana, Sealand's Daughter, hy his first 

Wife. 
Lucinda, Sealand's Daughter, hy his second 

Wife. 
Phillis, Maid to Lucinda. 

Scene. — London. 

without much sickness, care, or labor. 

Sir J. Bev. Thou hast a brave constitu- 
tion; you are a year or two older than I 
am, sirrah. 

Humph. You have ever been of that 
mind, sir. 

Sir J. Bev. You knave, you know it; I 
took thee for thy gravity and sobriety, 
in my wild years. 

Humph. Ah, sir! our manners were 

* The kind of story which is presented on 
the stage ought to be marked by gaiety of dialogue, 
diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, hope, 
fear, suspicion, desire, dissimulation, pity, variety 
of events, changes of fortune, unexpected disaster, 
sudden joy, and a happy ending. 



580 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



formed from our different fortunes, not 
our different age. Wealth gave a loose 
to your youth, and poverty put a re- 
straint upon mine. 

Sir J. Bev. Well, Humphry, you know I 
have been a kind master to you; I have 
used you, for the ingenuous nature I 
observed in you from the beginning, 
more like an humble friend than a serv- 
ant. 

Humph. I humbly beg you '11 be so tender 
of me as to explain your commands, sir, 
without any farther preparation. 

Sir J. Bev. I '11 tell thee, then : In the 
first place, this wedding of my son's in 
all probability — shut the door — will 
never be at all. 

Humph. How, sir! not be at all*? for what 
reason is it carried on in appearance? 

Sir J. Bev. Honest Humphry, have pa- 
tience ; and I '11 tell thee all in order. 
I have, myself, in some part of my life, 
lived (indeed) with freedom, but, I hope, 
without reproach. Now, I thought lib- 
erty would be as little injurious to my 
son; therefore, as soon as he grew to- 
wards man, I indulged him in living 
after his OAvn manner. I knew not how, 
otherwise, to judge of his inclination; 
for what can be concluded from a be- 
havior under restraint and fear? But 
what charms me above all expression is, 
that my son has never, in the least ac- 
tion, the most distant hint or word, 
valued himself upon that great estate of 
his mother's, which, according to our 
marriage settlement, he has had ever 
since he came to age. 

Humph. No, sir; on the contrary, he 
seems afraid of appearing to enjoy it, 
before you or any belonging to you. He 
is as dependent and resigned to your 
will as if he had not a farthing but what 
must come from your immediate bounty. 
You have ever acted like a good and 
generous father, and he like an obedient 
and grateful son. 

Sir J. Bev. Nay, his carriage is so easy 
to all with whom he converses, that he 
is never assuming, never prefers him- 
self to others, nor ever is guilty of that 
rough sincerity which a man is not called 
to, and certainly disobliges most of his 
acquaintance; to be short, Humphry, his 
reputation was so fair in the world, that 
old Sealand, the great Indian merchant, 
has offered his only daughter, and sole 
heiress to that vast estate of his, as a 
wife for him. You may be sure I made 



no difficulties, the match was agi'eed on, 
and this very day named for the wed- 
ding. 

Humph. What hinders the proceeding? 

Sir J. Bev. Don't interrupt me. You 
know I was last Thursday at the mas- 
querade; my son, you may remember, 
soon found us out. He knew his grand- 
father's hal)it, which I then wore; and 
though it was the mode, in the last age, 
yet the masquers, you know, followed us 
as if we had been the most monstrous 
figures in that whole assembly. 

Humph. I remember, indeed, a young 
man of quality in the habit of a clown, 
that was particularly troublesome. 

Sir J. Bev. Right; he was too much what 
he seemed to be. You remember how 
impertinently he followed and teased 
us, and would know who Ave were. 

Humph. I know he has a mind to come 
into that particular. 

{Aside.) 

Sir J. Bev. Ay, he followed us till the 
gentleman who led the lady in the Indian 
mantle presented that gay creature to 
the rustic, and bid him (like Cymon in 
the fable) grow polite by falling in love; 
and let that worthy old gentleman alone, 
meaning me. The clown was not re- 
formed, but rudely persisted, and of- 
fered to force off my mask; with that, 
the gentleman, throwing off his own, ap- 
peared to be my son, and in his concern 
for me, tore off that of the nobleman; 
at this they seized each other; the com- 
pany called the guards, and in the sur- 
prise the lady swooned away; upon 
which my son quitted his adversary, and 
had now no care but of the lady. When 
raising her in his arms, "Art thou gone," 
cried he, "for ever? — forbid it. Heaven!" 
She revived at his known voice, and with 
the most familiar, though modest, ges- 
ture, hangs in safety over his shoulder 
weeping, but wept as in the arms of one 
before whom she could give herself a 
loose, were she not under observation; 
while she hides her face in his neck, he 
carefully conveys her from the com- 
pany. 

Humph. I have observed this accident has 
dwelt upon you very strongly. 

Sir J. Bev. Her uncommon air, her noble 
modesty, the dignity of her person, and 
the occasion itself, drew the whole as- 
sembly together; and I soon heard it 
buzzed about she was the adopted daugh- 
ter of a famous sea-oificer who had 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



581 



served in France. Now this unexpected 
and public discovery of my son's so deep 
concern for her 

Humph. Was what, I suppose, ahirmed 
Mr. Sealand, in behalf of his daughter, 
to break off the match? 

Sir J. Bev. You are right. He came to 
me yesterday and said he thought him- 
self disengaged from the bargain; being 
credibly informed my son was already 
married, or worse, to the lady at the mas- 
querade. I palliated matters, and in- 
sisted on our agreement; but we parted 
with little less than a direct breach be- 
tween us. 

Humph. Well, sir; and what notice have 
you taken of all this to my young mas- 
ter? 

Sir J. Bev. That 's what I wanted to de- 
bate with you. I have said nothing to 
him yet — but look you, Humphry, if 
there is so much in this amour of his, 
that he denies upon my summons to 
marry, I have cause enough to be of- 
fended; and then by my insisting upon 
his marrying to-day, I shall know how 
far he is engaged to this lady in mas- 
querade, and from thence only shall be 
able to take my measures. In the mean- 
time I would have you find out how far 
that rogue, his man, is let into his se- 
cret. He, I know, will play tricks as 
much to cross me, as to serve his master. 

Humph. Why do you think so of him, 
sir"? I believe he is no Avorse than I 
was for you, at your son's age. 

Sir J. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. 
But I have dwelt on these things too 
long ; I '11 go to my son immediately, 
and* while I 'm gone, your part is to con- 
vince his rogue, Tom, that I am in 
earnest. — I '11 leave him to you. 
{Exit Sir John Bevil.) 

Humph. Well, though this fatlier and son 
live as well together as possible, yet 
their fear of giving each other pain is at- 
tended with constant mutual uneasiness. 
I 'm sure I have enough to do to be hon- 
est, and yet keep well with them both. 
But they know I love 'em, and that 
makes the task less painful, however. 
Oh, here 's the prince of poor cox- 
combs, the representative of all the bet- 
ter fed than taught. Ho! ho! Tom, 
whither so gay and so airy this morn- 



ing? 



{Enter Tom, singing.) 



Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentle- 
men are another kind of people than you 
domestic ordinary drudges that do busi- 
ness; we are raised above you. The 
pleasures of board wages, tavern din- 
ners, and many a clear gain ; vails,^ alas ! 
you never heard or dreamt of. 

Humph. Thou hast follies and vices 
enough for a man of ten thousand a 
year, tliough 'tis but as t'other day that 
I sent for you to town to put you into 
Mr. Sealand's family, that you might 
learn a little before I put you to my 
young master, who is too gentle for train- 
ing such a rude thing as you were into 
proper obedience. You then pulled off 
your hat to every one you met in the 
street, like a bashful great awkward cub 
as you were. But your great oaken 
cudgel, when you were a bool)y, became 
you much better than that dangling 
stick at your button, now you are a fop. 
That 's fit for nothing, except it hangs 
there to be ready for your master's 
hand when you are impertinent. 

Tom. Uncle Humphry, you know my 
master scorns to strike his servants. 
You talk as if the world was now just 
as it was when my old master and you 
were in your youth; when you went to 
dinner because it was so much o'clock, 
when the great blow was given in the 
hall at the pantry door, and all the fam- 
ily came out of their holes in such 
strange dresses and fonnal faces as you 
see in the pictures in our long gallery in 
tlie country. 

Humph. Why, you wild rogue! 

Tom.. You could not fall to your dinner 
till a formal fellow in a black gown said 
something over tlie meat, as if the cook 
had not made it ready enough. 

Humph. Sirrah, wlio do you prate after? 
Despising men of sacred characters! I 
hope you never heard my good young 
master talk so like a profligate. 

Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when 
I first came to town, about being or- 
derly, and the doctrine of wearing shams 
to make linen last clean a fortnight, 
keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing 
a frock within doors. 

Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons 
because I supposed at that time your 
master and you might have dined at 
home every day, and cost you nothing; 
then you might have made a good fam- 
ily servant. But the gang you have fre- 



1 tips. 



582 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



quented since at chocolate houses and 
taverns, in a continual round of noise 
and extravagance 

Tom. I don't know what you heavy in- 
mates call noise and extravagance ; but 
we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut 
a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and 
that we must be very pretty fellows who 
are kept only to be looked at. 

Humph. Very well, sir, I hope the fash- 
ion of being lewd and extravagant, de- 
spising of decency and order, is almost 
at an end, since it is arrived at persons 
of your quality. 

Tom. Master Humphry, ha ! ha ! you were 
an unhappy lad to be sent up to town 
in such queer days as you were. Why, 
now, sir, the lackeys are the men of 
pleasure of the age, the top gamesters; 
and many a laced coat about town have 
had their education in our party-colored 
regiment. We are false lovers; have a 
taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, 
politics; ruin damsels; and when we are 
tired of this lewd town, and have a mind 
to take up,- whip into our masters' wigs 
and linen, and marry fortunes. 

Humph. Hey-day ! 

Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to 
the highest dignities and distinctions; 
step but into the Painted Cliaml)er,^ 
and by our titles you 'd take us all for 
men of quality. Then, again, come 
down to the Court of Requests,^ and 
you see us all laying our broken heads 
together for the good of the nation ; and 
though we never carry a question ne- 
mine contradicente,^ yet this I can say, 
with a safe conscience (and I wish 
every gentleman of our cloth could lay 
his hand upon his heart and say the 
same), that I never took so much as a 
single mug of beer for my vote in all 
my life. 

Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your 
extravagance ; I '11 hear you prate no 
longer. I wanted to see you to enquire 
how things go with your master, as far 
as you understand them ; I suppose he 
knows he is to be married to-day. 

Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed 
as gay as the sun; but, between you and 
I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart 
under all that gaiety. As soon as he was 
dressed I retired, but overheard him 
sigh in the most heavy manner. He 

2 reform. nfter rooms in tlie r; Pnrtips with music 

3 Api)arently tav- oUl Parliament and dancing, in- 

erns or rooms in House. trorhired into 

a tavern, named 4 unanimously. England in the 



walked thoughtfully to and fro in the 
room, then went into his closet; when he 
came out he gave me this for his mis- 
tress, whose maid, you know 

Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine 
person. 

Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and 
loves to hear me talk of the world, and 
the plays, operas, and ridottos ^ for the 
winter, the parks and Belsize ® for our 
summer diversions; and "Lard!" says 
she, "you are so wild, but you have a 
world of humor." 

Humph. Coxcomb! Well, but why don't 
you run Avith your master's letter to Mrs. 
Lueinda, as he ordered you? 

Tom. Because Mrs. Lueinda is not so 
easily come at as you think for. 

Humph. Not easily come at? Why, sir- 
rah, are not her father and my old mas- 
ter agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are 
to be one flesh before to-morrow morn- 
ing? 

Tom. It 's no matter for that ; her mother, 
it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to 
it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, 
that in that family the grey mare is the 
better horse. 

Humph. What dost thou mean? 

Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pre- 
tends to have a will of her own, and has 
provided a relation of hers, a stiff, 
starched pliilosopher, and a wise fool, 
for her daughter; for which reason, for 
these ten days past, she has suffered no 
message nor letter from my master to 
come near her. 

Humph. And where had you this intelli- 
gence ? 

Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can 
keep nothing from me; one that will de- 
liver this letter too, if she is rightly 
managed. 

Humph. What! her pretty handmaid, 
Mrs. Phillis? 

Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very 
hour, you know, she usually comes 
hither, under a pretence of a visit to 
your housekeeper, forsooth, but in 
reality to have a glance at 

Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. 

Tom. Nothing else in nature; you must 
know, I love to fret and play with the 
little wanton. 

Humph. Play with the little wanton! 
What will this world come to ! 



year of this play 
(O.t/. Dirt.). 
A fashionable 

pleasure-resort in 



the northwest of 
London. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



583 



Tom. I met her this morning in a new 
manteau and petticoat, not a bit the 
worse for her hidy's wearing; and she 
has always new thoughts and new airs 
with new clothes — then she never fails 
to steal some glance or gesture from 
every visitant at their house ; and is, 
indeed, the whole town of coquets at 
second-hand. But here she comes; in 
one motion she speaks and describes her- 
self better than all the words in the 
world can. 

Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your 
own affair is over, you will be so good 
as to mind your master 's with her. 

Tom. Dear Humphry, you know my mas- 
ter is my friend, and those are people I 
never forget. 

Humph. Sauciness itself ! but I '11 leave 
you to do your best for him. 
{Exit.) 
{Enter Phillis.) 

Phil. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugarkey 
at home? Lard, one is almost ashamed 
to pass along the streets! The town is 
quite empty, and nobody of fashion left 
in it; and the ordinary people do so 
stare to see anything dressed like a 
woman of condition, as it were on the 
same floor with them, pass by. Alas ! 
alas ! it is a sad thing to walk. for- 
tune ! fortune ! 

Tom. What! a sad thing to walk? Why, 
Madam Phillis, do you wish yourself 
lame? 

Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were 
generally carried in a coach or chair, 
and of a fortune neither to stand nor 
go, but to totter, or slide, to be short- 
sighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to 
look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet 
all become me; and, if I was rich, I 
could twire ^ and loll as well as the best 
of them. Oh, Tom! Tom! is it not a 
pity that you should be so great a cox- 
comb, and I so great a coquet, and yet 
be such poor devils as we are? 

Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble 
servant for that 

Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know hoAV much 
you are my humble servant, and know 
what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon see- 
ing her in one of her lady's east man- 
teaus: That any one would have 
tliought her the lady, and that she had 
ordered the other to wear it till it sat 
easy; for now only it was becoming. 



To my lady it was only a covering, to 
Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you 
said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom ! 
Tom! thou art as false and as base as 
the best gentleman of them all; but, 
you wretch, talk to me no more on the 
old odious subject — don't, I say. 

Tom. I know not how to resist your com- 
mands, madam. 

{In a submissive tone, retiring.) 

Phil. Commands about parting are grown 
mighty easy to you of late. 

Tom. Oh, I have her; I have nettled and 
put her into the right temper to be 
wrought upon and set a-prating. 
{Aside.) — Why, truly, to be plain with 
you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little com- 
fort of late in frequenting your house. 

PJiil. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of 
a sudden ofliends your nicety at our 
house ? 

Tom. I don't care to speak particulars, 
but I dislike the whole. 

Phil. I thank you, sir, I am a part of 
that whole. 

Tom. Mistake me not, good Phillis. 

Phil. Good Phillis! Saucy enough. But 
however 

Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, 
which gives me pain for the disposition 
of the whole. You must know, madam, 
to be serious, I am a man, at the bot- 
tom, of i^rodigious nice honor. You 
are too much exposed to company at 
your house. To be plain, I don't like 
so many, that would be your mistress's 
lovers, whispering to you. 

Phil. Don't think to put that upon me. 
You say this, because I wrung you to the 
heart when I touched your guilty con- 
science about Judy. 

Tom. Ah, Phillis! Phillis! if you but 
knew my heart! 

Phil. I know too much on 't. 

Tom. Nay, then, poor Crispo's ^ fate and 
mine are one. Therefore give me leave 
to say, or sing at least, as he does upon 
the same occasion — 

"Se vedette," &e. 
{Sings.) 

Ph il. What, do you think I 'm to be 
fobbed'' off with a song? I don't ques- 
tion but you have sung the same to Mrs. 
Judy too. 

Tom. Don't disparage your charms, good 
Phillis, with jealousy of so worthless an 
object; besides, she is a poor hussy, and 
if you doubt the sincerity of my love, 



7 "Make eyes," ogle. 



8 See note on II. ii. 



9 Put off, cajoled. 



584 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



you will allow me true to my interest. 
You are a fortune, Phillis. 

Phil. What would the fop be at now? 
In good time, indeed, you shall be set- 
ting up for a fortune! 

Tom. Dear Mrs. Phillis, you have such 
a spirit that we shall never be dull in 
marriage when we come together. But 
I tell you, you are a fortune, and you 
have an estate in my hands. 
{He pulls out a purse, she eyes it.) 

Phil. What pretence have I to Avhat is in 
your hands, Mr. Tom? 

Tom. As thus : there are hours, you know, 
when a lady is neither pleased or dis- 
pleased; neither sick or well; when she 
lolls or loiters ; when she 's without de- 
sires — from having more of everything 
than she knows what to do with. 

Phil. Well, what then? 

Tom. When she has not life enough to 
keep her bright eyes quite open, to look 
at her own dear image in the ghiss. 

Pl.'il. Explain thyself, and don't be so 
fond of thy own prating. 

Tom. There are also prosperous and good- 
natured moments: as when a knot or a 
patch is happily fixed ; when the com- 
plexion particularly flourislies. 

Phil. Well, what then? I have not pa- 
tience ! 

Tom. Why, then — or on the like occa- 
sions — we servants who have skill to 
know how to time business, see when 
such a pretty folded thing as this 
{Shows a letter.) may be presented, 
laid, or dropped, as best suits the pres- 
ent humor. And, madam, because it is 
a long wearisome journey to run through 
all the several stages of a lady's temper, 
my master, who is the most reasonable 
man in the world, presents you this to 
bear your charges on the road. 
{Gives her the purse.) 

Phil. Now 3'ou think me a corrupt hussy. 

Tom. fie, I only think you '11 take the 
letter. 

Phil. Nay, I know you do, but I know 
my own innocence; I take it for my mis- 
tress's sake. 

Tom. I know it, my pretty one, I know 
it. 

Phil. Yes, I say I do it, because I would 
not have my mistress deluded by one 
who gives no proof of his passion ; but 
I '11 talk more of this as you see me on 
my way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, 
I take this trash of thy master's, not for 



the value of the thing, but as it con- 
vinces me lie lias a true respect for my 
mistress. I remember a verse to the 
purpose — 
They may be false who languish and 

complain, 
But they wlio part with money never 

feign. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 

{Bevil, Jun., reading.) 

Bev. Jun. These moral writers practise 
virtue after death. This charming vision 
of Mirza ! ^^ Such an author consulted 
in a morning sets the spirit for the 
vicissitudes of the day better than the 
glass does a man's person. But what a 
day have I to go through ! to put on an 
easy look with an aching heart ! If this 
lady my father urges me to marry should 
not refuse me, my dilemma is insupport- 
able. But why should I fear it? Is 
not she in equal distress with me? Has 
not the letter I have sent her this morn- 
ing confessed my inclination to another? 
Nay, have I not moral assurances of her 
engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? 
It 's impossible but she must give in to 
it; for, sure, to be denied is a favor any 
man may pretend to. It must be so — 
Well, then, with the assurance of being 
rejected, I think I may confidently say 
to my father, I am ready to marry her. 
Then let me resolve upon, what I am not 
very good at, though it is an honest dis- 
simulation. 

{Enter Tom.) 

Tom. Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next 

room. 
Bev. Jun. Dunce ! Why did not you 

bring him in? 
Tom. 1 told him, sir, you were in your 

closet. 
Bev. Jun. I thought you had known, sir, 

it was my duty to see my father any- 
where. 

{Going himself to the door.) 
Tom. The devil 's in my master ! he has 

always more wit ^^ than I have. 
{Aside.) 

{Bevil, Jun., introducing Sir John.) 
Bev. Jun. Sir, you are the most gallant, 

the most complaisant of all parents. 

Sure, 't is not a compliment to say these 



10 Here Steele compliments his friend Addison's moi-alizing vision in the Spectator (No. 159). 
11 Cleverness, sense. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



585 



lodgings are yours. Why would you 
not walk in, sir? 

Sir J. Bev. I was loth to interrupt you 
unseasonably on your wedding-day. 

Bev. Jun. One to whom I am beholden 
for my birthday might have used less 
ceremony. 

Sir J. Bev. Well, son, I have intelli- 
gence you have writ to your mistress 
this morning. It would please my curi- 
osity to know the contents of a wedding- 
day letter; for courtship must then be 
over. 

Bev. Jun. I assure you, sir, there Avas no 
insolence in it upon the prospect of such 
a vast fortune 's being added to our fam- 
ily; but much acknowledgment of the 
lady's greater desert. 

Sir J. Bev. But, dear Jack, are you in 
earnest in all this? And will you really 
marry her? 

Bev. Jun. Did I ever disobey any com- 
mand of yours, sir? nay, any inclina- 
tion that I saw yovi bent upon? 

Sir J. Bev. Why, I can't say you have, 
son; but methinks in this whole busi- 
ness, you have not been so warm as I 
could have wished you. You have 
visited her, it 's true, but "you have not 
been particular. Every one knows you 
can say and do as handsome things as 
any man; but you have done nothing 
but lived in the general — been complai- 
sant only. 

Bev. Jun. As I am ever prepared to 
marry if you bid me, so I am ready to 
let it alone if you will have me. 

{Humphry enters, unobserved.) 

Sir J. Bev. Look you there now ! why, 
what am I to think of this so absolute 
and so indifferent a resignation? 

Bev. Jun. Think? that I am still your 
son, sir. Sir, you have been married, 
and I have not. And you have, sir, 
found the inconvenience there is when a 
man weds with too much love in his head. 
I have been told, sir, that at the time 
you married, you made a mighty bustle 
on the occasion. There was challenging 
and fighting, scaling walls, locking up 
the lady, and the gallant under an arrest 
for fear of killing all his rivals. Now, 
sir, I suppose you having found the ill 
consequences of these strong passions 
and prejudices, in preference of one 
woman to another, in case of a man's 
becoming a widower 



Sir J. Bev. How is this? 

Bev. Jun. I say, sir, experience has made 
you wiser in your care of me; for, sir, 
since you lost my dear mother, your time 
has been so heavy, so lonely, and so 
tasteless, that you are so good as to 
guard me against the like unhappiness, 
by marrying me prudentially by way of 
bargain and sale. Tor, as you well 
judge, a woman that is espoused for a 
fortune, is yet a better bargain, if she 
dies ; for then a man still enjoys what he 
did marry, the money, and is disencum- 
bered of what he did not marry, the 
woman. 

Sir J. Bev. But pray, sir, do you think 
Lueinda, then, a woman of such little 
merit ? 

Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I don't carry 
it so far neitlier; I am rather afraid I 
shall like her too well; she has, for one 
of her fortune, a great many needless 
and superfluous good qualities. 

Sir J. Bev. I am afraid, son, there 's 
something I don't see yet, something 
that 's smothered under all this raillery. 

Bev. Jun. Not in the least, sir. If the 
lady is dressed and ready, you see I am. 
I suppose the lawyers are ready too. 

Humph. Tills may grow warm if I don't 
interpose. [Aside.) — Sir, Mr. Sealand 
is at the coffee-house, and has sent to 
speak with vou. 

Sir J. Bev. Oh! that's well! Then I 
Avarrant the lawyers are ready. Son, 
you '11 be in the way, you say. 

Bev. Jun. If you please, sir, I '11 take a 
chair,^^ and go to Mr. Sealand's, where 
the young lady and I will wait your 
leisure. 

Sir J. Bev. By no means. The old fel- 
low will be so vain if he sees 

Bev. Jun. Ay; but the young lady, sir, 
will think me so indifferent. 

ILumph. Ay, there j'ou are right; press 
your readiness to go to the bride — he 
won't let you. 

[Aside to Bev. Jun.) 

Bev. Jun. Are you sure of that? 
[Aside to Humph.) 

Humph. How he likes being prevented! 
[Aside.) 

Sir J. Bev. No, no. You are an hour or 
two too early. 

[Looking on his watch.) 

Bev. Jun. You '11 allow me, sir, to think 
it too late to visit a beautiful, virtuous 
young woman, in the pride and bloom of 



12 sedan-chair. 



586 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



life, ready to give herself to my arms; 
and to place her happiness or misery, 
for the future, in being agreeable or dis- 
pleasing to me, is a Call a chair. 

Sir J. Bev. No, no, no, dear Jack; this 
Sealand is a moody old fellow. There 's 
no dealing with some people but by man- 
aging with indifference. We must leave 
to him the conduct of this day. It is the 
last of his commanding his daughter. 

Bev. Jun. Sir, he can't take it ill, that I 
am impatient to be hers. 

Sir J. Bev. Pray let me govern in this 
matter; you can't tell how humorsome 
old fellows are. There 's no offering 
reason to some of 'em, especially when 
they are rich. — If my son should see him 
before I 've brought old Sealand into 
better temper, the match would be im- 
practicable. 

(Aside.) 

Humph. Pray, sir, let me beg you to let 
Mr. Bevil go. — See whether he will or 
not. (Aside to Sir John) — (Then to 
Bev.) — Pray, sir, command yourself; 
since you see my master is positive, it is 
better you should not go. 

Bev. Jun. My father commands me, as to 
the object of my affections; but I hope 
he w411 not, as to the warmth and height 
of them. 

Sir J. Bev. So! I must even leave things 
as I found them; and in the meantime, 
at least, keep old Sealand out of his 
sight — Well, son, I '11 go myself and take 
orders in your affair. You '11 be in the 
way, I suppose, if I send to you. I '11 
leave your old friend with you — Hum- 
phry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear? — 
Your servant, your servant. 
(Exit Sir John.) 

Humph. I have a sad time on 't, sir, be- 
tween you and my master. I see you 
are unwilling, and I know his violent in- 
clinations for the match. — I must betray 
neither, and yet deceive you both, for 
your common good. Heaven grant a 
good end of this matter. — But there is a 
lady, sir, that gives your fatlier much 
trouble and sorrow. — You '11 pardon me. 

Bev. J\in. Humphry, I know thou art a 
friend to both, and in that confidence I 
dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of 
honor and virtue. You may assure 
yourself I never will marry without my 
father's consent. But give me leave to 
say, too, this declaration does not come 
up to a promise that I will take whom- 
soever he pleases. 



Humph. Come, sir, I wholly understand 
you. You would engage my services to 
free you from tliis woman whom my 
master intends you, to make way, in 
time, for the woman you have really a 
mind to. 

Bev. Jun. Honest Humphry, you have al- 
ways been a useful friend to my father 
and myself; I beg you continue your 
good offices, and don't let us come to 
the necessity of a dispute ; for, if we 
should disjoute, I must either part with 
more than life, or lose the best of fa- 
thers. 

Humph. My dear master, were I but 
worthy to know this secret, that so near 
concerns you, my life, my all should be 
engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare 
promise, that I am sure I will and can be 
secret: your trust, at worst, but leaves 
you wliere you were; and if I cannot 
serve you, I will at once be plain and 
tell you so. 

Bev. Jun. That 's all I ask. Thou hast 
made it now my interest to trust thee. 
Be patient, then, and hear the story of 
my heart. 

Humph. I am all attention, sir. 

Bev. Jun. Y\)u may remember, Humphry, 
that in my last travels my father grew 
uneasy at my making so long a stay at 
Toulon. 

Humph. I remember it; he was appre- 
hensive some woman had laid hold of 
you. 

Bev. Jun. His fears were just; for there 
I first saw this lady. She is of English 
birth : her father's name was Danvers — 
a younger brother of an ancient family, 
and originally an eminent merchant of 
Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, 
was reduced to go privately to the In- 
dies. In this retreat, Providence again 
grew favorable to his industry, and, in 
six years' time, restored him to his for- 
mer fortunes. On this he sent direc- 
tions over that his wife and little family 
should follow him to the Indies. His 
wife, impatient to obey such welcome 
orders, would not wait the leisure of a 
convoy, but took the first occasion of 
a single ship, and, with her husband's 
sister only, and this daughter, then 
scarce seven years old, undertook the 
fatal voyage — for here, poor creature, 
she lost her liberty and life. Slie and 
her family, with all they had, were, un- 
fortunately, taken by a privateer from 
Toulon. JBeing thus made a prisoner. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



587 



though as such not ill-treated, yet the 
fright, the shock, and cruel disappoint- 
ment, seized with such violence upon her 
unhealthy frame, she sickened, pined, 
and died at sea. 

Humph. Poor soul! the helpless in- 
fant! 

Bev. Her sister yet survived, and had 
the care of her. The captain, too, proved 
to have humanity, and became a father 
to her; for having himself married an 
English woman, and being childless, he 
brought home into Toulon this her little 
country-woman, presenting her, with all 
her dead mother's movables of value, to 
his wife, to be educated as his oAvn 
adopted daughter. 

Humph. Fortune here seemed again to 
smile on her. 

Bev. Only to make her frowns more ter- 
rible; for, in his height of fortune, tliis 
captain, too, her benefactor, unfortu- 
nately was killed at sea; and dying 
intestate, his estate fell wholly to an ad- 
vocate, his brother, who, coming soon to 
take possession, there found (among his 
other riches) this blooming virgin at his 
mercy. 

Humph. He durst not, sure, abuse his 
power? 

Bev. No wonder if his pampered blood 
was fired at the sight of her — in short, 
he loved; but when all arts and gentle 
means had failed to move, he offered, 
too, his menaces in vain, denouncing 
vengeance on her cruelty, demanding her 
to account for all her maintenance from 
her childhood; seized on her little for- 
tune as his own inheritance, and was 
dragging her by violence to prison, when 
Providence at the instant interposed, 
and sent me, by miracle, to relieve her. 

Humph. 'T was Providence, indeed. But 
pray, sir, after all this trouble, how came 
this lady at last to England? 

Bev. The disappointed advocate, finding 
she had so unexpected a support, on 
cooler thoughts, descended to a compo- 
sition, which I, without her knowledge, 
secretly discharged. 

Humph. That generous concealment made 
the obligation doul)le. 

Bev. Having thus obtained her liberty, I 
prevailed, not without some difficulty, to 
see her safe to England; where, no 
sooner arrived, but my father, jealous 
of my being imprudently engaged, im- 
mediately proposed this other fatal 
match that hangs upon my quiet. 



Humph. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably 
fixed upon this lady. 

Bev. As my vital life dwells in my heart 
— and yet you see what I do to please 
my father: walk in this pageantry of 
dress, this splendid covering of sorrow — 
But, Humphry, you have your lesson. 

Humph. Now, sir, I have but one ma- 
terial question 

Bev. Ask it freely. 

Humph. Is it, then, your own passion for 
tins secret lady, or hers for you, that 
gives you this aversion to the match 
your father has proposed you? 

Bev. I shall appear, Humphry, more ro- 
mantic in my answer than in all the rest 
of my story; for though I dote on her 
to death, and have no little reason to be- 
lieve she has the same thoughts for me, 
yet in all my acquaintance and utmost 
privacies with her, I never once directly 
told her that I loved. 

Humph. Plow Avas it possible to avoid it? 

Bev. My tender obligations to my father 
have laid so inviolable a restraint upon 
my conduct tliat, till I have his consent 
to speak, I am determined, on that sub- 
ject, to be duml) for ever. 

Humph. Well, sir, to your praise be it 
spoken, you are certainly the most un- 
fashionable lover in Great Britain. 

{Enter Tom.) 

Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle 's at the next door, 
and, if j'ou are at leisure, will be glad to 
wait on you. 

Bev. Whenever he pleases hold, Tom! 

did you receive no answer to my letter? 

Tom. Sir, I was desired to call again ; for 
I was told her mother would not let her 
be out of her sight; but about an hour 
hence, Mrs. Lettice said, I should cer- 
tainly have one. 

Bev. Very well. 

{Exit Tom.) 

Humph. Sir, I will take another oppor- 
tunity. In the meantime, I only think 
it proper to tell you that, from a secret 
I know, you may appear to your father 
as forward as you please, to marry Lu- 
cinda witliout tlie least hazard of its 

. coming to a conclusion — Sir, your most 
obedient servant. 

Bev. Honest Humphry, continue but my 
friend in this exigence, and you shall al- 
ways find me yours. {Exit Humph.) — 
I long to hear how my letter has suc- 
ceeded with Lucinda — but I think it 
cannot fail ; for, at worst, were it possi- 



588 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ble she could take it ill, her resentment 
of my indifference may as probably oc- 
casion a delay as her taking it right. 
Poor Myrtle, what terrors must he be 
in all this while? Since he knows she 
is offered to me, and refused to him, 
there is no conversing or taking any 
measures with him for his own service. 
— But I ought to bear with my friend, 
and use him as one in adversity — 
All his disquiets by my own I prove, 
The greatest grief 's perplexity in love 
(Exit.) 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
{Enter Bevil, Jun., and Tom.) 

Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle. 
Bev. Jun. Very well — do you step again, 
and wait for an answer to my letter. 
{Exit Tom.) 
{Enter Myrtle.) 

Bev. Jun. Well, Charles, why so much 
care in thy countenance? Is there an}'- 
thing in tliis world deserves it? You, 
who used to be so gay, so open, so 
vacant! ^^ 

Myrt. I think we have of late changed 
complexions. You, who used to be much 
the graver man, are now all air in your 
behavior. — But the cause of my concern 
may, for aught I know, be the same ob- 
ject that gives you all this satisfaction. 
In a word, I am told that you are this 
very day — and your dress confirms me in 
it — to be married to Lucinda. 

Bev. Jun. You are not misinformed. — 
Nay, put not on the terrors of a rival 
till you hear me out. I shall disoblige 
the best of fathers if I don't seem ready 
to marry Lucinda ; and you know I have 
ever told you you might make use of my 
secret resolution never to marry her for 
your own service as you please; but I 
am now driven to the extremity of im- 
mediately refusing or complying unless 
you help me to escape the match. 

Myrt. Escape? Sir, neither her merit or 
her fortune are below your acceptance — 
Escaping do you call it? 

Bev. Jun. Dear sir, do you wish I should 
desire the match? 

Myrt. No ; but such is my humorous ^* 
and sickly state of mind since it has 



been able to relish nothing but Lucinda, 
that though I must owe my hai^piness to 
your aversion to this marriage, I can't 
bear to hear her spoken of with levity 
or unconcern. 

Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I shall trans- 
gress that way no more. She has under- 
standing, beauty, shape, complexion, 
wit 

Myrt. Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her 
as if you loved her neither. 

Bev. Jun. Why, then, to give you ease at 
once, though I allow Lucinda to have 
good sense, wit, beauty, and virtue, I 
know another in whom these qualities 
appear to me more amiable than in her. 

Myrt. There you spoke like a reasonable 
and good-natured friend. When you 
acknowledge her merit, and oAvn your 
prepossession for another, at once you 
gratify my fondness and cure my jeal- 
ousy. 

Bev. Jun. But all this Avliile you take no 
notice, you have no api)rehension, of an- 
other man that has twice the fortune of 
either of us. 

Myrt. Cimberton! hang him, a formal, 
philosophical, pedantic coxcomb; for the 
sot, with all these crude notions of 
divers things, under the direction of 
great vanity and very little judgment, 
shows his strongest bias is avarice; 
which is so predominant in him that he 
will examine the limbs of his mistress 
with the caution of a jockey, and pays 
no more compliment to her personal 
charms than if she were a mere breeding 
animal. 

Bev. Jun. Are you sure that is not af- 
fected? I have known some women 
sooner set on fire by that sort of negli- 
gence than by 

Myrt. No, no; hang him, the rogue has 
no art; it is pure, simple insolence and 
stupidity. 

Bev. Jun. Yet, with all this, I don't take 
him for a fool. 

Myrt. I own the man is not a natural ; ^^ 
he has a very cjuick sense,^*^ though very 
slow understanding.. He says, indeed, 
many things that want only the circum- 
stances of time and place to be very just 
and agreeable. 

Bev. Jun. Well, you may be sure of me 
if you can disappoint him; but my in- 
telligence says the mother has actually 
sent for the conveyancer to draw articles 
for his marriage with Lucinda, though 



13 carefree. 



14 capricious. 



15 idiot. 



10 perception 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



5S9 



those for mine with her are, by her 
father's orders, ready for siij'ning'; but it 
seems she has not thou?:ht tit to consult 
either him or bis daughter in the mat- 
ter. 

Myrt. Pshaw! a poor troublesome woman. 
Neither Lueinda nor her father will ever 
be brought to comply with it. Besides, 
I am sure Cimberton can make no settle- 
ment upon her without the concurrence 
of his great uncle, Sir Geoffry, in the 
west. 

Bev. Jun. Well, sir, and I can tell you 
that 's the very point that is now laid 
before her counsel, to know whether a 

■ firm settlement can be made without his 
uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray 
consider, sir, when my affair with Lu- 
einda comes, as it soon must, to an open 
rupture, how are you sure that Cimber- 
ton's fortune may not then tempt her 
father, too, to hear his proposals'? 

Myrt. There you are right, indeed; that 
must be provided against. Do you 
know who are her counsel'? 

Bev. Jun. Yes, for your service I have 
found out that, too. They are Serjeant 
Bramble and Old Target — by the way, 
they are neither of them known in tlie 
family. Now, I was thinking why you 
might not put a couple of false counsel 
upon her to delay and confound matters 
a little; besides, it may probably let you 
into the bottom of her whole design 
against you. 

Myrt. As how, pray'? 

Bev. Jun. Why, can't you slip on a black 
wig and a gown, and be Old Bramble 
yourself? 

Myrt. Ha! I don't dislike it. — But what 
shall I do for a brother in the case? 

Bev. Jun. What think you of my fellow, 
Tom? The rogue's intelligent, and is a 
good mimic. AH his part will be but to 
stutter heartily, for that 's old Target's 
case. Nay, it would be an immoral 
thing to mock him were it not that his 
impertinence is the occasion of its break- 
ing out to tliat degree. The conduct of 
the scene will chietly lie upon you. 

Myrt. I like it of all things. If you '11 
send Tom to my chambers, I will give 
him full instructions. This will cer- 
tainly give me occasion to raise difficul- 
ties, to puzzle or confound her project 
for a while at least. 

Bev. Jun. I '11 warrant you success. — So 
far we are right, then. And now, 



Charles, your apprehension of my mar- 
rying her is all you have to get over. 

Myrt. Dear Bevil, though I know you are 
my friend, yet when I abstract myself 
from my own interest in the thing, I 
know no objection she can make to you, 
or you to her, and therefore hope 

Bev. Jun. Dear Myrtle, I am as much 
obliged to you for the cause of your 
suspicion, as I am offended at the effect; 
but, be assured, I am taking measures 
for your certain security, and that all 
things with regard to me will end in 
your entire satisfaction. 

Myrt. Well, I '11 promise you to be as 
easy and as confident as I can, though 
I cannot but remember that I have more 
than life at stake on your fidelity. 
{Going.) 

Bev. Jun. Then depend upon it, you have 
no chance against you. 

Myrt. Nay, no ceremony, you know I 
must be going. 

{Exit Myrt.) 

Bev. Jun. Well, this is another instance 
of the perplexities which arise, too, in 
faithful friendship. We must often in 
this life go on in our good offices, even 
under the displeasure of those to whom 
we do them, in compassion to their 
weaknesses and mistakes. — But all this 
while poor Indiana is tortured with the 
doubt of me. She has no support or 
comfort but in my fidelity, yet sees me 
daily pressed to marriage with another. 
How painful, in such a crisis, must be 
every hour she thinks on me ! I '11 let 
her see at least my conduct to her is not 
changed. I '11 take this opportunity to 
visit her; for though the religious vow 
I have made to my father restrains me 
fi'om ever marrying without his appro- 
bation, yet that confines me not from 
seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure 
delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy 
of my heart. But the best condition of 
human life is but a gentler misery — 

To hope for perfect happiness is vain, 

And love has ever its alias's ^'^ of pain. 

{Exit.) 

Scene 2. Indiana's Lodgings. 

{Enter Isabella and Indiana.) 

Isab. Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. 
I say to thee again and again 't is all 
skill and management. 



17 alloys. 



590 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Ind. Will you persuade me there can be 
an ill design in supporting me in the 
condition of a woman of quality? at- 
tended, dressed, and lodged like one; in 
my api:)earance abroad and my furniture 
at home, every way in the most sumptu- 
ous manner, and he that does it has an 
artifice, a design in it? 

Isab. Yes, yes. 

Ind. And all this without so much as ex- 
plaining to me that all about me comes 
from him! 

Isah. Ay, ay, the more for that. That 
keeps the title to all you have the more 
in him. 

Ind. The more in him! He scorns the 
thought 

Isah. Then he — he — he 

Ind. Well, be not so eager. If he is an 
ill man, let us look into his stratagems. 
Here is another of them. {Showing a 
letter.) Here's two hundred and fifty 
pounds in bank notes, with these words: 
"To pay for the set of dressing-plate 
which will be brought home to-morrow." 
Why, dear aunt, now here 's another 
piece of skill for you, which I own I 
cannot comprehend; and it is with a 
bleeding heart I hear you say anything 
to the disadvantage of Mr. Bevil. When 
he is present I look upon him as one to 
whom I owe my life and the support of 
it; then, again, as the man who loves me 
with sincerity and honor. When his 
eyes are cast another way, and I dare 
survey him, my heart is painfully di- 
vided between shame and love. Oh! 
could I tell you 

Isab. Ah! you need not; I imagine all 
this for you. 

Ind. This is my state of mind in his pres- 
ence; and when he is absent, you are 
ever dinning my ears with notions of the 
arts of men; that his hidden bounty, his 
respectful conduct, his careful provision 
for me, after his preserving me from 
utmost misery, are certain signs he 
means nothing but to make I know not 
what of me. 

Isab. Oh! You have a sweet opinion of 

him, truly. 
Ind. I have, when I am with him, ten 
thousand things, besides my sex's nat- 
ural decency and shame, to suppress my 
heart, that yearns to thank, to praise, to 
say it loves him. I say, thus it is with 
me while I see him; and in his absence 
I am entertained with nothing but your 
endeavors to tear his amiable image 



from my heart; and in its stead, to place 
a base dissembler, an artful invader of 
my happiness, my innocence, my honor. 

Isab. Ah, poor soul! has not his plot 
taken? don't you die for him? has not 
the way he has taken been the most 
proper with you? Oh! oh! He has 
sense, and has judged the thing right. 

Ind. Go on then, since nothing can an- 
swer you; say what you will of him. 
Heigli ! ho ! 

Isab. Heigh! ho! indeed. It is better to 
say so, as you are now, than as many 
others are. There are, among the de- 
stroyers of women, the gentle, the gen- 
erous, the mild, the affable, the humble, 
who all, soon after their success in their 
designs, turn to the contrary of those 
characters. I will own to you, Mr. 
Bevil carries his hypocrisy the best of 
any man living, but still he is a man, 
and therefore a hypocrite. They have 
usurped an exemption from shame for 
any baseness, any cruelty towards us. 
They embrace without love; they make 
vows without conscience of obligation; 
they are partners, nay, seducers to the 
crime, wherein they pretend to be less 
guilty. 

Ind. That's truly observed. (Aside.) — 
But what's all this to Bevil? 

Isab. This it is to Bevil and all mankind. 
Trust not those who will think the worse 
of you for your confidence in them; ser- 
pents who lie in wait for doves. Won't 
you be on your guard against those who 
would betray you? Won't you doubt 
those who would contemn you for be- 
lieving 'em? Take it from me, fair and 
natural dealing is to invite injuries; 'tis 
bleating to escape wolves who would de- 
vour you ! Such is the world — and such 
(since the behavior of one man to my- 
self) have I believed all the rest of the 
sex. {Aside.) 

Ind. I will not doubt the truth of Bevil, 
I will not doubt it. He has not spoke 
it by an organ that is given to lying. 
His eyes are all that have ever told me 
that he was mine. I know his virtue, I 
know his filial piety, and ought to trust 
his management with a father to whom 
he has uncommon obligations. What 
have I to be concerned for? my lesson 
is very short. If he takes me for ever, 
my purpose of life is only to please him. 
If he leaves me (which Heaven avert) 
I know he '11 do it nobly, and I shall 
have nothing to do but to learn to die, 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



591 



after worse than death has happened to 
me. 

Isab. Ay, do, persist in your credulity ! 
flatter yourself that a man of his figure 
and fortune will make himself the jest 
of the town, and marry a handsome beg- 
gar for love. 

Ind. The town ! I must tell you, madam, 
the fools that laugh at Mr. Bevil will but 
make themselves more ridiculous ; his ac- 
tions are the result of thinking, and he 
has sense enough to make even virtue 
fashionable. 

Isab. 0' ray conscience he has turned her 
head. — Come, come, if he were the hon- 
est fool you take him for, why has he 
kept you here these three weeks, without 
sending you to Bristol in search of your 
father, your family, and your relations? 

Ind. I am convinced he still designs it, 
and that nothing keeps him here, but the 
necessity of not coming to a breach with 
his father in regard to the match he has 
proposed him. Beside, has he not writ 
to Bristol? and has not he advice that 
my father has not been heard of there 
almost these twenty years? 

Isab. All sham, mere evasion ; he is 
afraid, if he should carry you thither, 
your honest relations may take you out 
of his hands, and so blow up all his 
wicked hopes at once. 

Ind. Wicked hopes! did I ever give him 
any such? 

Isab. Has he ever given you any honest 
ones? Can you say, in your conscience, 
he has ever once offered to marry 
you? 

Ind. No ! but by his behavior I am con- 
vinced he will offer it, the moment 't is in 
his power, or consistent with his honor, 
to make such a promise good to me. 

Isab. His honor! 

Ind. I will rely upon it; therefore desire 
you will not make my life uneasy, by 
these ungrateful jealousies of one, to 
whom I am, and wish to be, obliged. 
For from his integrity alone, I have re- 
solved to hope for happiness. 

Isab. Nay, I have done my duty; if you 
won't see, at your peril be it! 

Ind. Let it be — This is his hour of visit- 
ing me. 

Isab. Oh! to be sure, keep up your form; 
don't _ see him in a bed-chamber — 
This is pure prudence, when she is liable, 
wherever he meets her, to be conveyed 
where'er he i:)leases. (Apart.) 

Ind. All the rest of my life is but waiting 



till he comes. I live only when I 'm 
with him. (Exit.) 

Isab. Well, go thy ways, thou wilful in- 
nocent ! — I once had almost as much love 
for a man, Avho poorly left me to marry 
an estate; and I am now, against my 
will, what they call an old maid — but I 
will not let the peevishness of that con- 
dition grow upon me, only keep up the 
suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's 
being any other than a virgin, except 
upon proper terms. 

{Exit.) 

{Ee-enter Indiana, speaking to a Servant.) 

Ind. Desire Mr. Bevil to walk in — De- 
sign! impossible! A base designing 
mind could never think of what he 
hourly puts in practice. And yet, since 
the late rumor of his marriage, he seems 
more reserved than formerly — he sends 
in too, before he sees me, to know if I 
am at leisure — such new respect may 
cover coldness in the heart; it certainly 
makes me thoughtful — I '11 know the 
worst at once; I'll lay such fair occa- 
sions in his way, that it shall be impos- 
sible to avoid an explanation, for these 
doubts are insupportable ! — But see, he 
comes, and clears them all. 

{Enter Bevil.) 

Bev. Madam, your most obedient — I am 
afraid I broke in upon your rest last 
night ; 't was very late before we parted, 
but 't was your own fault. I never saw 
you in such agreeable humor. 

Ind. I am extremely glad we were both 
pleased; for I thought I never saw you 
better company. 

Bev. Me, madam! you rally; I said very 
little. 

Ind. But I am afraid you heard me say 
a great deal; and, Avhen a woman is in 
the talking vein, the most agreeable 
thing a man can do, you know, is to have 
patience to hear her. 

Bev. Then it 's pity, madam, you should 
ever be silent, that we might be always 
agreeable to one another. 

Ind. If I had your talent or power, to 
make my actions speak for me, I might 
indeed be silent, and yet i^retend to 
something more than the agreeable. 

Bev. If I might be vain of anything in 
my power, madam, 't is that my under- 
standing, from all your sex, has marked 
you out as the most deserving object of 
my esteem. 



592 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Ind. Should I think I deserve this, 't were 
enough to make my vanity forfeit the 
very esteem you offer me. 

Bev. How so, madam? 

Ind. Because esteem is the result of rea- 
son, and to deserve it from good sense, 
the height of human glory. Nay, I had 
rather a man of honor should pay me 
that, than all the homage of a sincere 
and humble love. 

Bev. You certainly distinguish right, 
madam ; love often kindles from external 
merit only. 

Ind. But esteem rises from a higher 
source, the merit of the soul. 

Bev. True — and great souls only can de- 
serve it. 

{Bowing respectfully.) 

Ind. Now I think they are greater still, 
that can so charitably part with it. 

Bev. Now, madam, you make me vain, 
since the utmost pride and pleasure of 
my life is, that I esteem you as I ought. 

Ind. (Aside.) As he ought! still more 
perplexing! he neither saves nor kills 
my hope. 

Bev. But, madam, we grow grave, me- 
thinks. Let 's find some other subject — 
Pray how did you like the opera last 
night ? 

Ind. First give me leave to thank you for 
my tickets. 

Bev. Oh ! your servant, madam. But 
pray tell me, you now, who are never 
partial to the fashion, I fancy must be 
the properest judge of a mighty dispute 
among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo 
or Griselda ^^ is the more agreeable en- 
tertainment. 

Ind. With submission now, I cannot be a 
proper judge of this question. 

Bev. How so, madam? 

Ind. Because I find I have a partiality 
for one of them. 

Bev. Pray which is that? 

Ind. I do not know; there's something in 
that rural cottage of Griselda, her for- 
lorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, 
her resignation, her innocent slumbers, 
and that lulling dolce sogno ^^ that 's 
sung over her; it had an effect upon me 
that — in short I never was so well de- 
ceived, at any of them. 

Bev. Oh ! Now then, I can account for 
the dispute. Griselda, it seems, is the 
distress of an injured innocent woman, 
Crispo, that only of a man in the same 
condition ; therefore the men are mostly 



concerned for Crispo, and, by a natural 
indulgence, both sexes for Griselda. 

Ind. So that judgment, you think, ought 
to be for one, though fancy and com- 
plaisance have got ground for the other. 
Well! I believe you will never give me 
leave to dispute with you on any sub- 
ject; for I own, Crispo has its charms 
for me too. Though, in the main, all 
the pleasure the best opera gives us is 
but mere sensation. Methinks it 's pity 
the mind can't have a little more share 
in the entertainment. The music's cer- 
tainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there 's 
none of your composers come up to old 
Shakespeare and Otway. 

Bev. How, madam ! why, if a woman of 
your sense were to say this in the draw- 
ing-room 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Serv. Sir, here 's Signor Carbonelli says 
he waits your commands in the next 
room. 

Bev. Apropos! you were saying yester- 
day, madam, you had a mind to hear 
him. Will you give him leave to enter- 
tain you now? 

Ind. By all means; desire the gentleman 
to walk in. 

(Ejcit Servant.) 

Bev. I fancy you will find something in 
this hand that is uncommon. 

Ind. You are always finding ways, Mr. 
Bevil, to make life seem less tedious to 
me. 

{Enter Music Master.) 

When the gentleman pleases. 

{After a Sonata is played, Bevil waits on 
the Master to the door, etc.) 

Bev. You smile, madam, to see me so 
complaisant to one whom I pay for his 
visit. Now, I own, I think it is not 
enough barely to pay those whose talents 
are superior to our own (I mean such 
talents as would become our condition, 
• if we had them). Methinks we ought to 
do something more than barely gratify 
them for what they do at our command, 
only because tlieir fortune is below us. 

Ind. You say I smile. I assure you it 
was a smile of approbation ; for, indeed, 
I cannot but think it the distinguishing 
part of a gentleman to make his superi- 
ority of fortune as easy to his inferiors 
as he can. — Now once more to try him. 
{Aside.) — I was saying just now, I be- 



18 Operas by G. B. Buononcini (d. about 1750), then popular in London. 19 A lullaby. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



593 



lieved you would never let me dispute 
with you, and I dare say it will always 
be so. However, I must have your 
opinion upon a subject which created a 
debate between my aunt and me, just 
before you came hither; she would needs 
have it that no man ever does any ex- 
traordinary kindness or service for a 
woman, but for his own sake. 

Bev. Well, madam! Indeed I can't but 
be of her mind. 

Ind. What, though he should maintain 
and support her, without demanding 
anything of her, on her part? 

Bev. Why, madam, is making an expense 
in the service of a valuable woman (for 
such I must suppose her), though she 
should never do him any favor, nay, 
though she should never know who did 
her such service, such a mighty heroic 
business ? 

Ind. Certainly! I should think he must 
be a man of an uncommon mould. 

Bev. Dear madam, why so ? 't is but, at 
best, a better taste in expense. To be- 
stow upon one, whom he may think one 
of the ornaments of the whole creation, 
to be conscious, that from his super- 
fluity, an innocent, a virtuous spirit is 
supported above the temptations and 
sorrows of life ! That he sees satisfac- 
tion, health, and gladness in her counte- 
nance, while he enjoys the happiness of 
seeing her (as that I will suppose too, 
or he must be too abstracted, too insensi- 
ble), I say, if he is allowed to delight in 
that prospect; alas, what mighty matter 
is there in all this? 

Ind. No mighty matter in so disinterested 
a friendship ! 

Bev. Disinterested! I can't think him 
so; your hero, madam, is no more than 
what every gentleman ought to be, and 
I believe very many are. He is only one 
who takes more delight in reflections 
than in sensations. He is more pleased 
with thinking than eating; that's the 
utmost you can say of him. Why, 
madam, a greater expense than all this 
men lay out upon an unnecessary stable 
of horses. 

Ind. Can you be sincere in what you say? 

Bev. You may depend upon it, if you 
know any such man, he does not love 
dogs inordinately. 

Ind. No, that he does not. 

Bev. Nor cards, nor dice. 

Ind. No. 

Bev. Nor bottle companions. 



Ind. No. 

Bev. Nor loose women. 

Ind. No, I 'm sure he does not. 

Bev. Take my word, then, if your ad- 
mired hero is not liable to any of these 
kind of demands, there 's no such pre- 
eminence in this as you imagine. Nay, 
this way of expense you speak of is 
what exalts and raises him that has a 
taste for it; and, at the same time, his 
delight is incapable of satiety, disgust, 
or penitence. 

I7id. But still, I insist, his having no pri- 
vate interest in the action makes it pro- 
digious, almost incredi1)le. 

Bev. Dear madam, I never knew you 
more mistaken. Why, who can be more 
a usurer than he who lays out his money 
in such valuable purchases? If pleas- 
ure be worth purchasing, how great a 
pleasure is it to him, who has a true 
taste of life, to ease an aching heart; to 
see the human countenance lighted up 
into smiles of joy, on the receipt of a bit 
of ore which is superfluous and other- 
wise useless in a man's own pocket? 
What could a man do better with his 
cash? This is the effect of an humane 
disposition, where there is only a gen- 
eral tic of nature and common necessity. 
Wliat then must it be when we serve an 
object of merit, of admiration ! 

Ind. Well ! the more you argue against it 
the more I shall admire the generosity. 

Bev. Nay, nay — Then, madam, 't is time 
to fly, after a declaration that my opin- 
ion strengthens my adversary's argu- 
ment. I had best hasten to my appoint- 
ment with Mr. MjTtle, and begone while 
we are friends, and before things are 
brought to an extremity. 

{Exit, carelessly.) 

(Enter Isabella.) 

Isab. Well, madam, what think you of 
him now, pray? 

Ind. I protest, I begin to fear he is 
wholly disinterested in what he does for 
me. On my heart, he has no other view 
but the mere pleasure of doing it, and 
has neither good or bad designs upon 
me. 

Isab. Ah ! dear niece ! don't be in fear of 
both ! I '11 warrant you, you will know 
time enough that he is not indifferent. 

Ind. You please me when you tell me so; 
for, if he has any wishes towards me, I 
know he will not pursue them but with 
honor. 



594 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



I sab. I wish I were as confident of one 
as t' other. I saw the respectful down- 
east of his eye, when you catch'd him gaz- 
ing at you during tlie music. He, I war- 
rant, was surprised, as if he had been 
taken steahng your watch. Oh! the un- 
dissembled guilty look! 

Ind. But did you observe any such thing, 
really ? I thought he looked most charm- 
ingly graceful! How engaging is mod- 
esty in a man, when one knows there is a 
great mind within. So tender a con- 
fusion! and yet, in other respects, so 
much himself, so collected, so daunt- 
less, so determined ! 

Isab. Ah ! niece ! there is a sort of bash- 
fulness which is the best engine to carry 
on a shameless purpose. Some men's 
modesty serves their wickedness, as hy- 
pocrisy gains the respect due to piety. 
But I will own to you, there is one hope- 
ful symptom, if there could be such a 
thing as a disinterested lover. But it 's 
all a perjilexity — till — till — till 

Ind. Till what? 

Isab. Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle 
and Mr. Bevil are really friends or foes. 
— And that I will be convinced of be- 
fore I sleep; for you shall not be de- 
ceived. 

Ind. I 'm sure I never shall, if your 
fears can guard me. In the meantime 
I '11 wrap myself up in the integrity of 
my own heart, nor dare to doubt of his. 

As conscious honor all his actions steers. 
So conscious innocence dispels my fears. 
{Exeunt.) 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. Sealand's House. 

{Enter Tom, meeting Phillis.) 

Tom. Well, Phillis! What, with a face 
as if you had never seen me before ! — 
What a work have I to do now? She 
has seen some new visitant at their house 
whose airs she has catcht, and is re- 
solved to practise them upon me. Num- 
berless are the changes she '11 dance 
through before she '11 answer this plain 
question : videlicet, have you delivered 
my master's letter to your lady? Nay, 
I know her too well to ask an account of 
it in an ordinary way ; I '11 be in my airs 
as well as she. {Aside.) — Well, madam, 
as unhappy as you are at present pleased 



to make me, I would not, in the general, 
be any other than what I am. I would 
not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit 
taller, a bit shorter than I am at this 
instant. 

{Looking steadfastly at her.) 

Phil. Did ever anybody doubt. Master 
Thomas, but that you were extremely 
satisfied with your sweet self? 

Tom. I am, indeed. The thing I have 
least reason to be satisfied with is my 
fortune, and I am glad of my poverty. 
Perhaps if I were rich I should overlook 
the finest woman in the world, that wants 
nothing but riches to be thought so. 

Phil. How prettily was that said ! But 
I '11 have a great deal more before I 'II 
say one word. 

{Aside.) 

Tom. I should, perhaps, have been stu- 
pidly above her had I not been her 
equal; and by not being her equal, never 
had opportunity of being her slave. I 
am my master's servant for hire — I am 
my mistress's from choice, would she 
but approve my passion. 

Phil. I think it 's the first time I ever 
heard you speak of it with any sense of 
the anguish, if you really do suffer any. 

Tom. All, Phillis! can you doubt, after 
what you have seen ? 

Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor 
what I have heard; but since I'm at 
leisure, you may tell me when you fell 
in love with me ; how you fell in love 
with me; and what you have suffered or 
are ready to suffer for me. 

Tom. Oh, the unmerciful jade! when I'm 
in haste about my master's letter. But I 
must go through it. {Aside.) — Ah! too 
well I remember when, and how, and on 
what occasion I was fii'st surprised. It 
was on the 1st of April, 1715, I came 
into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a 
hobble-dehoy, and you a pretty little 
tight girl, a favorite handmaid of the 
housekeeper. At that time we neither of 
us knew what was in us. I remember I 
was ordered to get out of the window, 

■ one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes 
clean ; the person employed on the inner 
side was your charming self, whom I had 
never seen before. 

Phil. I think I remember the silly acci- 
dent. What made ye, you oaf, ready to 
fall down into the street? 

Tom. You know not, I warrant you — you 
could not guess what surprised me. You 
took no delight when you immediately 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



595 



grew wanton in your conquest, and put 
your lips close, and breathed upon the 
glass, and when my lips approached, a 
dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, 
and hid your beauteous form ! When I 
again drew near, you spit, and rubbed, 
and smiled at my undoing. 

Phil. What silly thoughts you men have! 

Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe — but 
ten times harder was my fate. Pyramus 
could peep only through a wall ; 1 saw 
her, saw my Thisbe in all her beauty, but 
as much kept from her as if a hundred 
walls between — for there was more : there 
was her will against me. Would she but 
yet relent ! O Phillis ! Phillis ! shorten 
my torment, and declare you pity me. 

Phil. I believe it 's very sufferable ; the 
pain is not so exquisite but that you may 
bear it a little longer. 

Tom. Oh! my charming Phillis, if all de- 
pended on my fair one's will, I could with 
glory suffer — but, dearest creature, con- 
sider our miserable state. 

Phil How! Miserable! 

Tom. We are miserable to be in love, and 
under the command of others than those 
we love ; with that generous passion in 
the heart, to be sent to and fro on er- 
rands, called, checked, and rated for the 
meanest trifles. Oh, Phillis ! you don't 
know how many china cujds and glasses 
my passion for you has made me break. 
You have broke my fortune as well as 
my heart. 

Phil. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own 
to you that I believe your master writes 
and you speak the best of any men in the 
world. Never was woman so well pleased 
with a letter as my young lady was with 
his; and this is an answer to it. 
(Gives him a letter.) 

Tom. This was well done, my dearest; 
consider, we must strike out some pretty 
livelihood for ourselves by closing their 
affairs. It will be nothing for them to 
give us a little being of our own, some 
small tenement, out of their large pos- 
sessions. Whatever they give us, it will 
be more than what they keep for them- 
selves. One acre with Phillis would be 
worth a whole county without her. 

Phil. O, could I but believe you ! 

Tom. If not the utterance, believe the 
touch of my lips. 

(Kisses her.) 

Phil. There 's no contradicting you. How 
closely you argue, Tom! 



Tom. And will closer, in due time. But 
I must hasten with this letter, to hasten 
towards the possession of you. Then, 
Phillis, consider how I must be revenged, 
look to it, of all your skittishness, shy 
looks, and at best but coy compliances. 

Phil. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton, and 
sensual, as my lady calls it; I must not 
endure it. Oh ! fob ! you are a man — an 
odious, filthy, male creature — you should 
behave, if you had a right sense or Avere 
a man of sense, like Mr. Cimberton, with 
distance and indifference ; or, let me see, 
some other becoming hard word, with 
seeming in-in-in-advertency, and not rush 
on one as if you were seizing a prey. — 
But hush ! the ladies are coming. — Good 
Tom, don't kiss me above once, and be 
gone. Lard, we have been fooling and 
toying, and not considered the main busi- 
ness of our masters and mistresses. 

Tom. Why, their business is to be fooling 
and toying as soon as the parchments are 
ready. 

Phil. Well remembered, parchments; my 
lady, to my knowledge, is preparing writ- 
ings between her coxcomb cousin, Cim- 
bei'ton, and my mistress, though my mas- 
ter has an eye to the parchments already 
prepared between your master, Mr. Bevil, 
and my mistress ; and, I believe, my mis- 
tress herself has signed and sealed, in her 
heart, to Mr. Myrtle. — Did I not bid you 
kiss me but once, and be gone? But I 
know you won't be satisfied. 

Tom. No, you smooth creature, how 
should I? 

(Kissing her hand.) 

Phil. Well, since you are so humble, or so 
cool, as to ravish my hand only, I '11 take 
my leave of you like a great lady, and 
you a man of quality. 

(They salute formally.) 

Tom. Pox of all this state. 

(Offers to kiss her more closely.) 

Phil. No, prithee, Tom, mind your busi- 
ness. We must follow that interest 
which will take, but endeavor at that 
v/hich will be most for us, and we lii^e 
most. Oh, here 's my young mistress ! 
(Tom taps her neck behind, and kisses his 
fingers.) Go, ve liquorish-*' fool. 
(Exit Tom.) 
(Enter Lucinda.) 

Luc. Who was that you was hurrying 

away"? 
Phil. One that I had no mind to part with. 



20 greedy. 



596 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Luc. Why did you turn him away then? 

Phil. For your ladyship's service — to 
carry your ladyship's letter to his mas- 
ter. I could hardly get the rogue away. 

Luc. Why, has he so little love for his 
master? 

PMl. No; but he hath so much love for 
his mistress. 

Luc. But I thought I heard him kiss you. 
Why did you suffer that"? 

Phil. Why, madam, we vulgar take it to 
be a sign of love — We servants, we poor 
people, that have nothing but our per- 
sons to bestow or treat for, are forced to 
deal and bargain by way of sample, and 
therefore as we have no parchments or 
wax necessary in our agTeements, we 
squeeze with our hands and seal with our 
lips, to ratify vows and promises. 

Luc. But can't you trust one another with- 
out such earnest down ? 

Phil. We don't think it safe, any more 
than you gentry, to come together with- 
out deeds executed. 

Luc. Thou art a pert merry hussy. 

Phil. I wish, madam, your lover and you 
were as happy as Tom and your servant 
are. 

L»r. You grow impertinent. 

Phil. I have done, madam; and I won't 
ask you what you intend to do with Mr. 
Myrtle, what your father will do with 
Mr. Bevil, nor what you all, especially 
my lady, mean by admitting Mr. Cimber- 
ton as particularly hei^e as if he were 
married to you already; nay, you are 
married actually as far as people of 
quality are. 

Luc. How is that? 

Phil. You have different beds in the same 
house. 

Luc. Pshaw ! I have a very great value 
for ]Mr. Bevil, but have absolutely put 
an end to his pretensions in the letter I 
gave you for him. But my father, in 
his heart, still has a mind to him, were 
it not for this woman they talk of; and 
I am apt to imagine he is married to her, 
or never designs to marry at all. 

PMl. Then Mr. Myrtle 

Luc. He had my parents' leave to apply 
to me, and by that he has won me and 
my affections ; who is to have this body 
of mine without 'em. it seems, is nothing 
to me. My mother says 't is indecent 
for me to let my thoughts stray about the 
person of my husband ; nay, she says a 
maid, rigidly virtuous, though she may 
have been where her lover was a thour 



sand times, should not have made ob- 
servations enougii to know him from an- 
other man when she sees him in a third 
place. 

Phil. That is more than the severity of a 
nun, for not to see when one may is 
hardly possible; not to see when one 
can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, 
there are a great many whom you have 
not seen who 

Luc. Mamma says the first time you see 
your husband should be at that instant 
he is made so. When your father, with 
the help of the minister, gives you to 
him, then you are to see him ; then you 
are to observe and take notice of him ; 
because then you are to obey him. 

Phil. But does not my lady remember you 
are to love as well as obey? 

Luc. To love is a passion, 't is a desii-e, 
and we must have no desires. — Oh, I can- 
not endure the reflection! With what in- 
sensibility on my part, with what more 
than patience have I been exposed and 
offered to some awkward booby or other 
in every county of Great Britain ! 

Phil. Indeed, madam, I wonder I never 
heard you speak of it before with this 
indignation. 

Luc. Eveiy corner of the land has pre- 
sented me with a wealthy coxcomb. As 
fast as one treaty has gone off, another 
has come on, till my name and person 
have been the tittle-tattle of the whole 
town. What is this world come to? — no 
shame left — to be bartered for like the 
beasts of the field, and that in such an 
instance as coming together to an entire 
familiarity and union of soul and body. 
Oh ! and this without being so much as 
well-wishei's to each other, but for in- 
crease of fortune. 

Phil. But, madam, all these vexations will 
end very soon in one for all. Mr. Cim- 
berton is your mothei-'s kinsman, and 
three hundred years an older gentleman 
than any lover you ever had ; for which 
reason, with that of his prodigious large 
estate, she is resolved on him, and has 
sent to consult the lawyers accordingly; 
nay, has (whether you know it or no) 
been in treaty with Sir Geoffry, who, to 
join in the settlement, has accepted of a 
sum to do it, and is eveiy moment ex- 
pected in town for that purpose. 
Luc. How do you get all this intelli- 

g-ence ? 
Phil. By an art- I have, I thank my stars, 
beyond all the waiting-maids in Great 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



597 



Britain — the art of listeuiiiy, madam, for 
your ladyship's service. 
Luc. I shall soon know as much as you 
do; leave me, leave me, Phillis, begone. 
Here, here ! I '11 turn you out. My 
mother says I must not converse with my 
servants, though I must converse with no 
one else. {Exit Phil.) — How unhappy 
are we who are born to great fortunes ! 
No one looks at us with indifference, or 
acts towards us on the foot of plain 
dealing; yet, by all I have been hereto- 
fore otfered to or treated for I have been 
' used with the most agreeable of all abuses 
-^flattery. But now, by this phlegmatic 
fool I'm used as nothing, or a mere 
thing. He, forsooth, is too- wise, too 
learned to have any regard to desires, 
and I know not what the learned oaf 
calls sentiments of love and passion — 
Here he comes with my mother — It's 
much if he looks at me, or if he does, 
takes no more notice of me than of any 
other movable in the room. 

{Enter Mrs. Sealand, and Mr. Cimberion.) 

Mrs. Seal. How do I admire this noble, 
this learned taste of yours, and the 
worthy regard you have to our own an- 
cient and honorable house in consulting 
a means to keep the blood as pure and as 
regularly descended as may be. 

dm. Why, really, madam, the young 
women of this age are treated with dis- 
courses of such a tendency, and their 
imaginations so bewildered in flesh and 
blood, that a man of reason can't talk to 
be understood. They have no ideas of 
happiness, but what are more gross than 
the gratification of lumger and tliirst. 

Luc. "With how much reflection he is a 
coxcomb ! 

(Aside.) 

Cini. And in truth, madam, I have con- 
sidered it as a most brutal custom that 
persons of the first character in the world 
should go as ordinarily, and with as lit- 
tle shame, to bed as to dinner with one 
another. They proceed to the propaga- 
tion of the species as openly as to the 
preservation of the individual. 

Luc. Slie that willingly goes to bed to thee 
must have no shame, I 'm sure. 
{Aside.) 

Mrs. Seal. Oh, cousin Cimberton ! cousin 
Cimberton ! how abstracted, how refined 
is your sense of things ! But. indeed, it 
is too true there is nothing so ordinary 
as to say, in the best governed families. 



my master and lady are gone to bed ; one 
does not know but it might have been 
said of one's self. 

{Hiding her face with her fan.) 

Cim. Lycurgus, madam, instituted other- 
wise; among the Lacedasmonians the 
whole female world was pregnant, but 
none but the mothers themselves knew 
by whom ; their meetings were secret, and 
the amorous congress always by stealth ; 
and no such professed doings between the 
sexes as are tolerated among us under 
the audacious word, marriage. 

Mrs. Seal. Oh, had I lived in those days 
and been a matron of Si:)arta, one might 
with less indecency have had ten chil- 
dren, according to that modest institu- 
tion, than one, under the confusion of 
our modern, barefaced manner. 

Luc. And yet, poor woman, she has gone 
through the whole ceremony, and here I 
stand a melancholy proof of it. 
{Aside.) 

Mrs. Seal. We will talk then of business. 
That girl walking about the room there 
is to be your wife. She has, I confess, 
no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her 
born of a thinking motlier. 

Cinib. I have observed her; her lively 
look, free air, and disengaged counte- 
nance speak her very 

Luc. Very what? 

Cimb. If you please, madam — to set her 
a little that way. 

Mrs. Seal. Lucinda, say nothing to him, 
you are not a match for him ; when you 
are married, you may speak to sucli a 
husband when you 're spoken to. But I 
am disposing of you above yourself every 
way. 

Cimb. Madam, you cannot but observe the 
inconveniences I expose myself to, in 
hopes that your ladyship will be the eon- 
sort of my better part. As for the 
young woman, she is rather an impedi- 
ment than a help to a man of letters and 
speculation. Madam, there is no reflec- 
tion, no philosophy, can at all times sub- 
due the sensitive life, but the animal shall 
sometimes carry away the man. Ha! ay, 
the vermilion of her lips. 

Ltic. Pray, don't talk of me thus. 

Cimb. The pretty enough — pant of her 
bosom. 

Luc. Sir! madam, don't you hear him? 

Cimb. Her forward chest. 

Luc. Intolerable ! 

Cimb. High health. 

Luc. The grave, easy impudence of him! 



598 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Cimb. Proud heart. 

Luc. Stupid coxcomb ! 

Cimb. I say, madam, her impatience, while 
we are looking at her, throws out all at- 
tractions — her arms — her neck — what a 
spring in her step ! 

Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you 
strange unaccountable! 

Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and 
arteries ! 

Luc. I have no veins, no arteries. 

Mrs. Seal. Oh, child! hear him, he talks 
tinely ; he 's a scholar, he knows what you 
have. 

Cimb. The speaking invitation of her 
shape, the gathering of herself up, and 
the indignation you see in the pretty lit- 
tle thing — Now, I am considering her, on 
this occasion, but as one that is to be 
pregnant. 

Luc. The familiar, learned, unseasonable 
puppy ! 

(Aside.) 

Cimb. And pregnant undoubtedly she will 
be yearly. I fear I shan't, for many 
years, have discretion enough to give her 
one fallow season. 

Luc. Monster ! there 's no bearing it. The 
hideous sot ! there 's no enduring it, to 
be thus surveyed like a steed at sale. 

Cimb. At sale ! She 's very illiterate — 
But she 's very well limbed too ; turn her 
in ; I see what she is. 

(Exit Lucinda, in a rage.) 

Mrs. Seal. Go, you creature, I am 
ashamed of you. 

Cimb. No hann done — you know, madam, 
the better soi't of people, as I observed to 
you, treat by their lawyers of weddings 
(Adjusting himself at the glass.) — and 
the woman in the bargain, like the man- 
sion house in the sale of the estate, is 
thrown in, and what that is, whether 
good or bad, is not at all considered. 

Mrs. Seal. I grant it: and therefore make 
no demand for her youth and beauty, and 
eveiy other accomplishment, as the com- 
mon world think 'em, because she is not 
polite. 

Cimb. Madam, I know your exalted un- 
derstanding, abstracted, as it is, from 
vnlcar prejudices, will not be offended, 
when T declare to you, T marry to have 
an heir to my estate, and not to beget a 
colony, or a plantation. This young 
woman's beauty and constitution will de- 
mand provision for a tenth child at least. 

Mrs. Seal. With all that wit and learn- 
ing, how considerate! What an econo- 



mist! (Aside.) — Sir, I cannot make her 
any other than she is; or say she is much 
better than the other young women of 
this age, or tit for much besides being a 
mother; but I have given directions for 
the marriage settlements, and Sir Geoffiy 
Cimberton's counsel is to meet ours here, 
at this hour, concerning his joining in the 
deed, which, when executed, makes you 
capable of settling what is due to Lu- 
cinda's fortune. Herself, as I told you, 
I say nothing of. 

Cimb. No, no, no, indeed, madam, it is 
not usual; and I must depend upon my 
own reflection and philosophy not' to 
overstock my family. 

Mrs. Seal. I cannot help her, cousin Cim- 
berton ; but she is, for aught I see, as 
well as the daughter of anybody else. 

Cimb. That is very true, madam. 

(Enter a Servant, who whispers Mrs. 
Se aland.) 

Mrs. Seal. The lawyers are come, and 
now we are to hear what they have re- 
solved as to the point whether it 's neces- 
sary that Sir Geoffry should join in the 
settlement, as being what they call in the 
remainder. But, good cousin, you must 
have patience with 'em. These lawyers, 
I am told, are of a diffei'ent kind ; one is 
what they call a chamber counsel, the 
other a pleader. The conveyancer is 
slow, from an imperfection in his speech, 
and therefore shunned the bar, but ex- 
tremely passionate and impatient of con- 
tradiction. The other is as warm as he: 
but has a tongue so voluble, and a head 
so conceited, he will suffer nobody to 
speak but himself. 

Cimb. You mean old Serjeant Target and 
Counsellor Bramble'? I have heard of 
'em. 

Mrs. Seal. The same. Show in the gen- 
tlemen. 

(Exit Servant.) 

(Be-enter Servant, introducing Myrtle and 
Tom disguised as Bramble and Target.) 

Mrs. Seal. Gentlemen, this is the party 
concemed, Mr. Cimberton; and I hope 
you have considered of the matter. 

Tar. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it 

must be by indent dent dent 

dent 

Bram. Yes, madam, Mr. Serjeant and my- 
self have agreed, as he is pleased to in- 
form you, that it must be an indenture 
tripartite, and tripartite let it be, for Sir 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



599 



Geoffry must needs be a party; old Cim- 
berton, in the year 1019, says, in that an- 
cient roll in Mr. Serjeant's bands, as re- 
course thereto being bad, will more at 
large appear 

Tar. Yes, and by the deeds in your 
hands, it appears that 

Brum. Mr. Serjeant, I beg of you to make 
no inferences upon what is in our cus- 
tody; but speak to the titles in your own 
deeds. I shall not show that deed till my 
client is in town. 

Cimb. You know best your own methods. 

Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether 
the entail is such that my cousin, Sir 
Geoffry, is necessary in tins affair"? 

Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tretrip- 
let, but not as to the messuage of Grim- 
gi'ibber. 

Tar. I say that Gr — gr — that Gr — gr — 
Grimgribber, Grimgribber is in us; that 
is to say the remainder thereof, as well 
as that of Tr—tr— Triplet. 

Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir 
Ralph, made in the middle of the last 
century, precedent to that in which old 
Ciniberton made over the remaindei% and 
made it pass to the heirs general, by 
which your client comes in ; and I ques- 
tion whether the remainder even of Tre- 
triplet is in him — But Ave are willing to 
waive that, and give him a valuable con- 
sideration. But we shall not purchase 
what is in us for ever, as GrimgTibber is, 
at the rate, as we guard against the con- 
tingent of Mr. Cimberton having no son 
— Then we know Sir Geoffry is the first 
of the collateral male line in this family 
— yet 

Tar. Sir, Gi' gr ber is 

Bram. I apprehend you very well, and 
your argument might be of force, and we 
would be inclined to hear that in all its 
parts — But, sir, I see very plainly what 
you are going into. I tell you, it is as 
probable a contingent that Sir Geoffry 
may die before Mr. Cimberton, as that he 
may outlive him. 

Tar. Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but 
I must say 

Bram. Sii', I allow you the whole extent 
of that argument ; but that will go no 
farther than as to the claimants under old 
Cimberton. I am of opinion that, ac- 
cording to the instruction of Sir Ralph, 
he could not dock the entail, and then 
create a new estate for the heirs general. 

Tar. Sir, I have not patience to be told 
that, when Gr gr ber 



Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Serjeant; 
but there must be the word heirs for ever, 
to make such an estate as you pretend. 

Cimb. I must be impartial, though you 
are counsel for my side of the question. 
Were it not that you are so good as to 
allow him what he has not said, I should 
think it very hard you should answer 
him without hearing him — But, gentle- 
men, I believe you have both considered 
this matter, and are firm in your differ- 
ent opinions. 'T were better, therefore, 
you proceeded according to the particular 
sense of each of you, and gave your 
thoughts distinctly in writing. And do 
you see, sii-s, pray let me have a copy of 
what you say in English. 

Bram. Why, what is all we have been say- 
ing? In English ! Oh ! but I forgot my- 
self, you 're a wit. But, however, to 
please j'ou, sir, you shall have it, in as 
plain terms as the law will admit of. 

Cimb. But I would have it, sir, without 
delay. 

Bram. That, sir, the law will not admit of. 
The Courts are sitting at Westminster, 
and I am this moment obliged to be at 
eveiy one of them, and 't would be wrong 
if I should not be in the hall to attend 
one of 'em at least ; the rest would take it 
ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I 
have said to Mr. Serjeant's consideration, 
and I will digest his arguments on my 
part, and you shall hear from me again, 
sir. 

{Exit Bramble.) 

Tar. Agreed, agreed. 

Cimb. Mr. Bramble is very quick; he 
parted a little abruptly. 

Tar. He could not bear my argument ; I 
pinched him to the quick about that 
Gr gr ber. 

3Irs. Seal. I saw that, for he durst not 
so much as hear you. I shall send to 
you, Mr. Serjeant, as soon as Sir Geoffry 
comes to town, and then I hope all may 
be adjusted. 

Tar. I shall be at my chambers, at my 
usual hours. 

(Exit.) 

Cimb. Madam, if you please, I '11 now at- 
tend you to the tea table, where I shall 
hear from your ladyship reason and 
good sense, after all this law and gibber- 
ish. 

Mrs. Seal. 'T is a wonderful thing, sir, 
that men of professions do not study to 
talk the substance of what they have to 
say in the language of the rest of the 



600 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



world. Sure, they 'd find their account 
in it. 
Cim. They iui;;ht, perhaps, madam, with 
people of your good sense; but with the 
generahty 't would never do. The vul- 
gar would have no respect for truth and 
knowledge, if they were exposed to naked 
view. 

Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved : 
Since the world will — why let it be de- 
ceived. 

{Exeunt.) 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. Bcvil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 

{Bevil, Jun., icith a letter in his liand, fol- 
lowed hy Tom.) 

Tom. Upon my life, sir, I know nothing 
of the matter. I never opened my lips 
to Mr. Myrtle about anything of your 
honor's letter to Madam Lucinda. 

Bev. What 's the fool in such a fright 
for? I don't suppose you did. "What I 
would know is, whether Mr. Myrtle 
showed any suspicion, or asked you any 
questions, to lead you to say casually 
that you had carried any such letter for 
me this morning. 

Tom. Why, sir, if he did ask me any ques- 
tions, how could I help if? 

Bev. I don't say you could, oaf! I am 
not questioning you, but him. What did 
he say to you *? 

Tom. Why, sir, when I came to his cham- 
bers, to be dressed for the lawyer's part 
your honor was pleased to put me upon, 
lie asked me if I had been at Mr. Sea- 
land's this morning'? So I told him, sir, 
I often went thither — because, sir, if I 
had not said that he might have thought 
there was something more in my going 
now than at another time. 

Bev. Vei-y well! — The fellow's caution, I 
find, has given him this jealousy. 
{Aside.) — Did he ask you no other ques- 
tions'? 

Tom. Yes, sir; now I remember, as we 
came away in the hackney coach from 
Mr. Sealand's, Tom, says he, as I came 
in to your master this morning, he bade 
you go for an answer to a letter he had 
sent. Pray did you bring him any"? says 
he. Ah! says I, sir, your honor is 
pleased to joke with me ; you have a mind 



to know whether I can keep a secret or 

no? 

Bev. And so, by showing him you could, 
you told him you had one'? 

Tom. Sir 

{Confused.) 

Bev. What mean actions does jealousy 
make a man stoop to ! How poorly has 
he used art with a servant to make him 
betray his master! — Well! and when did 
he give you this letter for me'? 

Tom. Sir, he writ it before he pulled off 
his lawyer's gown, at his own chambers. 

Bev. Very well; and what did he say 
when you brought him my answer to it? 

Tom. He looked a little out of humor, 
sir, and said it was very well. 

Bev. I knew he would be grave ujion't; 
wait without. 

Tom. Hum! 'gad, I don't like this; I am 
afraid we are all in the wrong box here. 
{Exit Tom.) 

Bev. I put on a serenity Avhile my fellow 
was present ; but I have never been more 
thoroughly disturbed. This hot man ! to 
write me a challenge, on supposed arti- 
ficial dealing, when I professed myself 
his friend ! I can live contented without 
gloiy; but I cannot suffer shame. 
What's to be done"? But first let me 
consider Lucinda's letter again. 

"Sir, {Beads.) 

"I hope it is consistent with the laws a 
woman ought to impose ujjou herself, to 
acknowledge that your manner of de- 
clining a treaty of marriage in our fam- 
ily, and desiring the refusal may come 
from me, has something more engaging 
in it than the courtship of him who, I 
fear, will fall to my lot, except your 
friend exerts himself for our common 
safety and happiness. I have reasons 
for desiring Mr. Myrtle may not know 
of this letter till hereafter, and am your 
most obliged humble servant, 

"Lucinda Sealand." 

W^ell, but the postscript — 

{Beads.) 
"I won't, upon second thoughts, hide any- 
thing from you. But my reason for con- 
cealing this is, that Mr. Myrtle has a 
jealousy in his temper which gives me 
some terrors; but my esteem for him in- 
clines me to hope that only an ill effect 
which sometimes accompanies a tender 
love, and what may be cured by a careful 
and unblamable conduct." 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



601 



Thus has this lady made me her friend 
and confidant, and put herself, in a kind, 
under my protection. I cannot tell him 
* immediately the purport of her letter, 
except I could cure him of the violent 
and untractable passion of jealousy, and 
so serve him, and her, by disobeying her, 
in the article of secrecy, more than I 
should by complying with her directions. 
— But then this duelling', which custom 
has imposed upon every man who would 
live with reputation and honor in the 
world — how must I preserve myself from 
imputations there? He'll, forsooth, call 
it or think it fear, if I explain without 
fighting. — But his letter — T '11 read it 
again — ■ 

"Sir, 

"You have i;sed me basely in correspond- 
ing and carrying on a treaty where you 
told me you were indifferent. I have 
changed my sword since I saw you ; 
Avhich advertisement. I thought proper to 
send you against the next meeting be- 
tween you and the injured 

"Charles Myrtle." 

{Enter Tom.) 

Tom. Mr. Myrtle, sir. "Would your honor 
please to see him'? 

Bev. Why, you stupid creature ! Let Mr. 
Myrtle wait at my lodgings'? Show him 
up. {Exit Tom.) Well! I am resolved 
upon my carriage to liim. He is in love, 
and in every circumstance of life a little 
distrustful, which I must allow for — but 
here he is. 

{Enter Tom, introducing Myrtle.) 

Sir, I am extremely obliged to you for 
this honor. — (To Tom.) But, sir, you, 
with your very discerning face, leave the 
room. {Exit'Tom.)—\\e\\, Mr. Myrtle, 
your commands with me"? 

Myrt. The time, the place, our long ac- 
quaintance, and many other circum- 
stances which affect me on this occasion, 
oblige me, without farther ceremony or 
conference, to desire you would not only, 
as you already have, acknowledge the re- 
ceipt of my letter, but also comply with 
the request in it. I must have farther 
notice taken of my message than these 
half lines — "I have yours," "I shall be 
at home." 

Bev. Sir, I own T have received a letter 
from you in a very unusual style ; but as 
I design everything in this matter shall 
be your own action, your own seeking, 



1 shall understand nothing but what you 
are pleased to confirm face to face, and 
I have already forgot the contents of 
your ejjistle. 

Myrt. This cool manner is very agreeable 
to the abuse you have already made of 
my simplicity and frankness; and I see 
your moderation tends to your own ad- 
vantage and not mine — to your own 
safety, not consideration of your friend. 

Bev. My own safety, Mr. Myrtle"? 

Myrt. Your own safety, Mr. Bevil. 

Bev. Look you, Mr. Myrtle, there 's no 
disguising that I understand wliat you 
would be at; but, sir, you know I have 
often dared to disapprove of the de- 
cisions a tyrant custom has introduced, 
to the breach of all laAvs, both divine and 
human. 

Myrt. Mr. Bevil, Mr. Bevil, it would be 
a good first principle, in those who have 
so tender a conscience that way, to have 
as much abhorrence of doing injuries, 
as 

Bev. As what? 

Myrt. As fear of answering for 'em. 

Bev. As fear of answering for 'em ! But 
that ai^prehension is just or blamable ac- 
cording to the object of that fear. I 
have often told you, in confidence of 
heart, I abhorred the daring to offend 
the Author of life, and mshing into His 
presence — I say, by the veiy same act, to 
commit the crime against Him, and im- 
mediately to urge on to His tribunal. 

Myrt. Mr. Bevil, I must tell you, this 
coolness, this gravity, this show of con- 
science, shall never cheat me of my mis- 
tress. You have, indeed, the best excuse 
for life, the hopes of possessing Lucinda. 
But consider, sir, I have as much reason 
to be weary of it, if I am to lose her; 
and my first attempt to recover her shall 
be to let her see the dauntless man who 
is to be her guardian and protector. 

Bev. Sir, show me but the least glimpse 
of argument, that I am authorised, by my 
own hand, to vindicate any lawless insult 
of this nature, and I will show thee — to 
chastise thee hardly deserves the name of 
courage — slight, inconsiderate man ! — 
There is, Mr. Myrtle, no such terror in 
quick anger; and you shall, you know not 
why, be cool, as you have, you know not 
why, been wann. 

Myrt. Is the woman one loves so little an 
occasion of anger f You perhaps, who 
know not what it is to love, who have 
your ready, your commodious, your for- 



602 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



eign trinket, for your loose hours; and 
from your fortune, your specious out- 
ward carriage, and other lucky circum- 
stances, as easy a way to the possession 
of a woman of honor; you know noth- 
ing of what it is to be alarmed, to be dis- 
tracted with anxiety and terror of losing 
more than life. Your marriage, happy 
man, goes on like common business, and 
in the interim you have your rambling 
captive, your Indian princess, for your 
soft moments of dalliance, your conven- 
ient, your ready Indiana. 
Bev. You have touched me beyond the 
patience of a man ; and I 'm excusable, in 
the giiard of innocence (or from the in- 
firmity of human nature, which can bear 
no more), to accept your invitation, and 
observe your letter — Sir, I '11 attend you. 

{Enter Tom.) 

Tom. Did you call, sir? I thought you 
did; I heard you speak aloud. 

Bev. Yes; go call a coach. 

Tom. Sir — master — IMr. Myrtle — friends 
— gentlemen — Avhat d 'ye mean ? I am 
but a servant, or 

Bev. Call a coach, {Exit Tom.) — {A 
long pause, walking sullenh/ hy each 
other.) — {Aside.) Shall I (though pro- 
voked to the uttermost) recover myself 
at the entrance of a third person, and 
that my servant too, and not have re- 
spect enough to all I have ever been re- 
ceiving from infancy, the obligation to 
the best of fathers, to an unhappy virgin 
too, whose life depends on mine? {Shut- 
ting the door.) — (To Myrtle.) I have, 
thank Heaven, had time to recollect my- 
self, and shall not, for fear of what such 
a rash man as you think of me, keep 
longer unexplained the false appearances 
under which your infirmity of temper 
makes you suffer; when perhaps too 
much regard to a false point of honor 
makes me prolong that suffering. 

Myrt. I am sure Mr. Bevil cannot doubt 
but I had rather have satisfaction from 
his innocence than his sword. 

Bev. Why, then, would you ask it first 
that way? 

Myrt. Consider, you kept your temper 
yourself no longer than till I spoke to the 
disadvantage of her you loved. 
Bev. True; but let me tell you, I have 
saved you from the most exquisite dis- 
tress, even though you had succeeded in 
the dispute. I know you so well, that I 
am sure to have found this letter about 



a man you had killed would have been 
worse than death to yourself — Read it. — 
{Aside.) When he is thoroughly morti- 
fied, and shame has got the better o'f 
jealousy, when he has seen himself . 
throughly, he will deserve to be assisted 
towards obtaining Lucinda. 

Myrt. With what a superiority has he 
tumed the injury on me, as the aggres- 
sor! I begin to fear I have been too 
far transported — A treaty in our family! 
is not that saying too much? I shall re- 
lapse. — But I find (on the postscript) 
something like jealousy. With what 
face can I see my benefactor, my advo- 
cate, whom I have treated like a be- 
trayer! {Aside.) — Oh, Bevil, with what 
words shall I 

Bev. There needs none ; to convince is 
much more than to conquer. 

3Iyrt. But can you 

Bev. You have o'erpaid the inquietude 
you gave me, in the change I see in you 
towards me. Alas ! what machines are 
we ! thy face is altered to that of another 
man ; to that of my companion, my 
friend. 

Myrt. That I could be such a precipitant 
wretch ! 

Bev. Pray, no more. 

Myrt. Let me reflect hoAV many friends 
have died, by the hands of friends, for 
want of temper; and you must give me 
leave to say again, and again, how much 
I am beholden to that superior spirit you 
have subdued me with. What had be- 
come of one of us, or perhaps both, had 
you been as weak as I was, and as in- 
capable of reason? 

Bev. I con.gratulate to us both the escape 
from ourselves, and hope the memory of 
it will make us dearer friends than ever. 

Myrt. Dear Bevil, your friendly conduct 
has convinced me that there is nothing 
manly but what is conducted by reason, 
and agreeable to the practice of virtue 
and justice. And yet how many have 
been sacrificed to that idol, the unreason- 
able opinion of men! Nay, they are so 
ridiculous in it, that they often use their 
swords against each other with dissem- 
bled anger and real fear. 

Betrayed by honor, and compelled by 

shame. 
They hazard being, to presence a name: 
Nor dare inquire into the dread mistake. 
Till plunged in sad eternity they wake. 
{Exeunt.) 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



603 



Scene 2. St. James's Park. 
{Enter Sir John Bevil and Mr. Sealand.) 

Sir J. Bev. Give me leave, however, Mr. 
Sealand, as we are upon a treaty for 
uniting our families, to mention only the 
business of an ancient house. Genealogy 
and descent are to be of some consider- 
ation in an affair of this sort. 

Mr. Seah Genealogy .and descent ! Sir, 
there has been in our family a very large 
one. There was Galfrid the father of 
Edward, the father of Ptolomey, the fa- 
ther of Crassus, the father of Earl Rich- 
ard, the father of Henry the Marquis, 
the father of Duke John 

Sir J. Bev. What, do you rave, Mr. Sea- 
land? all these great names in your fam- 
ily? 

Mr. Seal. These? yes, sir. I have heard 
my father name 'em all, and more. 

Sir J. Bev. Ay, sir? and did he say they 
were all in your family? 

Mr. Seal. Yes, sir, he kept 'em all. He 
was the greatest cocker -^ in England. 
He said Duke John won him many bat- 
tles, and never lost one. 

Sir J. Bev. Oh, sir, your servant! you 
are laughing at my laying any stress 
upon descent ; but I must tell you, sir, T 
never knew anyone but he that wanted 
that advantage turn it into ridicule. 

Mr. Seal. And I never knew any one Avho 
had many better advantages put that into 
his account. — But, Sir John, value your- 
self as you please upon your ancient 
house, I am to talk freely of everything 
you are pleased to put into your bill of 
rates on this occasion ; yet, sir, I have 
made no objections to your son's family. 
'T is his morals that I doubt. 

Sir J. Bev. Sir, I can't help saying, that 
what might injure a citizen's credit may 
be no stain to a gentleman's honor. 

Mr. Seal. Sir John, the honor of a gen- 
tleman is liable to be tainted by as small 
a matter as the credit of a trader. We 
are talking of a marriage, and in such a 
case, the father of a young woman will 
not think it an addition to the honor or 
credit of her lover that he is a 
keeper 

Sir J. Bev. Mr. Sealand, don't take upon 
you to spoil my son's marriage with any 
woman else. 

3Ir. Seal. Sir John, let him apply to any 
woman else, and have as many mistresses 
as he pleases. 

21 Lover of cockfights. 



Sir J. Bev. My son, sir, is a discreet and 
sober gentleman. 

Mr. Seal. Sir, I never saw a man that 
wenched soberly and discreetly, that ever 
left it oft' ; the decency observed in the 
practice hides, even from the sinner, the 
iniquity of it. They pursue it, not that 
their appetites hurry 'em away, but, I 
warrant you, because 't is their opinion 
they may do it. 

Sir J. Bev. Were what you suspect a 
truth — do you design to keep your 
daughter a virgin till you find a man un- 
blemished that way? 

Mr. Seal. Sir, as much a eit -- as you take 
me for, I know the town and the world; 
and give me leave to say, that we mer- 
chants are a species of gentry that have 
grown into the world this last century, 
and are as honorable, and almost as use- 
ful, as you landed folks, that have al- 
ways thought yourselves so much above 
us; for your trading, forsooth, is ex- 
tended no farther than a load of hay or 
a fat ox. You are pleasant people, in- 
deed, because you are generally bred up 
to be lazy ; therefore, I warrant you, in- 
dustry is dishonorable. 

Sir J. Bev. Be not offended, sir; let us 
go back to our point. 

Mr. Seal. Oh! not at all offended; but I 
don't love to leave any part of the ac- 
count unclosed. Look you, Sir John, 
comparisons are odious, and more par- 
ticularly'- so on occasions of this kind, 
when we are projecting races that are to 
be made out of both sides of the com- 
parisons. 

Sir J. Bev. But, my son, sir, is, in the 
eye of the world, a gentleman of merit. 

Mr. Seal. I own to you, I think him so. — 
But, Sir John, I am a man exercised and 
experienced in chances and disasters. I 
lost, in my earlier years, a very fine wife, 
and with her a poor little infant. This 
makes me, perhaps, over cautious to pre- 
serve the second bounty of providence to 
me, and be as careful as I can of this 
child. You '11 pardon me, my poor girl, 
sir, is as valuable to me as your boasted 
son to you. 

Sir J. Bev. Why, that 's one very good 
reason, Mr. Sealand, why I wish my son 
had her. 

Mr. Seal. There is nothing but this 
strange lady here, this incognita, that 
can be objected to him. Here and there 
a man falls in love with an artful crea- 

22 A bourgeois, 



604 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ture, and gives up all the motives of life 
to that one passion. 

Sir J. Bev. A man of my son's under- 
standing' cannot be suj^posed to be one 
of them. 

Mr. Seal. Very wise men have been so 
enslaved; and, when a man marries with 
one of them upon his hands, whether 
moved from the demand of the world or 
slighter reasons, such a husband soils 
with -^ his wife for a month i^erhaps — 
then good be w' ye,-* madam, the show 's 
over — Ah! John Dryden points out such 
a husband to a hair, where he says, — 

"And while abroad so prodigal the dolt 

is, 
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt 

is." 

Now, in plain terms, sir, I shall not care 
to have my poor giii turned a-grazing, 
and that must be the case when 

Sir J. Bcv. But pray consider, sir, my 
son 

Mr. Seal. Look you, sir, I '11 make the 
matter short. This unknown lady, as I 
told you, is all the objection I have to 
him ; but, one way or other, he is, or has 
been, certainly engaged to her. I am 
therefore resolved, this veiy afternoon, 
to visit her. Now from her behavior, or 
appearance, I shall soon be let into what 
I may fear or hope for. 

Sir J. Bev. Sir, I am very confident there 
can be nothing inquired into relating to 
my son, that will not, upon being under- 
stood, turn to his advantage. 

Mr. Seal. I hope that as sincerely as you 
believe it. — Sir John Bevil, when I am 
satisfied, in this great point, if your son's 
conduct answers the character you give 
him, I shall wish your alliance more than 
that of any gentleman in Great Britain ; 
and so your servant. 

(Exit.) 

Sir J. Bev. He is gone in a way but 
barely civil ; but his great wealth, and 
the merit of his only child, the heiress of 
it, are not to be lost for a little peevish- 
ness. 

(Enter Humphry.) 

Oh ! Humphry, you are come in a sea- 
sonable minute. I want to talk to thee, 
and to tell thee that my head and heart 
are on the rack about my son. 

2S lives with. 



Humph. Sir, you may trust his discre- 
tion ; I am sure you may. 

Sir J. Bev. Why, I do believe 1 may, and 
yet I 'm in a thousand fears when I lay 
this vast wealth before me ; when I con- 
sider his prepossessions, eitlier generous 
to a folly, in an honorable love, or aban- 
doned, past redemption, in a vicious one ; 
and, from the one or the other, his insen- 
sibility to the fairest prospect towards 
doubling our estate : a father, who knows 
how useful wealth is, and how necessary, 
even to those who desj^ise it — I say a 
father, HumiDhry, a father cannot bear 
it. 

Humph. Be not transported, sir; you will 
grow incapable of taking any resolution 
in your perplexity. 

Sir J. Bev. Yet, as angry as I am with 
him, I would not have him surprised in 
anything. This mercantile rough man 
may go grossly into the examination of 
this matter, and talk to the gentlewoman 
so as to 

Humph. No, I hope, not in an abru^Dt 
manner. 

Sir J. Bev. No, I hope not ! Why, dost 
thou know anything of her, or of him, or 
of anything of it, or all of it? 

Humph. My dear master, I know so much 
that I told him this very day you had rea- 
son to be secretly out of humor about 
her. 

Sir J. Bev. Did you go so far? Well, 
what said he to thaf? 

Humph. His words were, looking upon 
me steadfastly: "Humphry," says he, 
"that woman is a woman of honor." 

Sir J. Bev. How ! Do you think he is 
married to her, or designs to marry her? 

Humph. I can say nothing to the latter; 
but he says he can marry no one without 
your consent while you are living. . 

Sir J. Bev. If he said so much, I know 
he scorns to break his word with me. 

Humph. I am sure of that. 

Sir J. Bev. You are sure of that — well ! 
that's some comfort. Then I have noth- 
ing to do but to see the bottom of this 
matter during this present ruffle — Oh, 
Humphry 

Humph. You are not ill, I hope, sir. 

Sir J. Bev. Yes, a man is veiy ill that 's 
in a very ill-humor. To be a fatlier is to 
be in care for one whom you oftener dis- 
oblige than please by that very care — 
Oh ! that sons could know the duty to a 
father before they themselves are fathers 

24 good-by. 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



605 



— But, perhaps, you '11 say now that I 
am oue of the happiest fathers in the 
world; but, I assure you, that of the 
very happiest is not a condition to be 
envied. 

Humph. Sir, your pain arises, not from 
the thing itself, but your particular sense 
of it. You are overfond, nay, give me 
leave to say, you are unjustly apprehen- 
sive from your fondness. My master 
Bevil never disobliged you^ and he will, I 
know he will, do everything you ought to 
expect. 

Sir J. Bev. He won't take all this money 
with this girl — For ought I know, he will, 
forsooth, have so much moderation as to 
think he ought not to force his liking for 
any consideration. 

Uumpli. He is to marry her, not you; he 
is to live with her, not you, sir. 

Sir J. Bev. I know not what to think. 
But, I know, nothing can be more miser- 
able than to be in this doubt — Follow 
me ; I must come to some resolution. 
{Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. Bcvil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
{Enter Tom and Fliillis.) 

Tom. Well, madam, if you must speak 
with Mr. Myrtle, you shall; he is now 
with my master in the library. 

Phil. But you must leave me alone with 
him, for he can't make me a present, nor 
I so handsomely take anything from him 
before you ; it would not be decent. 

Tom. It will be very decent, indeed, for 
me to retire, and leave my mistress with 
another man. 

Phil. He is a gentleman, and will treat 
one properly. 

Torn. I believe so ; but, however, I won't 
be far off, and therefore will venture to 
trust you. I '11 call him to you. 
{Exit Tom.) 

Phil. What a deal of pother and sputter 
here is between my misti'ess and Mr. 
Myrtle from mere punctilio ! I could, 
any hour of the day, get her to her lover, 
and would do it — but she, forsooth, will 
allow no plot to get him ; but, if he can 
come to her, I know she would be glad of 
it. I must, therefore, do her an accept- 
able violence, and surprise her into his 
arms. I am sure I go by the best rule 
imaginable. If she were my maid, I 
should think her the best servant in the 
world for doing so by me. 



{Enter Myrtle and Tom.) 

Oh sir! You and Mr. Bevil are fine gen- 
tlemen to let a lady remain under such 
difficulties as my poor mistress, and no 
attempt to set her at liberty, or release 
her from the danger of being instantly 
married to Cimberton. 

Myrt. Tom has been telling But what 

is to be done? 

Phil. What is to be done — when a man 
can't come at his mistress! Why, can't 
you fire our house, or the next house to 
us, to make us run out, and you take us? 

Myrt. How, Mrs. Phillis'? 

Phil. Ay; let me see that rogue deny to 
fire a house, make a riot, or any other 
little thing, when there were no other 
way to come at me. 

Tom. I am obliged to you, madam. 

Phil. Why, don't we hear eveiy day of 
people's hanging themselves for love, and 
won't they venture the hazard of being 
hanged for love ? Oh, were I a man 

Myrt. What manly thing would you have 
me undertake, according to your lady- 
ship's notion of a man? 

Phil. Only be at once what, one time or 
other, you may be, and wish to be, or 
must be. 

Myrt. Dear girl, talk plainly to me, and 
consider I, in my condition, can't be in 
veiy good humor — you say, to be at once 
what I must be. 

Phil. Ay, ay; I mean no more than to be 
an old man ; I saw you do it very well at 
the masquerade. In a word, old Sir 
Geoffry Cimberton is every hour expected 
in town, to join in the deeds and settle- 
ments for marrying Mr. Cimberton. He 
is half blind, half lame, half deaf, half 
dumb ; though, as to his passions and de- 
sires, he is as warm and ridiculous as 
when in the heat of youth. 

Tom^ Come to the business, and don't 
keep the gentleman in suspense for the 
pleasure of being courted, as you serve 
me. 

Phil. I saw you at the masquerade act 
such a one to perfection. Go, and put 
on that very habit, and come to our house 
as Sir Geoffry. There is not one there 
but myself knows his pei'son ; I was born 
in the parish where he is Lord of the 
Manor. I have seen him often and often 
at church in the country. Do not hesi- 
tate, but come liither; they will think you 
bring a certain security against Mr. 
Myrtle, and you bring Mr. Myrtle. 



606 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Leave the rest to me; I leave this with 
yuu, and expect — They don't, I told you, 
know you; they think you out of town, 
which you had as good be for ever, if you 
lose this opportunity — I must be gone; I 
know I am wanted at home. 

Myrt. My dear Phillis ! 

{Catches and kisses her, and gives her 
money.) 

Phil. fie! my kisses are not my own; 
you have committed violence ; but I '11 
carry 'em to the right owner. {Tom 
kisses her.) — Come, see me downstairs 
{To Tom) and leave the lover to think of 
his last game for the prize. 

{Exeunt Tom and Phillis.) 

Myrt. I think I will instantly attempt this 
Avild expedient. The extravagance of it 
will make me less suspected, and it will 
give me opportunity to assort my own 
right to Lucinda, without whom I cannot 
live. But I am so mortified at this con- 
duct of mine towards poor Bevil. He 
must think meanly of me — I know not 
how to reassume myself, and be in spirit 
enough for such an adventure as this; 
yet I must attempt it, if it be only to be 
near Lucinda under her present perplexi- 
ties; and sure 

The next delight to transport, with the 

fair, 
Is to relieve her in her hours of care. 
{Exit.) 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. Sealand's House. 

{Enter Phillis, with lights, before Myrtle, 
disguised like old Sir Geoffry ; supported 
by Mrs. Sealand, Lucinda, and Cimber- 
ton.) 

Mrs. Seal. Now I have seen you thus far. 
Sir Geotfiy, will you excuse me a moment 
while I give my necessary orders for your 
accommodation ? 

{Exit Mrs. Seal.) 

Myrt. I have not seen you, cousin Cim- 
berton, since you were ten years old ; and 
as it is incumbent on you to keep up our 
name and family, I shall, upon very rea- 
sonable terms, join with you in a settle- 
ment to that purpose. Though I must 
tell you, cousin, this is the first merchant 
that has married into our house. 

Luc. Deuce on 'em ! am I a merchant be- 
cause my father is"? 

{Aside.) 



Myrt. But is he directly a trader at this 
time? 

Cimb. There's no hiding the disgrace, sir; 
he trades to all parts of the world. 

Myrt. We never had one of our family be- 
fore who descended from persons that did 
anything. 

Cimb. Sir, since it is a girl that they have, 
I am, for the honor of my family, willing 
to take it in again, and to sink her into 
our name, and no harm done. 

Myrt. 'T is prudently and generously re- 
solved — Is this the young thing? 

Cimb. Yes, sir. 

Phil. Good madam, don't be out of humor, 
but let them run to the utmost of their 
extravagance. — Hear them out. 
{To Luc.) 

Myrt. Can't I see her nearer? My eyes 
are but weak. 

Phil. Beside, I am sure the uncle has some- 
thing worth your notice. I'll take care 
to get off the young one, and leave you to 
observe what may be wrought out of the 
old one for your good. 

{To Luc. Exit.) 

Cimb. Madam, this old gentleman, your 
great uncle, desires to be introduced to 
you, and to see you nearer! — Approach, 
sir. 

Myrt. By your leave, young lady. {Puts 
on spectacles.) — Cousin Cimberton ! She 
has exactly that sort of neck and bosom 
for which my sister Gertrude was so much 
admired in the year sixty-one, before the 
French dresses first discovered anything 
in women below the chin. 

Luc. {Aside.) What a very odd situation 
am I in ! though I cannot but be diverted 
at the extravagance of their humors, 
equally unsuitable to their age — Chin, 
quotha — I don't believe my j^assionate 
lover there knows whether I have one or 
not. Ha! ha! 

Myrt. Madam, I would not willingly of- 
fend, but I have a better glass. 
{Pulls out a large one.) 
{Enter Phillis.) 

Pliil. {To Cimberton.) Sir, my lady de- 
sires to show the apartment to you that 
she intends for Sir Geoffry. 

Cimb. Well, sir! by that tiiije you will 
have sufficiently gazed and sunned j^our- 
self in the beauties of my spouse there. — 
I will wait on you again. 

{Exit Cimb. and Phil.) 

Myrt. Were it not, madam, that I might 
be troublesome, there is something of im- 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVEKS 



607 



portance, though we are alone, which I 
would say more sate from being heard. 
Luc. There is something in this old fellow, 
methinks, that raises my curiosity. 

{Aside.) 
Myrt. To be free, madam, I as heartily 

contemn this kinsman of mine as you do, 

and am soriy to see so much beauty and 

merit devoted by your parents to so in- 
sensible a possessor. 
Luc. Surprising! — I hope, then, sir, you 

will not contribute to the wrong you are 

so generous as to pity, whatever may be 

the interest of your family. 
Myrt. This hand of mine shall never be 

employed to sign anything against your 

good and happiness. 
Luc. I am sorry, sir, it is not in my power 

to make you proper acknowledgments; 

but there is a gentleman in the world 

whose gratitude will, I am sure, be worthy 

of the favor. 
Myrt. All the thanks I desire, madam, are 

in your power to give. 
Luc. Name them and command them. 
Myrt. Only, madam, that the first time 

you are alone with your lovei', you will, 

with open arms, receive him. 
Luc. As willingly as his heart could wish 

it. 
Myrt. Thus, then, he claims your promise. 

Lucinda! 
JjUc. Oh ! a cheat! a cheat! a cheat! 
M]irt. Hush ! 't is I, 't is I, your lover. 

Myrtle him.self, madam. 
Luc. bless me ! what a rashness and 

folly to surprise me so — But hush — my 

mother. 

{Enter Mrs. Sealand, Cimherton, and 
Phillis. ) 

Mrs. Seal. How now! what's the matter"? 

Luc. madam ! as soon as you left the 
room my uncle fell into a sudden fit, and 
— and — so I cried out for help to sup- 
port him and conduct him to his chamber. 

Mrs. Seal. That was kindly done! Alas! 
sir, how do you find yourself? 

Myrt. Never was taken in so odd a way 
in my life — pray lead me ! Oh ! I was 
talking here — (pray carry me) — to my 
cousin Cimberton's young lady. 

Mrs. Seal. (Aside.) My cousin Cimber- 
ton's young lady! How zealous he is, 
even in his extremity, for the match ! A 
right Cimbevton. 

(Cimherton and Tjucinda lead Mm, as one 
in nain.) 



Cimb. Pox! Uncle, you will pull my ear 
off. 

Luc. Pray, uncle ! you will squeeze me to 
death. 

Mrs. Seal. No matter, no matter — he 
knows not what he does. — Come, sir, shall 
I help you out"? 

Myrt. By no means ! I '11 trouble nobody 
but my young cousins here. 
(They lead him off.) 

Phil. But pray, madam, does your lady- 
ship intend that Mr. Cimherton shall 
really marry my young mistress at last? 
I don't think he likes her. 

Mrs. Seal. That 's not material ! Men of 
his speculation are above desires — but be 
it as it may. Now I have given old Sir 
Geoffry the trouble of coming up to sign 
and seal, with what countenance can I 
be off? 

Phil. As well as with twenty others, 
madam. It is the glory and honor of a 
great fortune to live in continual treaties, 
and still to break off: it looks great, 
madam. 

3Irs. Seal. True, Pliillis — yet to return 
our blood again into the Cimbertons is 
an honor not to be rejected — But were 
not you saying that Sir John Bevil's 
creature, Humphry, has been with Mr. 
Sealand? 

Phil. Yes, madam ; I overheard them agree 
that Mr. Sealand should go himself and 
visit this unknown lady that Mr. Bevil 
is so great with ; and if he found nothing 
there to fright him, that Mr. Bevil should 
still marry my young mistress, 

Mrs. Seal. How! nay, then, he shall find 
she is my daughter as well as his. I '11 
follow him this instant, and take the 
whole family along with me. The dis- 
puted power of disposing of my own 
daughter shall be at an end this very 
night. I '11 live no longer in ahxiety for 
a little hussy that hurts my appearance 
wherever I carry her : and for whose sake 
I seem to be at all regarded, and that in 
the best of my days. 

Phil. Indeed, madam, if she were married, 
your ladyship might very w^ell be taken 
for Ml'. Sealand's daughter. 

Mrs. Seal. Nay, when the chit has not 
been with me, I have heard the men say 
as much. I '11 no longer cut off the great- 
est pleasure of a woman's life (the shin- 
ing in assemblies) by her forward antici- 
pation of the respect that 's due to her 
s'lporinr. She shall down to Cimberton- 
Hall — she shall — she shall. 



608 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Phil. I hope, madam, I shall stay with 

your ladyship. 
Mrs. Seal. Thou shalt, Phillis, and I'll 

place thee then more about me — But order 

chairs immediately ; I '11 be gone this 

minute, 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. Charing Cross. 
{Enter Mr. Sealand and Humphri).) 

Mr. Seal. I am very glad, Mr. Humphiy, 
tiiat you agTee with me that it is for our 
common good I should look thoi'oughly 
into this matter. 

Humph. I am, indeed, of that opinion; 
for there is no artifice, nothing concealed, 
in our family, Avhich ought in justice to 
be known. 1 need not desire you, sir, to 
treat the lady with care and respect. 

Mr. Seal. Master Humphry, I shall not 
be rude, though I design to be a little 
abrupt, and come into the matter at once, 
to see how she will bear upon a surprise. 

Humph. That's the door, sir; I wish you 
success. — [While Humphrii speaks, Sea- 
land consults his table hook.) — I am less 
concerned what happens there, because I 
hear Mr. Myrtle is well lodged as old 
Sir Geoffi-y; so I am willing to let this 
gentleman employ himself here, to give 
them time at home; for I am sure 'tis 
necessary for the quiet of our family 
Lucinda were disposed of out of it, since 
Mr. Bevil's inclination is so much other- 
wise engaged. 

(Exit.) 

Mr. Seal. I think this is the door. 
(Knocks.) I '11 carry this matter with an 
air of authority, to inquire, though I 
make an errand, to begin discourse. 

(Knocks again, and enter a foot-hoy.) 

So, young man! is your lady within*? 

Boy. Alack, sir! I am but a country boy 
— I dant know whether she is or noa ; but 
an you '11 stay a bit, I 'II goa and ask the 
gentlewoman that 's with her. 

Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah, though you are a 
country boy, you can see, can't youl 
You know whether she is at home, when 
you see her, don't you*? 

Boy. Nay, nay, I 'm not such a country 
lad neither, master, to think she 's at 
home because I see her. I have been in 
town but a month, and I lost one place 
already for believing my own eyes. 

Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah ! have you learat 
to lie already"? 



Boy. Ah, master! things that are lies in 
the country are not lies at London. I 
begin to know my business a little better 
than so — But an you please to walk in, 
I'll call a gentlewomiin to you that can 
tell you for certain — she can make bold to 
ask my lady herself. 

Mr. Seal. Oh ! then, she is within, I find, 
though you dare not say so. 

Boy. Nay, nay ! that 's neither here nor 
there : what 's matter whether she is 
within or no, if she has not a mind to see 
anybody ? 

Mr. Seal. I can't tell, sirrah, whether you 
are arch or simple; but, however, get me 
a direct answer, and here 's a shilling for 
you. 

Boy. Will you please to Avalk in ; I '11 see 
what I can do for you. 

Mr. Seal. I see you will be fit for your 
business in time, child ; but I expect to 
meet with nothing but extraordinaries in 
such a house. 

Boy. Such a house ! Sir, you han't seen 
it yet. Pray walk in. 

Mr. Seal. Sir, I 'II wait upon you. 
(Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. Indiana's House. 

(Enter Isabella.) 

Isah. What anxiety do I feel for this poor 
creature! What will be the end of her"? 
Such a languishing unreserved passion 
for a man that at last nuist certainly leave 
or ruin her ! and perhaps both ! Then 
the aggravation of the distress is, that 
she does not believe he will — not but, I 
must own, if they are both what they 
would seem, they are made for one an- 
other, as much as Adam and Eve were, 
for there is no other of their kind but 
themselves. 

(Enter Boy.) 

So, Daniel! what news with you"? 
Boy. Madam, there 's a gentleman below 

would speak with my lady. 
Isah. Sirrah ! don't you know Mr. Bevil 

yet? 
Boy. Madam, 'tis not the gentleman who 

comes every day, and asks for you, and 

won't go in till he knows whether you are 

with her or no. 
Isah. Ha ! that 's a particular I did not 

know before. Well! be it who it will, let 

him come up to me. 
(Exit Boy ; and re-enters with Mr. Sealand; 
Isabella looks amazed.) 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



609 



Mr. Seal. Madam, I can't blame your be- 
ing: a little surprised lo sec a pei'feet 



stranger make a visit, and- 

Isab. I am indeed surprised! — I see he 
does not know me. 

(Aside.) 

Mr. Seal. You are very prettily lodged 
here, madam ; in troth you seem to have 
everything in plenty — A thousand a year, 
I warrant you, upon this pretty nest of 
rooms, and the dainty one within them. 
{Aside, and looking about.) 

Isah. (Ajjart.) Twenty years, it seems, 
have less effect in the alteration of a man 
of thirty than of a girl of fourteen — 
he's alnu)st still the same; but alas! I 
find, by other men, as well as himself, I 
am not what I was. As soon as he spoke, 
I was convinced 't was he ; how shall I 
contain my surprise and satisfaction ! 
He must not know me yet. 

Mr. Seal. Madam, I hope I don't give you 
any disturbance ; but there is a young 
lady here with whom I have a particular 
business to discourse, and I hope she will 
admit me to that favor. 

Isah. Why, sir, have you had any notice 
concerning her? I wonder who could 
give it you. 

Mr. Seal. That, madam, is fit only to be 
communicated to herself. 

Isah. Well, sir! you shall see her. — 
(Aside.) I find he knows nothing yet, 
nor shall from me. I am resolved I will 
observe this interlude, this sport of nature 
and of fortune.-^You shall see her pres- 
ently, sir; for now I am as a mother, and 
will trust her with you. 
(Exit.) 

Mr. Seal. As a mother! right; that's the 
old phrase for one of those commode -^ 
ladies, who lend out beauty for hire to 
young gentlemen that have pressing oc- 
casions. But here comes the precious 
lady herself. In troth a very sightly 
woman 

(Enter Indiana.) 

Ind. I am told, sir, you have some affair 
that requires your speaking with me. 

Mr. Seal. Yes, madam, there came to my 
hands a bill drawn by Mr. Bevil, which is 
payable to-morrow; and he, in the inter- 
course of business, sent it to me, who 
have cash of his, and desired me to send 
a servant with it; but I have made bold 
to bring you the money myself. 

Ind. Sir! was that necessaiy"? 

25 accommodating. 



Mr. Seal. No, madam ; but to be free with 
you, the fame of your beauty, and the 
regard which Mr. Bevil is a little too well 
known to have for you, excited my curi- 
osity. 

Ind. Too well known to have for me ! 
Your sober aijpearance, sir, which my 
friend described, made me expect no rude- 
ness, or absurdity, at least — Who 's 
there ■? -" — Sir, if you pay the money to a 
servant, 't will be as well. 

Mr. Seal. Pray, madam, be not offended; 
I came hither on an innocent, nay, a vir- 
tuous design; and, if you will have pa- 
tience to hear me, it may be as useful to 
you, as you are in a friendship with Mr. 
Bevil, as to my only daughter, whom I 
was this day disposing of. 

Ind. You make me hope, sir, I have mis- 
taken you. I am composed again; be 
free, say on — (Aside.) — what I am afraid 
to hear. 

Mr. Seal. I feared, indeed, an unwar- 
ranted passion here, but I did not think 
it was in abuse of so worthy an object, so 
accomplished a lady as your sense and 
mien bespeak; but the youth of our age 
care not what merit and virtue they bring 
to shame, so they gratify 

Ind. Sir, you are going into very great 
errors ; but as you are pleased to say you 
see something in me that has changed at 
least the color of your suspicions, so has 
your appearance altered mine, and made 
me earnestly attentive to what has any 
way concerned you to inquire into my 
affairs and character. 

Mr. Seal. How sensibly, with what an air 
she talks! 

Ind. Good sir, be seated, and tell me ten- 
derly; keep all your suspicions concern- 
ing me alive, that you may in a proper 
and prepared way acquaint me why the 
care of your daughter obliges a person of 
your seeming worth and fortune to be 
thus inquisitive about a wretched, help- 
less, friendless (Weeping.) But I 

beg your pardon ; though I am an or- 
phan, your child is not ; and your concern 
for her, it seems, has brought you 
hither. — I '11 be composed ; pray go on, 
sir. 

Mr. Seal. How could Mr. Bevil be such a 
monster, to injure such a woman? 

Ind. No, sir, you wrong him; he has not 
injured me. My support is from his 
bounty. 

Mr. Seal. Bounty ! when gluttons give 

26 A way of calling a servant. 



610 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



biyh prices for delieates, they are pro- 
digious bountiful. 

Ind. Still, still you will persist in that 
error. But my own fears tell me all. 
You are the gentleman, I suppose, for 
whose happy daughter he is designed a 
husband by his good father, and he has, 
perhaps, consented to the overture. He 
was here this morning, dressed beyond his 
usual lalainness — nay, most sumptuously 
— and he is to be, perhaps, this night a 
bridegroom. 

Mr. Seal. I own he was intended such; 
but, madam, on your account, I have de- 
termined to defer my daughter's marriage 
till I am satisfied from your own mouth 
of what nature are the obligations you are 
under to him. 

Ind. His actions, sir; his eyes have only 
made me think he designed to make me 
the partner of his heart. The goodness 
and gentleness of his demeanor made me 
misinterpret all. 'T was my own hoi^e, 
my own passion, that deluded me; he 
never made one amorous advance to me. 
His large heart, and bestowing hand, have 
only helped the miserable; nor know I 
why, but from his mere delight in virtue, 
that I have been his care and the object 
on which to indulge and please himself 
with pouring favors. 

Mr. Seal. Madam, I know not why it is, 
but I, as well as you, am methinks afraid 
of entering into the matter I came about ; 
but 't is the same thing as if we had talked 

never so distinctly he ne'er shall have 

a daughter of mine. 

Ind. If you say this from what you think 
of me, yovi wrong yourself and him. Let 
not me, miserable though I may be, do 
injury to my benefactor. No, sir, my 
treatment ought rather to reconcile you 
to his virtues. If to bestow without a 
prospect of return; if to delight in sup- 
porting what might, perhaps, be thought 
an object of desire, with no other view 
than to be her guard against those who 
would not be so disinterested ; if these 
actions, sir, can in a careful parent's eye 
commend him to a daughter, give yours, 
sir, give her to my honest, generous 
Bevil. What have I to do but sigh, and 
weep, and rave, run wild, a lunatic in 
chains, or, hid in darkness, mutter in dis- 
tracted starts and broken accents my 
strange, strange story! 
Mr. Seal. Take comfort, madam. 
Ind. All my comfort must be to expostu- 
late in madness, to relieve with frenzy my 



despair, and shrieking to demand of fate 
why — why was I born to such variety of 
sorrows. 
Mr. Seal. If I have been the least occa- 



Ind. No, 't was Heaven's high will I 
should be such ; to be plundered in my 
cradle ! tossed on the seas ! and even there 
an infant captive ! to lose my mother, hear 
but of my father ! to be adopted ! lose my 
adopter ! then plunged again into worse 
calamities ! 

Mr. Seal. An infant captive ! 

Ind. Yet then, to find the most charming 
of mankind, once more to set me free 
from what I thought the last distress, to 
load me with his services, his bounties, 
and his favors; to support my very life 
in a way that stole, at the same time, my 
very soul itself from me. 

Mr. Seal. And has young Bevil been this 
worthy man ? 

Ind. Yet then, again, this very man to 
take another! without leaving me the 
right, the pretence of easing my fond 
heart with tears! For, oh! I can't re- 
proach him, though the same hand that 
raised me to this height now throws me 
down the precipice. 

Mr. Seal. Dear lady ! Oh, yet one mo- 
ment's patience : my heart grows full with 
your af^fliction. — But yet there 's some- 
thing in your story that 

Ind. My portion here is bitterness and 
sorrow. 

Mr. Seal. Do not think so. Pray answer 
me : does Bevil know your name and fam- 
ily? 

Ind. Alas! too well! Oh, could I be any 

other thing than what I am 1 '11 tear 

away all traces of my former self, my 
little ornaments, the remains of my first 
state, the hints of what I ought to have 
been 

{In her disorder she throws aivai/ a bracelet, 
which Sealand takes up, and looks earn- 
estly on it.) 

Mr. Seal. Ha ! what 's this? My eyes are 
not deceived ! It is, it is the same ! the 
very bracelet which I bequeathed to my 
wife at our last mournful parting. 

Ind. What said you, sir? Your wife? 
Whither does my fancy carry me? What 
means this unfelt motion at my heart? 
And yet, again my fortune but deludes 
me; for if I err not, sir, your name is 
Sealand; but my lost father's name 
was 

Mr. Seal. Danvers; was it not? 



THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 



611 



Ind. What new anuizement "? That is, in- 
deed, my family. 

Mr. Seal. Knuw, then, when my misfor- 
tunes drove me to the Indies, for reasons 
too tedious now to mention, I changed my 
name of Danvers into Sealand. 

{Enter Isabella.) 

Isab. If yet there wants an explanation of 
your wonder, examine well this face 
(yours, sir, I well remeuiber), gaze on 
and read in me your sister, Isabella. 

Mr. Seal. My sister! 

Isab. But here 's a claim more tender yet 

^your Indiana, sir, your long-lost 

daughter, 

Mr. Seal. Oh, my child! my child! 

Ind. All-gracious Heaven ! is it possible ! 
do I embrace my father'? 

Mr. Seal. And do I hold thee?— These 
passions are too strong for utterance. 
Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears 
their way. — Oh, my sister! 

(Embracing her.) 

Isab. Now, dearest niece, my groundless 
fears, my painful cares no more shall vex 
thee. If I have wronged thy noble lover 
with too much suspicion, my just concern 
for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon. 

BIr. Seal. Oh ! make him, then, the full 
amends, and be yourself the messenger of 
joy. Fly this instant ! tell him all these 
wondi'ous tunis of Providence in his 
favor! Tell him I have now a daughter 
to bestow which he no longer will decline ; 
that this day he still shall be a bride- 
groom ; nor shall a fortune, the merit 
which his father seeks, be wanting. Tell 
him the reward of all his virtues waits on 
his acceptance. {Exit Isab.) My dear- 
est Indiana! 

(Turns and embraces her.) 

Ind. Have I, then, at last, a father's sanc- 
tion on my love? His bounteous hand to 
give, and make my heait a present worthy 
of Bevil's generosity? 

Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! how are our sor- 
rows past o'erpaid by such a meeting! 
Though I have lost so many years of soft 
paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one 
day to find thee thus, and thus bestow 
thee, in such perfect happiness, is ample, 
ample reparation ! — And yet, again, the 
merit of thy lover 

Ind. Oh ! had I spirits left to tell you of 
his actions! how .strongly filial duty has 
suppressed his love; and how concealment 
still has doubled all his obligations; the 



pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would 
warm your heart, as he has conquered 
mme. 

Mr. Seal. How laudable is love when born 
of virtue ! I burn to embrace him 

Ind. See, sir, my aunt already has suc- 
ceeded, and brought him to your wishes. 

(Enter Isabella, with Sir .John Bevil, Bevil, 
Jun., Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, Myrtle, 
and Lucinda.) 

Sir J. Bev. (Entering.) Where, where 's 
tins scene of wonder? Mr. Sealand, I 
congratulate, on this occasion, our mutual 

happiness Your good sister, sir, has, 

with the story of your daughter's fortune, 
filled us with surprise and joy. Now all 
exceptions are removed; my son has now 
avowed his love, and turned all former 
jealousies and doubts to approbation; 
and, I am told, your goodness has con- 
sented to reward him. 

Mr. Seal. If, sir, a fortune equal to his 
father's hopes can make this object 
worthy, his accej^tance. 

Bcv. Jun. I hear your mention, sir, of 
fortune, with pleasure only as it may 
prove the means to reconcile the best of 
fathers to my love. Let him be provi- 
dent, but let me be happy. — My ever-des- 
tined, my acknowledged Avife ! 
(Embracing Indiana.) 

Ind. Wife ! Oh, my ever loved ! My 
lord ! my master ! 

Sir J. Bev. I congratulate myself, as well 
as you, that I had a son who could, under 
such disadvantages, discover your great 
merit. 

Mr. Seal. Oh, Sir John! how vain, how 
weak is human prudence ! What care, 
what foresiglit, what imagination could 
contrive such blest events, to make our 
children happy, as Providence in one 
short hour has laid before us? 

Cimb. (To Mrs. Sealand.) I am afraid, 
madam, Mr. Sealand is a little too busy 
for our affair. If you please, we '11 take 
another opportunity. 

Mrs. Seal. Let lis have patience, sii-. 

Cimb. But we make Sir Geoffiy wait, 
madam. 

Mgrt. 0, sir, I am not in haste. 

(During this Bev. Jun. presents Lucinda to 
Indiana. ) 

Mr, Seel. But here ! here 's our general 
benefactor! Excellent young man, that 
could be at once a lover to her beauty and 
a parent to her virtue. 

Bev. Jun. If you think that an obligation, 



612 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



sir, give me leave to overpay myself, in 
the only instance that can now add to my 
felicity, by begging- you to bestow this 
lady on Mr. Myrtle. 

Mr. Seal. She is his without reserve; I 
beg he may be sent for. Mr. Cimberton, 
notwithstanding you never had my con- 
sent, yet there is, since I last saw you, 
another objection to your marriage with 
my daugliter. 

Cimh. I hope, sir, your lady has concealed 
nothing from me? 

Mr. Seal. Troth, sir, nothing but what was 
concealed from myself — another daugh- 
ter, who has an undoubted title to half 
my estate. 

Cimh. How, Mr. Sealand? Why, then, if 
half Mrs. Lucinda's fortune is gone, you 
can't say that any of my estate is settled 
upon her. I was in treaty for the whole; 
but if that is not to be come at, to be sure 
there can be no bargain. Sir, I have 
nothing to do but to take my leave of 
your good lady, my cousin, and beg par- 
don for the trouble I have given this old 
gentleman. 

Myrt. That you have, Mr. Cimberton, with 
all my heart. 

{Discovers himself.) 

All. Mr. Myrtle! 

Myrt. And I beg pardon of the whole 
company that I assumed the person of 
Sir Geoffry, only to be present at the 
danger of this lady's being disposed of, 
and in her utmost exigence to assert my 
right to her; which, if her parents will 



ratify, as they once favored my ])reten- 
sions, no abatement of fortune shall lessen 
her value to me. 

Luc. Generous man! 

Mr. Seal. If, sir, you can overlook the in- 
jury of being in treaty with one who as 
meanly left her, as you have generously 
asserted your right in her, she is yours. 

Luc. Mr, Myrtle, though you have ever 
had my heart, yet now I find I love you 
more, because I bring you less. 

Myrt. We have much more than we want ; 
and I am glad any event has contributed 
to the discovery of our real inclinations 
to each other. 

Mrs. Seal. Well ! however, I 'm glad the 
girl 's disposed of, anyway. 
(Aside.) 

Bev. Myrtle, no longer rivals now, but 
brothers ! 

Myrt. Dear Bevil, you are born to tri- 
umph over me ! but now our competition 
ceases ; I rejoice in the pre-eminence of 
your virtue, and your alliance adds 
charms to Lueinda. 

Sir J. Bev. Now, ladies and gentlemen, 
you have set the world a fair example : 
your happiness is owing to your con- 
stancy and merit ; and the several diffi- 
culties you have struggled with evidently 
show — 

Whate'er the generous mind itself denies. 
The secret care of Providence supplies. 
{Exeunt.) 



HENRY FIELDING 



THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES; OR, THE LIFE AND 
DEATH OF TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



Henry Fielding (1707-1754), of aristo- 
cratic birth and pleasure-loving disposition, 
began writing i>lays as tlie best-paying form 
of literature, most of tliem being comedies 
more or less after the pattern of Moliere and 
Congreve. He best shows his comic ability 
in his burlesques and farces. Tom Thumb 
(the fourth of twenty-seven plays) was first 
acted, at the Haymarket Theater, in 1730, 
was enlarged to three acts in 1731, and pub- 
lished in both years; in an altered form it 
held the stage till well on in the nineteenth 
century. At the ago of thirty Fielding aban- 
doned the stage for the law, and a few years 
later began tlie series of great novels which 
mainly support his fame; a word of admira- 
tion can be spared also for his essays. 

Fielding was a born parodist. Endlessly 
clever, versatile, vigorous, with a strong 
though not fine feeling for style, a great 
sense of the ridiculous, and exhaustless com- 
mon-sense, he could have had no mercy on 
unreality, pomposity, pretentiousness, and 
sentimentality. His fling at sentimentality 
is in a novel, later and more celebrated than 
this play. In 1740 Samuel Richardson had 
published Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, which 
seemed to Fielding petty and fine-dra%vn, 
and he responded in 1742 with Joseph An- 
drews. Thus from the first fully-developed 
novel of emotion was born the first fully- 
developed novel of incident. For the mood 
of mockery died away as Fielding became 
more interested, and a creative spirit replaced 
it. 

In his earlier burlesque ho maintains 
throughout the spirit of delicious derision. 
There was no new type of fiction ready for 
the birth. In a highly diverting Preface to 
Tom, Thumb, all as fictitious as the fantastic 
name, H. Scriblerus Secundus, under which 
he wrote it, he states that " some publicly 
affirmed that no author could produce so 
fine a piece but Mr. P — [Pope] ; otliers have 
with as much vehemence insisted that no one 
could write anything so bad but Mr. F — 
[Fielding]." After recording the ponderous 
praises it had received from imiversities and 
critics, and how " though it hath, among 
other languages, been translated into Dutch, 
and celebrated with great applause at Am- 
sterdam (where biirlesque never came) by 
the title of Mynheer Vander Tliumb, the 
burgomasters received it with that reverend 



613 



and silent attention which becometh an audi- 
ence at a deep tragedy," — he rejects with 
seeming indignation the notion that it was 
meant to be ludicrous, and, hinting that it 
may be by Shakespeare, confidently dates it 
in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He con- 
tinues by applauding, in received critical 
style, " the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, 
the Sentiments, and the Diction." Thus in 
the Preface, as well as in some of the notes, 
he has his joke at the expense of the por- 
tentous style and deficient insight of some 
scholars and critics of his day, wlio he avers 
have wagged tlicir heavy heads over this 
eminent work. Tlie similarities between it 
and other plays of the preceding seventy 
years he afl'ects to be uncertain whether to 
attribute to coincidence or to their imitation 
of his author; but in the notes intimates that 
it has been pillaged right and left, till, like 
Hamlet, it seems to be made up of nothing 
but quotations. 

The " heroic plays " are particularly though 
not wholly the object of his mirth, and 
among them The Conquest of Granada comes 
in for its full share. Like Almanzor, though 
probably not especially imitated from him, 
Tom Thumb has his moments of modesty or 
at least of courtesy, but not unlike the other 
he announces, 

I ask not kingdoms, I can conquer those. 

Like Almanzor he is devoted to honor only 
less than to love, and comes from preter- 
human victory to lay his heart at the feet 
of the fair. Like Almanzor (in part II) 
King Arthur not only faces but threatens a 
ghost; a scene which poor saturnine Dean 
Swift said was one of the two things in his 
life which had made him laugh. Several 
scenes are in the rhymed couplet, which 
Fielding sometimes varies by such grotesque 
Browning-like rhymes as " Are you drunk, 
ha?" " Huncamunca." The imities are ob- 
served with a strictness to set the heart of 
Castelvetro aglow. Like the classical trage- 
dies of the day, the play has a moral, which 
when stated is as usually a platitude; "it 
teaches these two instructive lessons," says 
the Preface, " viz., that human happiness is 
exceeding transient; and that death is the 
certain end of all men: the former whereof 
is inculcated by the fatal end of Tom Thumb; 
the latter by that of all the other person- 



'614 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



3." As naturally in a burlesque, the 
height of the absurd is reached at the end, 
in the anticlimax where the hero is swal- 
lowed by a cow, and in the concluding ex- 
travagance, where the spectator's head fairly 
swims watching all the other characters fall 
dead. Thus he has his fling at the exagger- 
ated and unnatural violences of some arti- 
ficial tragedy. On the whole the several 
dozen plays by sixteen writers thus ridi- 
culed are fair game. They are almost with- 
out exception tragedies of the Pvcstoration 
and early eighteenth century, more espe- 
cially those of Dryden, Banks, and Lee. 
Earlier tragedies he leaves almost entirely 
alone. While one or two of the plays at 
which he shoots his arrows, such as Dryden's 
All for Love, are still admired, most of them 
met only a temporary taste, and have ceased 
to please and even to be read. Passion, free- 
dom of feeling, are essential to great tragedy, 
and an age when it was literary good breed- 
ing to repress and make light of feeling was 
ill adapted to it. Poets did not wait till the 
fire kindled and at last they spake with their 
tongue. They thought more of rule than of 
spontaneity, as was pointed out in the dis- 
cussion of Cato. There never was a time 
when poets made such elaborate effort to 
write tragedy, or more often dismally failed. 
They were like the men of Babel, who said, 
" Go to, let us build us a tower, whose top 
may reach unto heaven, and let us make us 
a name"; and the Lord confounded their lan- 
guage, that they might not understand one 
another's siieech. 

" Which brings me to speak of his diction,"' 
as the Preface says. " Here I shall only beg 
one postulatum, viz., that the greatest per- 
fection of the language of a tragedy is, that 
it is not to be imderstood; which granted 
(as I think it must be), it will necessarily 
follow that the only way to avoid this is by 
being too high or too low for the understand- 
ing. . . . What can be so proper for tragedy 
as a set of big sounding words, so contrived 
together as to convey no meaning? " He has 
no mercy on the artificial and the inflated, 
especially the frigid and long similes bedeck- 
ing the tragedies of poets " who liken things 
not like at all." " Our author " " is very 
rarely within sight through tlie whole play, 
either rising higher than the eye of your ima- 
gination can soar, or sinking lower than it 
careth to stoop." Such a parody as 

Oh! Huncamunca, Huncamnnca, oli!, 
which chastises Tliomson's notorious effort 

Oil! Sophonisba; Sophonisba, oh I, 
illustrates how faint a line parts the ludi- 
crous from the intolerably touching, for it 
diff"ers in but one word from Shakespeare's 

O Desdemona, Desdemona, dead, ! 
With the incongruity which is the essence of 
humor, he varies this sort of thing by the 
prosaic and grotesque, which made particu- 



larly effective satire in an age when a poet 
had better be in jail than be " low." His 
laughter rings out at the too-literary device 
of attributing human traits to non-human 
things (smiling dolphins, a blushing sun), 
which John Euskin a century later scolded at 
as the "pathetic fallacy"; and at the puffing 
up of a frog-commonplace into an ox-grand- 
iloquence. Fielding relishes nothing in his 
play more than the dressing up in burlesque 
solemnity of some proverb like " Between two 
stools the breech falls to the ground " (II. x) . 
With his common-sense liking for pithy 
reality, he says in the note, '" It were to be 
wished that, instead of filling their pages 
with the fabulous theology of the pagans, our 
modern poets would think it worth their 
while to enrich their works with the prover- 
bial sayings of their ancestors." There 
speaks not only eighteenth-century prosaic 
sense against pseudo-classicism, but also the 
later romantic spirit, with its fondness for 
the popular and traditional. 

But, after all, Tom Thumb must not be 
taken too seriously, even as a burlesque. 
Fielding was no prophet, or reformer, with 
deep convictions on literature, but a play- 
wright who needed money and wanted to 
" make a hit." He saw a cliance in cleverly 
I^arodying wliat everybody would recognize, 
not only wliat deserved ridicule and might be 
discredited by it, but also what could bear 
ridicule. There are almost as many remi- 
niscences of Shakespeare as of any later 
dramatist, though Fielding has too much 
reverence to point them out in the notes (he 
also spares Venice Preserved). There is no 
more humor in his parody of Thomson's 
Sophonisba-scream than of Juliet in " O 
Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! wherefore art 
thou Tom Thumb? "; or in that of Don John's 
" Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's 
Hero," in " My Huncamunca ! — Your Hun- 
camunca, Tom Thumb's Huncamunca, every 
man's Huncamunca." The only difference is 
that Shakespeare can stand it and Thomson 
cannot. It must not be supposed that Field- 
ing condemned everything in the plays he 
parodied, or even every parodied passage. It 
must be admitted too that his mockery is 
often undeserved; a clever writer can always 
take passable or even good things out of their 
context and make them look silly. Young's 
" with these eyes I saw him," ridiculed in 
HI. ix, is the natural empliatic language of 
strong feeling. With a mind full of scraps 
of plays. Fielding parodied from memory 
anything that could be made to raise a laugh, 
and when he came to print set the origi- 
nals in the footnotes (so far as he could re- 
member them), and sometimes inaccurately. 
These notes make the play more suitable to 
read than to witness, for few things are less 
intelligible than a burlesque of something un- 
known. They explain to us a play which is 
rather a free-and-easy boiling over of humor 



HENRY FIELDING 



615 



than a harsh and serious satire. Much of 
Fielding's spirit reappeared a century later 
in Thackeray, and one can hardly fail to see 
the manner and style of Tom Thumb (com- 
bined with Thackeray's own novelist-style) in 
his delicious Christmas-burlesque, The Rose 
and the Ring. 

Tlie chief origin or models of the work 
(aside from the plays already discussed) were 
the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal (1671), 
a dramatic satire on Dryden's plays, and es- 
pecially A Commentary on the History of 
Tom Thumb (1711), a burlesque ballad with 
a commentary much like Fielding's, sup- 



posedly by Dr. William Wagstaffe, and writ- 
ten to ridicule Addison's appreciation of the 
ballad of Chevy Chase in the Spectator. The 
play quotes the History (III. viii), and bor- 
rows some of its incidents. In such bur- 
lesques there is really much more of the vital 
energy of the age than in the works they 
parodied. Its greatest literary men, Swift, 
Pope, Addison, were critics, and the critical 
spirit of the earlier eighteenth century was 
more vigorous and more characteristic than 
the imaginative. Any collection of eighteenth- 
century dramas would be incomplete without 
a specimen of it. 



THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES; OR, THE LIFE 

AND DEATH OF TOM THUMB 

THE GREAT 

With the Annotations of H. Scriblerus Seeundus. 
First acted in 1730, and altered in 1731. 



DRAMATIS PERSON/E 



MEN 



King Arthur, a passionate sort of king, hus- 
band to Queen Dollallolla, of whom he 
stands a little in fear; father to Hunca- 
MUNCA, iohom, he is very fond of and in 
love loith Glumdalca. 

Tom Thumb the Great, a little hero with a 
great soul, something violent in his temper, 
which is a little abated by his love for 
Huncamunca. 

Ghost of Gaffer Thumb, a ichimsical sort 
of Ghost. 

Lord Grizzle, extremely zealous for the lib- 
erty of the subject, very choleric in his 
temper, and in love toith Huncamunca. 

Merlin, a conjurer, and in some sort father 
to Tom Thumb. 

Noodle, "I cowrfters in place, and consequently 

Doodle, jo/ that party that is uppermost. 

Foodle, a courtier that is out of place, and 
consequently of that party that is under- 
most. 

Bailiff, 1 ^y: fj p^rty of the plaintiff. 
Follower, ] ' f J > f " 

ACT I, 

Scene 1. The Palace. 

{Doodle, Noodle.) 
Sure such a ^ day as this was 



Doodle. 



never seen 



The sun himself, on this auspicious day, 

1 Corneille recommends some very remarkable day 
wherein to fix the action of a tragedy. This the best 
of our tragical writers have understood to mean a 
day remarkable for the serenity of the sky, or what 

* By Addison, 



Pakson, of the side of the church. 

WOMEN 

Queen Dollallolla, icife to King Arthur, 
and mother to Huncamunca, a icoman en- 
tirely faultless, saving that she is a little 
given to drink, a little too much a virago 
towards her husband, and in love with ToM 
Thumb. 

The Princess Huncamunca, daughter to 
their Majesties King Arthur and Queen 
Dollallolla, of a very saeet, gentle, and 
amorous disposition, equally in love with 
Lord Grizzle and Tom Thumb, and de- 
sirous to be married to them both. 

Glumdalca, of the giants, a captive queen, 
beloved by the king, but in love with ToM 
Thumb. 

Cleora, Mustacha, maids of honor in love 
with Noodle and Doodle. 

Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, Drums, Trumpets, 
Thunder and Lightning. 

Scene. — The Court of King Arthur, and a 
Plain Thereabouts. 

Shines like a beau in a new birth-day 

suit : 
This down the seams embroidered, that 

the beams. 
All nature wears one universal grin. 
Nood. This day, O Mr. Doodle, is a day 

we generally call a fine summer's day: so that ac- 
cording to this their exposition, the same months are 
proper for tragedy which are proper for pastoral. 
Most of our celebrated English tragedies as Oato, 
Mariamne, Tamerlane,* &c., begin with tlieir observa- 
tions on the morning. Lee seems to have come the 
Fenton. and Rowe. 



616 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Indeed ! — A day,- we never saw before. 

The mighty ^ Thomas Thumb victorious 
comes ; 

Millions of giants crowd his chariot 
wheels, 

* Giants ! to whom the giants in Guild- 
hall * 

nearest to this beautiful description of our author's: 
The morning dawns with an unwonted crimson, 
The flowers all odorous seem, the garden birds 
Sing louder, and the laughing sun ascends 
The gaudy earth with an unusual brightness: 
All nature smiles. Ctrs. Borp. 

Massinissa, in the New Sophonisba [by Thomson], is 
also a favorite of the sun : 

— The sun too seems 
As conscious of my joy, with broader eye 
To look abroad the world, and all things smile 
Like Sophonisba. 

Memnon, in the Persian Princess [by Theobald], 
makes the sun decline rising, that he may not peep 
on objects which would profane his brightness: 

— Tlie morning rises slow, 
And all those ruddy streaks that used to paint 
The day's approach are lost in clouds, as if 
The horrors of the night had sent 'em back. 
To warn the sun he should not leave the sea, 
To peep, &c. 

2 This line is highly conformable to the beautiful 
simplicity of the ancients. It hath been copied by 
almost every modern. 

Not to be is not to be in woe. 

[Dryden's] State of Innocence. 
Love is not sin but where 'tis sinful love. 

[Drj'den's] Don Sebastian. 
Nature is nature, La3lius. I Lee's] Sophonisba. 

Men are but men, we did not make ourselves. 

[Young's] Revenge. 

3 Dr. B — y reads, The mighty Tall^iast Thumb. 
Mr. D — s, The mighty Thumbing Thumb. Mr. 
T — d t reads. Thundering. I think Thomas more 
agreeable to the great simplicity so apparent in our 
author. 

4 That learned historian Mr. S — n.$ in the third 
number of his criticism on our author, takes great 
pains to explode this passage. "It is," says he, 
"difficult to guess what giants are here meant, unless 
the giant Despair in the Pilgrim's Progress, or the 
giant Greatness in the Royal Villain; for I have 
heard of no other sort of giants in the reign of King 
Arthur." Petrus Burmannus makes three Tom 
Thumbs, one whereof he supposes to have been the 
same person whom the Greeks call Hercules; and 
that by these giants are to be understood the Cen- 
taurs slain by that hero. Another Tom Thumb he 
contends to have been no other than the Hermes 
Trismegistus of the ancients. The third Tom 
Thumb he places under the reign of king Arthur; 
to which third Tom Thumb, says he, the actions of 
the other two were attrilnited. Now, though I know 
that this opinion is supported by an assertion of 
Justus Lipsius, "Thomam ilium Thumhum non 
alium quam Herculem fuisse satis constat," yet shall 
I venture to oppose one line of Mr. Midwinter U 
against them all: 

In Arthur's court Tom Thumb did live. 

"But then," says Dr. B — y, "if we place Tom 
Thumb in the court of king Arthur, it will be proper 
to place that court out of Britain, where no giants 
were ever heard of." Spenser, in his Fairy Queen, 
is of another opinion, where, describing Albion, he 
says, 

Far within a savage nation dwelt 

Of hideous giants. 

And in the same canto: 



* Two wooden fig- 
ures 141/2 foot 
high, of mythical 
British giants. 

t Rentley, Dennis 
and Theobald are 
meant. 



t One of the two 
Salmon brothers, 
writers on history 
and geography 
(Tupper). 

H "The supposi- 

titious author of 



Are infant dwarfs. They frown, and 

foam and roar. 
While Thumb, regardless of their noise, 

rides on. 
So some cock-sparrow in a farmer's yard, 
Hops at the head of an huge flock of 

turkeys. 
Dood. When Goody Thumb first brought 

this Thomas forth. 
The Genius of our land triumphant 

reigned ; 
Then, then, O Arthur! did thy Genius 

reign, 
Nood. They tell me it is ^' whispered in the 

books 
Of all our sages, that this mighty hero. 
By Merlin's art begot, hath not a bone 
Within his skin, but is a lump of gristle. 
Dood. Then 't is a gristle of no mortal 
Some God, my Noodle, stept into the 

place 
Of Gaffer Thumb, and more than " half 

begot 
This mighty Tom. 
Nood. "^ — Sure ho was sent express 

From Heaven to be the pillar of our 

state. 
Though small his body be, so very small, 
A chairman's || leg is more than twice as 

large. 
Yet is his soul like any mountain big; 
And as a mountain once brought forth a 

mouse, 
^ So doth this mouse contain a mighty 

mountain. 

Then Elfar, with two brethren giants had. 
The one of which had two heads — 
The other three. 

Risum teneatis, amici.** 

5 "To whisper in books," says Mr. D — s, "is ar- 
rant nonsense." I am afraid this learned man does 
not sufficiently understand the extensive moaning of 
the word whisper. If he had rightly understood 
what is meant by the "senses whispering the soul," 
in the' Persian Princess, or what "whispering like 
winds" is in [Dryden's] Atirenozebe, or like thunder 
in another author, he would have understood this. 
Emmeline in Dryden sees a voice, but she was born 
blind, which is an excuse Panthea cannot plead in 
[Banks' ](7(/ri(s. who hears a sight: 

Your description will surpass 

AH fiction, painting, or dumb show of horror, 
That ever ears yet heard, or eyes beheld. 
When Mr. D — s understands these, he will under- 
stand whispering in books. 

— Some ruffian stept into his father's place, 
And more than half begot him. 

Mary Queen of Seots.^^ 

7 — For Ulamar seems sent express from Heaven, 
To civilize this rugged Indian clime. 

[Dennis'] Liberly Asserted. 

8 "Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus 



the ballad of 
Tom Thumb" 

(Tupper). 

II A carrier of a se- 
dan-chair. 

** Don't laugh, my 
friends. 



tt Banks' The Isl- 
and [later Albion] 
Queens; or. The 
Death of Mary 
Queen of Scot- 
land. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



617 



Dood. Mountain indeed! So terrible his 

name, 
'-* The giant nurses frighten children with it, 
And ciy Tom Thumb is come, and if you 

are 
Naughty, will surely take the child away. 
Nood. But hark ! ^° these trumpets speak 

the king's approach. 
Dood. Ho comes most luckily for my pe- 
tition. 

{Flourish.) 



Scene 2. 

{King, Queen, Grizzle, Noodle, Doodle, 
Foodie. ) 

King. ^^ Let nothing but a face of joy ap- 

l^ear ; 
The man who frowns this day shall lose 

his head. 
That he may have no face to frown 

withal. 
Smile, Dollallolla — Ha ! what wrinkled 

sorrow 
^- Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy 

knitted brow"? 
Whence flow those tears fast down thy 

blubbered cheeks. 
Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the 

streets'? 
Queen. ^^ Excess of joy, my lord, I 've 

heard folks say, 
Gives tears as certain as excess of grief. 
King. If it be so, let aJl men cry for joy, 

non in se majus continere potest," says Scaliger * in 
Thumbo. I suppose he would have cavilled at these 
beautiful lines in tlie Earl of Essex: 

Thy most inveterate soul. 

That looks through the foul prison of thy body. 
And at those of Dryden : 

The palace is without too well designed; 

Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. 

Aurenfizclie. 

9 Mr. Banks hath copied this almost verbatim: 
It was enough to say, here 's Essex come, 

And nurses stilled their children with the fright. 

Earl of Essex. 

10 The trumpet in a tragedy is generally as much 
as to say Enter king, which makes Mr. Banks, in one 
of his plays, call it the trumpet's formal sound. 

11 Phraortes, in the Captives Ihy Gay], seems to 
have been acquainted with king Arthur: 
Proclaim a festival for seven days' space. 

Let the court shine in all its pomp and lustre. 
Let all our streets resound with shouts of joy ; 
Ijet music's care-dispelling voice be heard ; 
The sumptuous banquet and the flowing goblet 
Shall warm the cheek and fill the heart with gladness. 
Astarbe shall sit mistress of the feast. 

12 Repentance frowns on thy contracted brow. 

Sophonisha. 
Hung on his clouded brow, I marked despair. Ibid. 

A sullen gloom 

Scowls on his brow. [Young's] Btisiris. 

13 Plato is of this opinion, and so is Mr. Banks: 
Behold these tears sprung from fresh pain and joy. 

[Banks'] Earl of Essex. 



^* Till my whole court be drowned with 

their tears; 
Nay, till they overflow my utmost land. 
And leave me nothing but the sea to rule. 
Dood. My liege, I a petition have here got. 
King. Petition me no petitions, sir, to- 
day: 
Let other hours be set apart for business. 
To-day it is our pleasure to be '^■' drunk. 
And this our queen shall be as drunk as 
we. 
Queen. (Though I already ^^ half seas over 
am) 
If the capacious goblet overflow 
With arrack punch — 'fore George ! I '11 

see it out: 
Of rum and brandy I '11 not taste a dro]i. 
King. Though rack, in punch, eight shil- 
lings be a quart, 
And rum and brandy be no more than 

six. 
Rather than quarrel you shall have your 
will. 

{Trumpets.) 

11 These floods are very frequent in the tragic 
authors : 

Near to some murmuring brook I '11 lay me down. 
Whose waters, if they should too shallow flow. 
My tears shall swell them up till I will drown. 

Lee's Sophonisha. 
Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate. 
That were the world on fire they might have drowned 
The wrath of heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin. 

[Lee's] Mithridates. 
One author changes the waters of grief to those of 
joy: 

These tears, that sprung from tides of 

grief, 
Are now augmented to a flood of joy. 

[Banks'] Cyrus the Great. 
A nother : 
Turns all the streams of heat, and makes them flow 
In pity's channel. Royal Villain.'^ 

One drowns himself: 

Pity like a torrent pours me down, 

Now I am drowning all within a deluge. 

[Banks' Virtue Betray'd, or] Anne Bullen. 
Cyrus drowns the whole world : 
Our swelling grief 

Shall melt into a deluge, and the world 

Shall drown in tears. Cyrus the Great. 

15 An expression vastly beneath the dignity of 

tragedy, says Mr. D — s, yet we find the word he 

cavils at in the mouth of Mithridates less properly 

used, and applied to a more terrible idea : 

I would be drunk with death. Mithridates. 
The author of the new Sophonisha taketh hold of 
this monosyllable, and uses it pretty much to the same 
purpose: 

The Carthaginian sword with Roman blood 
Was drunk. 
I would ask Mr. D — s which gives him the best idea, 
a drunken king, or a drunken sword ? 

Mr. Tate dresses up king Arthur's resolution in 
heroic [Injured Love, 1707] : 
Merry, my lord, o' th' captain's humor right, 
I am resolved to be dead drunk to-night. 
Lee also uses this charming word: 

Love 's the drunkenness of the mind. Gloriana. 
IG Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it im- 
properly : 

I 'm half seas o'er in death. 

Cleomenes. 



A noted 
critic 
1609). 



French 
(1540- 



t 'I'he Persian Princess; or, The Royal VUlorin, by Theobald. 



618 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



But, ha! the warrior comes — the great 

Tom Thumb. 
The little hero, giant-killing boy, 
Preserver of my kingdom, is arrived. 

Scene 3, 

(Tom Thumh to them, icitli Officers, Prison- 
ers, and Attendants.) 

King. ^'^ Oh ! welcome most, most welcome 
to my arms. 
What gratitude can thank away the debt 
Your valor lays upon me? 

Queen. ^^Oh! ye gods! 

(Aside.) 
Thumb. When I 'm not thanked at all, I 'm 
thanked enough. 
^^ I 've done my duty, and I 've done no 
more. 
Queen. Was ever such a godlike creature 
seen ? 

(Aside.) 
King. Thy modesty 's a -° candle to thy 
merit, 
It shines itself, and shows thy merit too. 
But say, my boy, where didst thou leave 
the giants'? 
Thumh. My liege, without the castle gates 
they stand. 
The castle gates too low for their admit- 
tance. 
King. What look they like? 
Thumb. Like nothing but themselves. 
Queen. ^^ And sure thou art like nothing 
but thyself. 

(Aside.) 
King. Enough! the vast idea fills my soul. 
I see them — yes, I see them now before 

me : 
The monstrous, ugly, barb'rous sons of 

whores. 
But ha! what form majestic strikes our 

eyes? 
^2 So perfect, that it seems to have been 
drawn 

17 This figure is in great use among the tragedians: 

'T is therefore, therei'oie 'tis. 

[Charles Johnson's] Victim. 
I long, repent, repent, and long again. 

[Young's] Busiris. 

18 A tragical exclamation. 

19 This line is copied verbatim in the Captives. 

20 We find a candlestick for this candle in two 
celebrated authors : — 

Each star withdraws 

His golden head, and burns within the socket. 

[Lee's] Nero. 
A soul grown old and sunk into the socket. 

[Dryden's 7>on] Sehnstian. 

21 This simile occurs very frequently amon;.; the 
dramatic writers of both kinds. 

22 Mr. Lee hath stolen this thought from our 
author : 



By all the gods in council : so fair she is, 
That surely at her birth the council 

paused. 
And then at length cried out, This is a 

woman ! 
Thumb. Then were the gods mistaken — 

she is not 

A woman, but a giantess whom we, 

-^ With much ado, have made a shift to 

hawl 
Within the town : 2* for she is by a foot 
Shorter than all her subject giants were. 
Glum. We yesterday were both a queen 

and wife, 
One hundred thousand giants owned our 

sway. 
Twenty whereof were married to ourself. 
Queen. Oh ! happy state of giantism where 

husbands 
Like mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we 

are forced 
To be content, nay, haj^py thought, with 

one. 
Glum. But then to lose them all in one 

black day. 
That the same sun which, rising, saw me 

wife 
To twenty giants, setting should behold 
Me widowed of them all. -'^ My worn- 
out heart, 
That shi]T, leaks fast, and the great heavy 

lading. 
My soul, will quickly sink. 
Queen. Madam, believe 

I view your sorrows with a woman's eye : 

This perfect face, drawn by the gods in council, 
Which they were long a making. 

Luc. Jun. Brut. 

At his birth the heavenly council paused, 

And then at last cried out, This is a man I Dryden 
hath improved this hint to the utmost perfection: 
So perfect, that the very gods who formed you 

wondered 
At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit 
Has mended our design I Their envy hindered. 
Or you had been immortal, and a pattern. 
When Heaven would work for ostentation sake. 
To copy out again. [Dryden's] All for Lore. 

Banks prefers the works of Michael Angelo to that of 
the gods: 

A pattern for the gods to make a man by. 
Or Michael Angelo to form a statue. 

23 It is impossible, says Mr. W — ,* sufficiently to 
admire this natural easy line. 

24 This tragedy, which in most points resembles 
the ancients, differs from them in this — that it as- 
signs the same honor to lowness of stature which they 
did to height. The gods and heroes in Homer and 
Virgil are continually described higher by the head 
than their followers," the contrary of which is ob- 
served by our author. In short, to exceed on either 
side is eq';ally admirable; and a man of three foot is 
as wonderful a sight as a man of nine. 

2.5 My blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading. 
Mv soul will quickly sink. Mithridates. 

Mv soul is like a ship. [Tate's] Injured Love. 



* It is not clear who is meant. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



619 



But leani to bear them with what strength 

you may, 
To-morrow we will have our gi'enadiers 
Drawn out before you, and you then shall 

choose 
"V\^at husbands you think fit. 
Glum. '^ Madam, I am 

Your most obedient and most humble 

servant. 
King. Think, mighty princess, think this 

court your own, 
Nor think the landlord me, this house my 

inn; 
Call for whatever you will, you '11 nothing 

^'^ I feel a sudden pain within my breast. 
Nor know I whether it arise from love 
Or only the Avind-colic. Time must show. 
Oh Thumb ! what do we to thy valor owe ! 
Ask some reward, great as we can bestow. 
Thumb. ^^ I ask not kingdoms, I can con- 
quer those ; 
I ask not money, money I 've enough ; 
For what I 've done, and what I mean to 

do, 
For giants slain, and giants yet unborn, 

AVhich I will slay if this be called a 

debt, 
Take my receipt in full : I ask but this, — 
2^ To smi myself in Huncamunea's eyes. 
King. Prodigious bold request. 

Queen. ^° Be still, my soul. 

{Aside.) 
Thumb. ^^ My heart is at the threshold of 
your mouth. 

And waits its answer there. Oh ! do 

not frown. 
I 've tried to reason's tune to tune my 
soul, 

26 This well-bred line seems to be copied in the 
Persian Princess: — 

To be your humblest and most faithful slave. 

27 This doubt of the king puts me in mind of a 
passage in the Captives, where the noise of feet is 
mistaken for the rustling of leaves. 

Methinks I hear 

The sound of feet: 

No; 'twas the wind that shook yon cypress boughs. 

28 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this passage in 
his eye in the first page of Love Triumphant. 

29 Don Carlos, in the Revenge, suns himself in 
the charms of his mistress : 

While in the lustre of her charms I lay. 

30 A tragical phrase much in use. 

31 This speech hath been taken to pieces by several 
tragical authors, who seem to have rifled it, and 
shared its beauties among them. 

My soul waits at the portal of thy breast. 
To ravish from thy lips the welcome news. 

Anne BuUcn. 
My soul stands listening at my ears. 

Cyrtis the Great. 
Love to his tune ray jarring heart would bring. 
But reason overwinds, and cracks the string. 

[Dryden and Lee's] Duke of Guise. 
1 should have loved, 



But love did overwind and crack the 

string. 
Though Jove in thunder had cried out, 
YOU SHAN'T, 

I should have loved her still for oh, 

strange fate ! 
Then when I loved her least I loved her 
most ! 
King. It is resolved — the princess is your 

own. 
Thumb. Oh ! ^^ happy, happy, happy, 

happy Thumb ! 
Queen. Consider, sir; reward your sol- 
dier's merit, 
But give not Huncamunca to Tom 
Thumb. 
King. Tom Thumb! Odzooks! my wide- 
extended realm 
Knows not a name so glorious as Tom 

Thumb. 
Let Macedonia Alexander boast, 
Let Rome her Cassars and her Scipios 

show. 
Her Messieurs France, let Holland boast 

Mynheers, 
Ireland her O's, her Macs let Scotland 

boast. 
Let England boast no other than Tom 
Thumb. 
Queen. Though greater yet his boasted 
merit was. 
He shall not have my daughter, that is 
pas'.* 
King. Ha! saj^est thou, Dollallolla'? 
Queen. I say he shan't. 

King. ^^ Then by our royal self we swear 

you lie. 
Queen. ^* ^Yho, but a dog, who, but a dog 
Would use me as thou dost? Me, who 

have lain 
^^ These twenty years so loving by thy 

side ! 
But I will be revenged. I'll hang my- 
self. 
Then tremble all who did this match per- 
suade. 

Though Jove, in muttering thunder had forbid it. 

New fsophonisba. 
And when it (my heart) wild resolves to love no 

more, 
Then is the triumph of excessive love. Ibid. 

32 Massinissa is one-fourth less happy than Tom 
Thumb. 

Oh! happv, happy, happy 1 Neiv Sophonisha. 

33 No, by myself. Anne BuUen. 
34 ^ Who caused 

This dreadful revolution in my fate. 

Ulamar. Who, but a dog — who, but a dog? 

Liberty Ass[erted]. 

35 ■ — -A bride. 

Who twenty years lay loving by your side. 



Banks. 



* An old colloquialism for positive. 



620 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



^® For, riding on a eat, from high I '11 

fall, 
And squirt down royal vengeance on you 

all. 
Food. ^'^ Her majesty the queen is in a 

passion. 
King. ^^ Be she, or be she not, I '11 to the 

girl 
And pave thy way, oh Thumb. — Now by 

ourself. 
We were indeed a pretty king of clouts 
To truckle to her will. For when by 

force 
Or art the wife her husband over-reaches, 
Give him the j-yettieoat, and her the 

breeches. 
Thumb. ^^ Whisper ye winds, that Hun- 

camunca 's mine ! 
Echoes repeat, that Huneamunca 's mine ! 
The dreadful business of Ihe war is o'er. 
And beauty, heavenly beauty ! crowns my 

toils ! 
I've thrown the bloody garment now 

aside 
And hymeneal sweets invite my bride. 
So when some chimney-sweeiK'r all the 

day 
Hath through dark paths pursued the 

sooty way. 
At night to wash his hands and face he 

flies. 
And in liis t'other shirt with his Brick- 

dusta lies. 

Scene 4. 

Grizzle. (Solus.) *" Where ai't thou, 
Grizzle f wliere are now thy glories 1' 

Where are the drums that waken thee to 
honor? 

Greatness is a laced coat from Monmouth- 
street,* 

Which fortune lends us for a day to wear, 

To-morrow puts it on another's back. 

The spiteful sun but yesterday surveyed 

36 For, borne upon a cloud, from hi'-ch I Ml fall, 
And rain down royal vengeance on you all. 

Alb. Queens. 

37 An information very like this we have in the 
Tragedy of Love [Banks' Ci/rus], where, Cyrus hav- 
ing stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxare.s 
observes very calmly. 

Why, nephew Cyrus, you are moved. 
38 'T is in your choice. 
Love me, or love me not. 

[Dry den's 1 CorKiucst of Granada. 

39 There is not one beauty in this charming speech 
but hath been borrowed by almost every tragic wi'iter. 

40 Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too 
servilely ) imitated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex : 

Where art thou, Essex, &c. 

* Noted for its second-hand cloth 
t Tlie principal fish-market of London ; the 



His rival high as Saint Paul's cupola; 
Now may he see me as Fleet-ditch laid 
low. 



Scene 5. 

(Queen, Grizzle.) 

Queen. *^ Teach me to scold, prodigious- 
minded Grizzle. 
Mountain of treason, ugly as the devil, 
Teach this confomided hateful mouth of 

mme 
To sjiout forth words malicious as thy- 
self, 
Words which might shame all Billings- 
gate t to speak. 
Griz, Far be it from my pride to think 
my tongue 
Your royal lips can in that art instruct. 
Wherein you so excel. But may I ask, 
Without olfence, wherefore my queen 
would scold? 
Queen. Wherefore? Oh! blood and thun- 
der ! ha' n't you heard 
(What every corner of the court re- 
sounds) 
That little Thumb will be a great man 
made ? 
Griz. I heard it. I confess — for who, 
alas! 
''- Can always stop liis ears ? — But would 

my teeth, 
By grinding knives, had first been set on 
edge ! 
Queen. Would I had heard, at the still 
noon of night. 
The hallalloo of fire in every street! 
Odsbobs! I have a mind to hang myself, 
To think I should a grandmother be made 
By such a rascal! — Sure the king for- 
gets 
When in a i)udding, by his mother put. 
The bastard, by a tinker, on a stile 
Was dropped. — 0, good lord Grizzle ! can 

I bear 
To see him from a pudding mount the 

throne ? 
Or can, Oh can, my Huneamunca bear 
To take a pudding's offspring to her 
arms? 
Griz. Oh hon-or! horror! horror! cease, 
my queen. 

41 The countess of Nottingham, in the Earl of 
Essex, is apparentlv acquainted with DoUallolla. 

42 Grizzle was not probably possessed of that glue 
of which Mr. Banks speaks in his iUirus. 

I '11 glue my ears to every word. 

ing shops; now called Dudley Street. 

bad language used at it has become proverbial. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



621 



43 'j^ijy voice, like twenty sereeeh-owls, 

wracks my brain. 
Queen. Then rouse thy spirit — we may yet 

prevent 
This hated match. 

Griz. We will ; ^* nor fate itself, 

Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb, 

shoukl cause it. 
I'll swim through seas; I'll ride upon 

the clouds; 
I 'U dig the earth ; I '11 blow out every 

fire; 
I'll rave; I'll rant; I'll rise; I'll rush; 

I'll roar; 
Fierce as the man whom ''^ smiling dol- 
phins bore 
From the prosaic to poetic shore. 
I '11 tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces. 
Queen. Oh, no ! prevent the match, but 

hurt him not ; 
For, though I would not have him have 

my daughter, 
Yet can we kill the man that killed the 

giants ? 
Griz. I tell you, madam, it was all a trick ; 
He made the giants first, and then he 

killed them ; 
As fox-hunters bring foxes to the wood, 
And then with hounds they drive them 

out again. 
Queen. How! have you seen no giants'? 

Are there not 
Now, in the yard, ten thousand proper 

giants ? 
Griz. **' Indeed I cannot positively tell, 

But firndy do believe there is not one. 
Queen. Hence! from my sight! thou trai- 

toi", hie away; 
By all my stars ! thou enviest Tom 

Thumb. 
Go, sirrah ! go,*'^ hie away ! hie ! — thou 

art 

43 Screech-owls, dark ravens, and amphibious 
monsters. 

Arc screaming in that voice. 

Mary Queen of Scots. 

44 The reader may see all the beauties of this 
speech in a late ode, called the Naval Lyric. [Not 
identified. ] 

45 This epithet to a dolphin doth not give one so 
clear an idea as were to be wished ; a smiling fish 
seeming a little more difficult to be imagined than a 
flying fish. Mr. Dryden is of opinion that smiling is 
the property of reason, and that no irrational crea- 
ture can smile : 

Smiles not allowed to beasts from reason move. 

State of Innocence. 

4(5 These lines are written in the same key with 
those in the Earl of Essex: 

Why, sayest thou so? I love thee well, indeed 
I do, and thou shalt find by this 't is true. 
Or with this in Cyrv.t: 

The most heroic mind that ever was. 
And with above half of the modern tragedies. 

17 Aristotle, in that excellent work of his which is 
very justly styled his masterpiece, earnestly recom- 



A setting-dog: be gone. 
Griz. Madam, I go. 

Tom Thumb shall feel the vengeance you 

have raised. 
So, when two dogs are fighting in the 

streets. 
With a third dog one of the two dogs 

meets. 
With angry teeth he bites him to the bone, 
And this dog smarts for what that dog 

had done. 

Scene G. 

Queen. (Sola.) And whither shall I go? 

— Alack a day! 
I love Tom Thumb — but must not tell him 

so; 
For what 's a woman when her virtue 's 

gone? 
A coat without its lace ; wig out of 

buckle; 
A stocking with a hole in 't 1 can't 

live 
Without my virt|Ue, or without Tom 

Thumb. 
■'^ Then let me weigh them in two equal 

scales ; 
In this scale put my virtue, that Tom 

Thumb. 
Alas ! Tom Thumb is heavier than my 

virtue. 
But hold! — perhaps I may be left a 

widow : 
This match prevented, then Tom Thumb 

is mine: 
In that dear hope I will forget my pain. 
So, when some wench to Tothill Bride- 
well 's sent. 
With beating hemp and flogging slie 's 

content ; 
She hopes in time to ease her present 

pain, 
At length is free, and walks the streets 

again. 

mends using the terms of art, however coarse or even 
indecent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same 
opinion. 

Bru. Do not, like young hawks, fetch a course 
about : 

Your game flies fair. 
Frn. Do not fear it. 

He answers you in your hawking phrase. 

Injured Love. 
I think these two great authorities are sufficient to 
justify DoUallolla in the use of the phrase, "Hie 
eaway, hie!" when in the same line she says she is 
speaking to a setting-dog. 

48 We meet with such another pair of scales in 
Dryden's King Arthur: 

Arthur and Oswald, and their different fates, 
Are weighing now within the scales of heaven. 
Also in Sehnstian : 
This hour my lot is weighing in the scales. 



622 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



ACT II 

Scene 1. The Street. 
{Bailiff, Follower.) 

Bail. Come on, my trusty [follower], 

come on; 
This day discharge thy duty, and at night 
A double mug of beei', and beer shall glad 

thee. 
Stand here by me, this way must Noodle 

pass. 
Fol. No more, no more, oh Bailiff! eveiy 

word 
Inspires my soul with virtue. Oh ! I long 
To meet the enemy in the street — and nab 

him : 
To lay arresting hands ui:»on bis back, 
And drag him trembling to the sjjonging- 

liouse.* 
Bail. There when I have him, I will sponge 

upon him. 
■*^0h! glorious thought! by the sun, 

moon, and stars, 
I will enjoy it, though it be in thought! 
Yes, yes, my follower, I will enjoy it. 
Fol. Enjoy it then some other time, for 

now 
Our prey approaches. 
Bail. Let us retire. 

Scene 2. 

{Tom Tliumh, Noodle, Bailiff, Follower.) 

Thumb. Trust me, my Noodle, I am won- 
drous sick ; 
For, though I love the gentle Hunea- 

munea, 
Yet at the thought of marriage I grow 

pale: 
For, oh ! — ^° but swear thou '11 keep it 

ever secret, 
I will unfold a tale will make thee stare. 
Nood. I swear by lovely Huncamunca's 

charms. 
Thumb. Then know ^^ my grandmamma 
hath often said, 
Tom Thumb, beware of marriage. 

49 Mr. t Rowe is generally imagined to have taken 
some hints from this scene in his character of 
Bajazet; hut as he, of all the tragic writers, bears the 
least resemblance to our author in his diction, I am 
unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy 
him in this particular. 

50 This method of surprising an audience, by rais- 
ing their expectation to the highest pitch, and then 
baulking it, hath been practised with great success 
by most of our tragical authors. 

" 51 Almeyda, in Sebastian, is in the same distress: 
Sometimes methinks I hear the groan of ghosts, 

* A place of prelim- t Nicholas Rowe (1674-1718 
inary confine- Shore and other excellent 

ment for debtors. 



Nood. Sir, I blush 

To think a warrior, gi'eat in arms as you, 
Should be affrighted by his grandmamma. 
Can an old woman's empty dreams deter 
The blooming hero from the virgin's 

amis ? 
Think of the joy that will your soul 

alarm. 
When in her fond embraces clasped you 

lie, 
While on her panting breast, dissolved in 

bliss, 
You pour out all Tom Thumb in every 

kiss. 
Thumb. Oh ! Noodle, thou hast fired my 

eager soul 
Spite of my grandmother she shall be 

mine ; 
I '11 hug, caress, I '11 eat her up with love : 
Whole days, and nights, and years shall 

be too short 
For our enjoyment; every sun shall rise 
^- Blushing to see us in our bed together. 
Nood. Oh! sir! this purpose of your soul 

pursue. 
Bail. Oh ! sir ! I have an action against 

you. 

Nood. At whose suit is it? 
Bail. At your tailor's, sir. 

Your tailor put this warrant in my hands. 
And I arrest you, sir, at his connnands. 
Thumb. Ha! dogs! Arrest my friend be- 
fore my face ! 
Think you Tom Thumb will suffer this 

disgrace"? 
But let vain cowards threaten by their 

word, 
Tom Thumb shall show his anger by his 
sword. 
(Kills the Bailiff and his Follower.) 
Bail. Oh, I am slain ! 
Fol. I am murdered also 

Thin hollow sounds and lamentable screams ; 
Then, like a d\ ing echo from afar. 
My mother's voice that cries, Wed not, Almeyda ; 
Forewarned, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime. 

52 "As very well he may, if he hath any modesty in 
him," says Mr. D — s. The author of Bvniris is e.\- 
treraely zealous to prevent the sun's blushing at anv 
indecent object; and therefore on all such occasions 
lie addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to 
keep out of the way. 

Rise never more, O sun I let night prevail, 
Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene. 

i) iisiris. 
Sun, hide thy face, and put the world in mourning. 

Ibid. 

Mr. Banks makes the sun perform the office of 
Hymen, and therefore not likely to be disgusted at 
such a sight: 
Tlie sun sets forth like a gay brideman with you. 

Mary Queen of Scots. 

), the first editor of Shakespeare, and author ot Jane 
plays. Observe the compliment Fielding pays him. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



623 



And to the shades, the dismal shades be- 
low, 

My bailiff's faithful follower I go, 
Nood. ^^ Go then to hell, like rascals as 
you are, 

And give our service to the bailiffs there. 
Thumb. Thus perish all the bailiffs [in the 
land], 

Till debtors at noon-day shall walk the 
streets. 

And no one fear a bailiff or his writ. 



Scene 3. The Princess Huncamunca's 
Apartment. 

(Hiincamunca, Cleora, Mustacha.) 

Ilunc. ^* Give me some music — see that it 
be sad. 

{Cleora sings.) 



Cupid, ease a love-sick maid, 
Bring thy quiver to her aid ; 
With equal ardor wound the swain. 
Beauty should never sigh in vain. 



Let him feel the pleasing smart. 
Drive thy arrow through his heart : 
When one you wound, you then destroy; 
When both you kill, you kill with joy. 

Hunc. ^^0 Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! 

wherefore art thou Tom Thumb? 
Why hadst thou not been bom of royal 

race? 
WTiy had not mighty Bantam * been thy 

father? 
Or else the king of Brentford, Old or 

New?t 
Must. I am surprised that your highness 
can give yourself a moment's uneasiness 
about that little insignificant fellow,^'' 

53 Nourmahal sends the same message to heaven: 
For I would have you when you upwards move, 
Speak kindly of us to our friends above. 

Aurengzehe. 
We find another "to hell," in the Persian Princess: 
Villain, get thee down 
To hell, and tell them that the fray 's begun. 

54 Anthony gives the same command in the same 
words. [Dryden's All for Love, I, i. ] 

55 Oh I Marius, Marius, wherefore art thoii Marius ? 

Otway's Marius. 
RG Nothing is more common than these seeming 
contradictions; such as, 

Haughty weakness. Victim. 

Great small world. [Ecclestone's] Noah's Flood. 



Tom Thumb the Great — one properer for 
a plaything than a husband. Were he 
my husband his horns should be as long 
as his body. If you had fallen in love 
with a grenadier, I should not have won- 
dered at it. If you had fallen in love 
with something; but to fall in love with 
nothing! 
Hunc. Cease, my Mustacha, on thy duty 
[cjease. 
The zephyr, when in flowery vales it 

plays, 
Is not so soft, so sweet as Thummy's 

breath. 
The dove is not so gentle to its mate. 
Must. The dove is every bit as proper for 
a husband. — Alas ! Madam, there 's not 
a beau about the court looks so little like 
a man. He is a perfect butterfly, a thing 
without substance, and almost without 
shadow too. 
Hunc. This rudeness is unseasonable : de- 
sist; 
Or I shall think this railing comes from 

love. 
Tom Thumb 's a creature of that charm- 
ing form. 
That no one can abuse, unless they love 
him. 
Must. Madam, the king. 



Scene 4. 
(King, Huncamunca.) 

King, Let all but Huncamunca leave the 

room. 
{Exeunt Cleora and Mustacha.) 
Daughter, I have observed of late some 

grief 
Unusual in your countenance : your eyes 
^'' That, like two open windows, used to 

show 
The lovely beauty of the rooms within. 
Have now two blinds before them. What 

is the cause? 
Say, have you not enough of meat and 

drink? 
We 've given strict orders not to have 

you stinted. 
Hunc. Alas! my lord, I value not myself 

57 Lee hath improved this metaphor: 
Dost thou not view joy peeping from my eyes. 

The casements opened wide to gaze on thee. 
So Rome's glad citizens to windows rise, 

When they some young triumpher fain would see. 

[Lee's] Gloriana. 

* The King of Bantam in .Tava, with a pun on the name of a small kind of fowl, perhaps imported thence, 
t The two kings of Brentford were fantastic characters in the Duke of Buckingham's play, The Rehearsal. 



624 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



That once I eat two fowls and half a 

pig; 

5^ Small is that praise ! but oh ! a maid 

may want 
What she can neither eat nor drink. 
King. What's that ^ 

Hunc. ^^ spare my blushes ; but I mean 

a husband. 
King. If that be all, I have provided one, 
A husband great in arms, whose warlike 

sword 
Streams with the yellow blood of slaugh- 

ter'd giants, 
Whose name in Terra Incognita is known, 
Whose valor, wisdom, virtue make a. 

noise 
Great as the kettle-drums of twenty 
armies, 
Hunc. Whom does my royal father mean 1 
King. Tom Thumb. 

Hunc. Is it possible f 
King. Ha ! the window-blinds are gone ; 
"^ A country-dance of joy is in your face. 
Your eyes spit fire, your cheeks grow red 
as beef. 
Hunc. 0, there 's a magic-music in that 
sound. 
Enough to turn me into beef indeed ! 
Yes, I will own, since licensed by your 

word, 
I '11 own Tom Thumb the cause of all my 

grief. 
For him I 've sighed, I 've wept, I 've 
gnawed my sheets. 
King. Oh! thou shalt gnaw thy tender 
sheets no more. 

ns Almahide hath the same contempt for these ap- 
petites : 
To eat and drink can no perfection be. 

Conquest of Granada. 

The Earl of Essex is of a different opinion, and 
seems to place the chief happiness of a general 
therein : 

Were but commanders half so well rewarded. 
Then they might eat. 

Banks's Earl of Essex. 

But, if we may believe one who knows more than 
either, the devil himself, we shall find eating to be an 
affair of more moment than is generally imagined : 
Gods are immortal only by their food. 
Lucifer, in the State nf Innocence [by Drydenl. 

59 "This expression is enough of itself," says Mr. 
D — s, "utterly to destroy the character of Huiica- 
muncal" Yet we find a woman of no abandoned 
character in Dryden adventuring farther, and thus 
excusing herself : 

To speak our wishes first, forbid it pride. 
Forbid it modesty; true, they forbid it. 
But Nature does not. When we are athirst, 
Or hungry, will imperious Nature stay, 
Nor eat, nor drink, before 'tis bid fall on? 

Cleomenes. 

Cassandra speaks before she is asked : Hunca- 
munca afterwards. Cassandra speaks her wishes to 
her lover : Huncamunca only to her father. 

CO Her eyes resistless magic bear ; 
Angels, I see, and gods are dancing there. 

Lee's Sophonisba. 



A husband thou shalt have to mumble 

now. 
Hunc. Oh ! hajDpy sound ! henceforth let 

no one tell 
That Huncamunca shall lead apes in 

hell.* 
Oh ! I am overjoyed ! 
King. I see thou art. 

^^ Joy lightens in thy eyes, and thunders 

from thy brows; 
Transports, like lightning, dart along thy 

soul, 
As small-shot through a hedge. 
Hunc. Oh ! say not small. 

King. This happy news shall on our 

tongue ride post, 
Ourself we bear the happy news to 

Thumb. 
Yet think not, daughter, that your pow- 
erful charms 
Must still detain the hero from his arms; 
Various his duty, various his delight; 
Now is his turn to kiss, and now to fight. 
And now to kiss again. So, mighty **" 

Jove, 
When with excessive thundering tired 

above, 
Comes down to earth, and takes a bit — 

and then 
Flies to his trade of thundering back 

again. 

Scene 5. 
( Grizzle, Huncamunca. ) 

^^ Griz. Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, 

oh! 
Thy pouting breasts, like kettle-drums of 

brass. 
Beat everlasting loud alarms of joy ; 
As bright as brass they are, and oh, as 

hard. 
Oh! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh! 

61 Mr. Dennis, in that excellent tragedy called 
Liberty Asserted, which is thought to have given so 
great a stroke to the late French king, hath frequent 
imitations of this beautiful speech of king Arthur: 
Conquest lightening in his eyes, and thundering in 

his arm, 
Joy lightened in her eyes. 
Joys like lightning dart along my soul. 

C2 Jove, with excessive thundering tired above. 
Comes down for ease, enjoys a nymph, and then 
Mounts dreadful, and to thundering goes again. 

Oloriana. 
63 This beautiful line, which ought, says Mr. W — , 
to be written in gold, is imitated in the New Sopho- 
nisba: 

Oh ! Sophonisba ; Sophonisba, oh 1 

Oh! Narva; Narva, oh I 
The author of a song called Duke upon Duke hath 
improved it : 

Alas! O Nick! O Nick, .al.ns! 
Wliere, by the help of a little false spelling, you have 
two meanings in tlie repeated words. 



It was a jocose tradition that unmarried women must lead apes in hell. 



TOM TIIITMB THE GREAT 



625 



Hunc. Ha! dost thou know me, jn-incess 

as I am, 
^* That thus of me you dare to make your 

game 1 
Griz. Oh ! Huncamunca, well I know that 

you 
A princess are, and a king's daughter, 

too; 
But love no meanness scorns, no grandeur 

fears ; 
Love often lords into the cellar bears, 
And bids the sturdy porter come up 

stairs. 
For what 's too high for love, or ^vhat 's 

too low? 
Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh ! 
Hunc. But, granting all you say of love 

were true, 
My love, alas ! is to another due. 
In vain to me a suitoring you come, 
For I 'm already promised to Tom 

Thumb. 
Griz. And can my princess such a dur- 

gen * wed "? 
One fitter for your pocket tlian your bed! 
Advised by me, the worthless baby shun, 
Or you will ne'er be brought to bed of 

one. 
Oh take me to thy arms, and never flhich. 
Who am a man, by Jupiter! every inch. 
^^ Then, while in joys together lost we 

lie, 
I '11 press thy soul while gods stand wish- 
ing by. 
Hunc. If, sir, what you insinuate you 

prove, 
All obstacles of promise you remove; 
For all engagements to a man must fall, 
Whene'er that man is proved no man at 

all. 
Griz. Oh ! let him seek some dwarf, some 

fairy miss. 
Where no joint-stool must lift him to 

the kiss ! 
But, by the stars and glory ! you appear 
Much fitter for a Prussian grenadier; f 
One globe alone on Atlas' shoulders 

rests, 
Two globes are less than Huneamunca's 

breasts ; 

64 Edith, in the Bloody Brother \hy Fletcher], 
speaks to her lover in the same familiar language: 

Your grace is full of game. 

65 Traverse the glittering chambers of the sky, 
Borne on a cloud in view of fate I '11 lie. 

And press her soul while gods stand wishing by. 

[Lee's Sophonisha; or] Uannihal\'s Overthrow]. 



The milky way is not so white, that 's 

flat. 
And sure thy breasts are full as large as 

that. 
Hunc. Oh, sir, so strong your eloquence I 

find, 
It is impossible to be imkind. 
Griz. Ah ! speak that o'er again ; and let 

the ""^ sound 
From one pole to another pole rebound ; 
The eartili and sky each be a battledore. 
And keep the sound, that shuttlecock, up 

an hour: 
To Doctors-Commons t for a licence I 
Swift as an arrow from a bow will fly. 
Hunc. Oh, no ! lest some disast er we 

should meet, 
'T were better to be married at the 

Fleet.T[ 
Griz. Forljid it, all ye powers, a princess 

should 
By that vile jilace contaminate her blood ; 
My quick return shall to my charmer 

prove 
I travel on the '^'' post-horses of love. 
Hunc. Those post-horses to me will seem 

too slow 
Though they should fly swift as the gods, 

when they 
Bide on behind that post-boy, Opjiortu- 

nity. 

Scene 6. 
{Tom Thumb, Huncamunca.) 

Thumb. Where is my princess? where 's 

my Huncamunca'? 
Where are those eyes, 

matches || of love. 
That ''''' light up all with love ray waxen 

soul? 
^Vliere is that face which artful nature 

made 

on Let the four winds from distant corners meet. 
And on their wings first bear it into France; 
Then back again to Edina's proud walls. 
Till victim to the sound th' aspiring city falls. 

Albion Queens. 
67 I do not remember any metaphors so frequent in 
the tragic poets as those borrowed from riding post: 
The gods and opportunity ride post. 

nannihal. 

Let 's rush together, 

For death rides post: Duke of Guise. 

Destruction gallops to thy murder post. 

Gloriana. 
cs Tliis image, too, very often occurs : 
— — Bright as when thy eye 

First lighted up our loves. Aurenpzebe. 

'T is not a crown alone lights up my name. 

Busiris. 



those card- 



* dwarf. 

t The allusion is to 
the regiment of 
very tall men in 
the army of King 



Frederick William 
I, of Prussia, 
father of Fred- 
erick the Great. 
t The body which 



issued marriage 
licenses, and dealt 
with divorces, 

wills, etc. 
H A prison fre- 



quented by dis- 
reputable clergy- 
men ready to per- 
form secret mar- 
riages. 



I "A piece of card 
dipped in melted 
sulphur" (O.rf. 

Diet.), used to 
start a fire. 



626 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



^^ In the same moulds where Venus' self 
was cast? 
Hunc. ''^ Oh ! what is music to the ear 
that 's deaf, 
Or a goose-pie to him that has no taste'? 
What are these praises now to me, since I 
Am promised to another? 
Thumb. Ha! promised? 

Hunc. Too sure; 'tis written in the book 

of fate. 
Thumb. ^1 Then I will tear away the leaf 
Wherein it's writ; or, if fate won't al- 
low 
So large a gap within its journal-book, 
I'll blot it out at least. 

Scene 7. 

(Glumdalca, Tom Thumb, Huncamunca.) 

Glum. ''^ I need not ask if you are Hunca- 
munca, 
Your brandy-nose proclaims 

69 There is great dissension among the poets con- 
cerning the metliod of making man. One tells his 
mistress that the mould she was made in being lost, 
Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer, in Dry- 
den, gives a merry description of his own formation: 
Whom heaven, neglecting, made and scarce designed, 
But threw me in for number to the rest. 

Staff of lnnoc[ence^. 
In one place the same poet supposes man to be made 
of metal: I was formed 

Of that coarse metal which, when she was made. 
The gods threw by for rubbish. 

All for Love. 

In another of dough : 
When the gods moulded up the paste of man. 
Some of their clay was left upon their hands. 
And so they made Egyptians. Cleomenes. 

In another of clay : r, . . 
Rubbish of remaining clay. Sebastian. 

One makes the soul of wax: 

Her waxen soul begins to melt apace. 

Anne Bullen. 

Another of flint: 

Sure our two souls have somewhere been acquainted 

In former beings, or, struck out together, 

One spark to Afric flew, and one to Portugal. 

Sebastian. 

To omit the great quantities of iron, brazen, and 
leaden souls which are so plenty in modern authors — 
I cannot omit the dress of a soul as we find it in 
Dryden : t^ , , 

Souls shirted but with air. King Arthur. 

Nor can I pass by a particular sort of soul in a 
particular sort of description in the New Sophonisba. 
Ye mysterious powers, , , t i 

Whether through your gloomy depths I wander, 

Or on the mountains walk, give me the calm, 
The steady smiling soul, where wisdom sheds 
Eternal sunshine, and eternal joy. 

70 This line Mr. Banks has plundered entire in his 
Anne Bullen. , . . , , , 

71 Good Heaven! the book of fate before me lay. 
But to tear out the journal of that day. 

Or, if the order of the world below 

Will not the gap of one whole day allow. 

Give me that minute when she made her vow. 

Conquest of Granada. 

72 I know some of the commentators have imagined 
that Mr. Dryden, in the altercative scene between 
Cleopatra and Octavia, a scene which Mr. Addison 
inveighs against with great bitterness, is much be- 
holden to our author. How just this their observa- 
tion is I will not presume to determine. 



Hunc. I am a princess; 

Nor need I ask who you are. 
Glum. A giantess; 

The queen of those who made and un- 
made queens. 
Hunc. The man whose chief ambition is 
to be 
My sweetheart hath destroyed these 
mighty giants. 
Glum. Your sweetheart? Dost thou think 
the man who once 
Hath worn my easy chains will e'er wear 
thine? 
Hunc. Well may your chains be easy, 
since, if fame 
Says true, they have been tried on twenty 

husbands. 
"^ The glove or boot, so many times 

pulled on, 
May well sit easy on the hand or foot. 
Glum. I glory in the number, and when I 
Sit poorly down, like thee, content with 

one. 
Heaven change this face for one as bad 
as thine. 
Hunc. Let me see nearer what this beauty 
is 
That captivates the heart of men by 
scores. 

(Holds a candle to her face.) 
Oh ! Heaven, thou art as ugly as the devil. 
Glum. You 'd give the best of shoes 
within your shop 
To be but half so handsome. 
Hunc. Since you come 

''^ To that, I '11 put my beauty to the test : 
Tom Thumb, I 'm yours, if you with me 
will go. 
Glum. Oh ! stay, Tom Thumb, and you 
alone shall fill 
That bed where twenty giants used to lie. 
Thumb. In the balcony that o'erhangs the 
stage, 
I 've seen a whore two 'prentices engage ; 
One half-a-crown does in his fingers hold, 
The other shows a little piece of gold ; 

73 "A cobbling poet indeed," says Mr. D. ; and yet 
I believe we may find as monstrous images in the 
tragic authors : I '11 put down one : 

Untie your folded thoughts, and let them dangle 
loose as a bride's hair. Injured Love. 

Which line seems to have as much title to a mil- 
liner's shop as our author's to a shoemaker's. 

74 Mr. L — [Lee] takes occasion in this place to 
commend the great care of our author to preserve the 
metre of blank verse, in which Shakespeare, Jonson, • 
and Fletcher were so notoriously negligent ; and the 
moderns, in imitation of our author, so laudably ob- 
servant : 

Then does 
Your majesty believe that he can be 
A traitor? Earl of Essex. 

Every page of Sophonisba gives us instances of this 

excellence. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



627 



She the half-guinea wisely does jTurloin, 

And leaves the larger and the baser coin. 

Glum. Left, scorned, and loathed for sucli 

a chit as this; 
''^ I feel the storm that 's rising in my 

mind. 
Tempests and whirlwinds rise, and roll, 

and roar. 
T 'm all within a hurricane, as if 
^^ The world's four wmds were pent 

within my carcase. 
^^ Confusion, horror, murder, guts, and 

death ! 



Scene 8. 
{King, Glumdalca.) 

King. ''^ Sure never was so sad a king 

as I! 
"^ My life is worn as ragged as a coat 
A beggar wears; a prince should put it 

off. 
^'^ To love a captive and a giantess ! 
Oh love ! oh love ! how great a king art 

thou ! 
My tongue 's thy trumpet, and thou 

trumpetest. 
Unknown to me, within me. ^^ Oh, 

Glumdalca ! 
Heaven thee designed a giantess to make. 
But an angelic soul was shuttled in. 
^2 I am a multitude of walking griefs, 
And only on her lips the balm is found 
^^ To spread a plaster that might cure 

them all. 

75 Love mounts and rolls about my stormy mind. 

Aurengzehe. 
Tempests and whirlwinds through my bosom move. 

Cleom[enes\. 

76 "With such a furious tempest on his brow, 
As if the world's four winds were pent within 

His blustering carcase. Anne Bullen. 

77 Verba Tragica. [i. e., stock words in tragedy.] 

78 This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet. 

79 My life is worn to rags, 

Not worth a prince's wearing. 

Love Triumphant. 

80 Must I beg the pity of my slave ? 

Must a king beg? But love's a greater king, 
A tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me. 
He tunes the organ to my voice and speaks. 
Unknown to me, within me. Sebastian. 

81 When thou wert formed heaven did a man begin ; 
But a brute soul by chance was shuffled in. 

Aurengzcbe. 
82 I am a multitude 
Of walking griefs. 

New Sophonisba. 

83 T will take thy scorpion blood. 
And lay it to my grief till I have ease. 

Anne Bullen. 

84 Our author, who everywhere shows his great 
penetration into human nature, here outdoes himself: 
where a less judicious poet would have raised a long 
scene of whining love, he, who understood the pas- 
sions better, and that so violent an affection as this 
must be too big for utterance, chooses rather to send 
his characters off in this sullen doleful manner, in 



Glum. What do I hear? 

King. What do I see? 

Glum. 

King. 



®* Glum. 
King. 
^^ Glum. 
King. 



Oh! 
Ah! 
Ah ! wretched queen ! 

Oh I wretched king ! 

Ah! 
Oh! 



Scene 9. 

[Torn Thumb, Huncamunca, Parson.) 

Par. Happy 's the wooing that 's not long 
a doing; 
For, if I guess right, Tom Thumb this 

night 
Shall give a being to a new Tom Thumb. 
Thumb. It shall be my endeavor so to do. 
Hunc. Oh ! fie upon you, sir, you make 

me blush. 
Thumb. It is the virgin's sign, and suits 
you well : 
^° I know not where, nor how, nor what 

I am; 
^'' I 'm so transported, I have lost myself. 

which admirable conduct he is imitated by the author 
of the justly celebrated Eurydice. Dr. Young seems 
to point at this violence of passion : 

Passion chokes 

Their words, and they 're the statues of despair. 
And Seneca tells us, "Curas leves loquuntur, ingentes 
stupent." The story of tlie Egyptian king in Hero- 
dotus is too well known to need to be inserted ; I 
refer the more curious reader to the excellent Mon- 
taigne, who hath written an essay on this subject. 
85 To part is death. 

'Tis death to part. 

Ah! 
Oh I 
[Otway's] Don Carlos. 
86 Nor know I whether 
What am I, who, or where. 

B usiris. 
I was I know not what, and am I know not how. 

Gloriana. 
87 To understand sufficiently the beauty of this pas- 
sage, it will be necessary that we comprehend every 
man to contain two selfs. I shall not attempt 
to prove this from philosophy, which the poets make 
so plainly evident. 

One runs away from the other : 

— Let me demand your ma.iesty, 
Why fly you from yourself 1 

Duke of Guise. 
In a second one self is a guardian to the other: 
Leave me the care of me. 

Conquest of Granada. 
Again: 

Myself am to myself less near. 

Ibid. 
In the same, the first self is proud of the second : 
I myself am proud of me. 

State of Innocence. 
In a third, distrustful of him : 
Fain I would tell, but whisper it in my ear, 
That none besides might hear, nay, not myself. 

Earl of Essex. 
In a fourth, honors him: 
I honor Rome, 
And honor too myself. 

Sophonisba. 



G28 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Ilunc. Forbid it, all ye stars, for you 're 

so small, 
That were you lost, you 'd find yourself 

no more. 
So the unhaiDpy sempstress once, they 

say. 
Her needle in a pottle,* lost, of hay; 
In vain she looked, and looked, and made 

her moan, 
For ah, the needle was for over gone. 
rar. Long may tliey live, and love, and 

propagate, 
Till the whole land be peopled with Tom 

Thumbs ! 
***^ So, when the Cheshire clieese a maggot 

breeds. 
Another and another still succeeds: 
By thousaTids and ten thousands they 

increase, 
Till one continued maggot fills the rolten 

cheese. 



Scene 10. 

(Noodle, and then Grizzle.) 

Nood. ^° Sure, Nature means to break her 
solid chain, 
Or else unfix the world, and in a rage 
To hurl it from its axletree and hinges; 
All things are so confused, the king 's in 

love. 
The queen is drunk, the princess married 
is. 
GHz. Oh, Noodle! Hast thou Hunca- 

nnmca seen? 
Nood. I 've seen a thousand sights this 
day, where none 
Are by the wonderful bitch herself out- 
done. 

In a fifth, at variance with him: 
Leave me not thus at variance witli myself. 

Busiris. 
Again, in a sixth : 

I find myself divided from myself. 

[Charles Johnson's] Medea. 
She seemed the sad effigies of herself. 

Banks. 
Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be 
The friend thou seemst, assist me against me. 

Albion Queens. 

Prom all which it appears that there are two selfs ; 

and therefore Tom Thumb's losing himself is no such 

solecism as it hath been represented by men rather 

ambitious of criticising than qualified to criticise. 

88 Mr. F — [Fielding] imagines this parson to have 
been a Welsh one, from his simile. 

89 Our author hath been plundered here, according 
to custom : 

Great Nature, break thy chain that links together 

The fabric of the world, and make a chaos 

Like that within my soul. Love Triumphant. 

Startle Nature, unfix the globe, 

And hurl it from its axletree and hinges. 

Albion Queens. 
The tottering earth seems sliding off its props. 



The king, the queen, and all the court, 
are sights. 
Griz. "" D — n your delay, you trifler! are 
you drunk, ha? 
I will not hear one word but Hunca- 
munca. 
Nood. By this time she is married to Tom 

Thumb. 
Griz. ^^ My Huncanaunca ! 
Nood. Your Huncamunca, 

Toni Thumb's Huncamunca, every man's 
Huncamunca. 
G7-iz. If this be true, all womankind are 

damned. 
Nood. If it be not, may I be so myself. 
Griz. See where slie comes ! I '11 not be- 
lieve a word 
Against that face, upon whose ^- ample 

brow 
Sits innocence with majesty enthroned. 
(Grizzle, Huncamunca.) 
Griz. Where has my Huncamunca been? 
See here. 
The licence in my hand ! 
Hunc. Alas! Tom Thumb. 

Griz. Why dost thou mention him? 
Rune. Ah, me! Tom Thumb. 

Griz. W^hat means my lovely Hunca- 
munca ? 
Ilunc. Hmn ! 

Griz. Oh ! si:)eak. 
Ilunc. Hum ! 

Griz. Ha ! your every word is hum : 

"^ You force me still to answ er you, Tom 

Thumb. 
Tom Thumb — I 'm on the rack — I 'm in a 

flame. 
o^Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb, Tom 

Thumb — you love the name; 
So i^leasing is that sound, that, were you 

dumb. 
You still would find a voice to cry Tom 
Thumb. 
Ilunc. Oh ! be not hasty to proclaim my 
doom ! 
My anqde heart for more than one has 

room : 
A maid like me Heaven formed at least 
for two. 

90 D — n your delay, ye torturers, proceed ; 
I will not hear one word but Almahide. 

Conquest of Granada. 
ni Mr. Dryden hath imitated this in All for Love. 
o-j This Miltonic style abounds in the New Sopho- 
nisba: 

And on her ample brow 

Sat majesty. 
t)3 Your every answer still so ends in that, 
You force me still to answer you Morat. 

A urenpzebe. 
94 Morat, Morat, Morat! you love the name. Ibid. 



* For bottle, meaning bundle. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



629 



"'' I married liim, and now I '11 uiariy 
you. 
6'm. Ha ! dost thou own thy falsehood to 
my face? 

Tlunkest thou that I will share thy hus- 
band's place? 

Since to that office one cannot suffice, 

And since you scorn to dine one single 
dish on, 

Go, get your husband put into commis- 
sion. 

Commissioners to discharge (ye gods ! it 
fine is) 

The duty of a husband to your highness. 

Yet think not long I will my rival bear, 

Or unrevenged the slighted willow wear; 

The gloomy, brooding temjiest, now con- 
fined 

Within the hollow caverns of my mind, 

In dreadful whirl shall roll along the 
coasts, 

Shall thin the land of all the men it 
boasts, 

^^ And cram uj? every chink of hell with 
ghosts. 

°^ So have I seen, in some dark winter's 
day, 

A sudden storm rush down the sky's high- 
way, 

Sweep thi'ough the streets with terrible 
ding-dong, 

Gush through the spouts, and wash whole 
c[r]owds along. 

The crowded shops the thronging ver- 
min screen, 

Together cram the dirty and the clean. 

And not one shoe-boy in the street is 
seen. 

95 "Here is a sentiment for the virtuous Hunoa- 
miinoal" says Mr. D — s. And yet, with the leave 
of this great man, the virtuous I'antlica, in Gyrus, 
hatli an heart every wliit as ample: 

For two I must confess are sods to rae, 
Which is my Abradatus first, and tliee. 

Gyrus the Great. 
Nor is the lady in Love Triumphant more reserved, 
though not so intelligible: 

I am so divided. 
That I grieve most for both, avA love both most. 

!»6 A ridiculous supposition to any one who consid- 
ers the great and extensive largeness of hell, says a 
commentator ; but not so to those who consider the 
great expansion of immaterial substance. Mr. Banks 
makes one soul to be so expanded, that heaven could 
not contain it: . ' 

The heavens are all too narrow for her soul. 

Virtue Betrayed. 

The Persian Princess hath a passage not unlike the 
author of this: 

We will send such shoals of murdered slaves, 
Shall glut hell's empty regions. 

This threatens to fill hell, even though it was empty: 
Lord Grizzle, only to fill up the chinks, supposing the 
rest already full. 

97 Mr. Addison is generally thought to have had 
this simile in his eye when he wrote that beautiful 
one at the end of the third act of his Gato. 



II line. Oh, fatal rashness ! should his fury 
slay 
My Iiapless bridegroom on his wedding- 

I, who this morn of two chose which to 
wed, 

May go again this night alone to bed. 

°^ So have I seen some wild unsettled 
fool, 

Who had her choice of this and that 
joint-stool. 

To give the preference to either loth. 

And fondly coveting to sit on both, 

While the two stools her sitting-part con- 
found, 

Between 'em both fall squat upon the 
gromid. 



ACT III. 
Scene 1. King Arthur's Palace. 

^^ Ghost (solus). Hail! ye black horrors 
of midnight's midnoon ! 
Ye fairies, goblins, bats, and screech- 
owls, hail ! 

98 This beautiful simile is founded on a proverb 
whicli does honor to the English language: 

Between two stools the breech falls to the ground. 

I am not so well pleased with any written remains 
of the ancients as with those little aphorisms which 
verbal tradition hath delivered down to us under the 
title of proverbs. It were to be wished that, instead 
oi filling their pages with the fabulous theology of the 
pagans, our modern poets would think it worth their 
while to enrich their works with the proverbial say- 
ings of their ancestors. Mr. Dryden hath chronicled 
one in heroic: 

Two ifs scarce make one possibility. 

Conquest of Granada. 

My Lord Bacon is of opinion that, whatever is 
known of arts and sciences might be proved to have 
lurked in the Proverbs of Solomon 1 am of the 
same opinion in relation to those above mentioned; 
at least I am confident that a more perfect system of 
ethics, as well as economy, might be comjjiled out of 
them than is at present extant, either in the works 
of the ancient philosophers, or tliose more valuable, 
as more voluminous ones of the modern divines. 

09 Of all the particulars in which the modern stage 
falls short of the ancient, there is none so much to 
be lamented as the great scarcity of ghosts. 
Whence this i)roceeds I will not presume to de- 
termine. Some are of opinion that the moderns arc 
unequal to that sublime language which a ghost ought 
to speak. One says, ludicrously, that ghosts are out 
of fashion ; another that they are properer for com- 
edy ; forgetting, I suppose, that Aristotle hath told us 
that a ghost is the soul of tragedy ; for so I render the 
\pvxv o fivOos TTJs rpayoibias which M. Dacier, 
amongst others, hath mistaken; I suppose misled by 
not understanding the Fabula of the Latins, which 
signifies a ghost as well as fable. 

"Te premet nox, fabulseque manes." 

Horace. 
Of all the ghosts that have ever appeared on the stage, 
a very lerrned and judicious foreign critic gives the 
preference to this of our author. These are his 
words, speaking of tliis tragedy : — "Nee quidquam in 
ilia admirabilius quam phasma quoddam horrendum, 
quod omnibus aliis spectris, quit)uscum scatet Ange- 
lorum traguidia, longe (pace D — ysii V. Doctiss. 
dixerim) pratulerim " 



630 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



And, oh ! ye mortal watchmen, whose 

hoarse throats 
The innnortal ghosts' dread croakings 

counterfeit. 
All hail ! — Ye dancing phantoms, who, 

by day. 
Are some condemned to fast, some feast 

in fire, 
Now play in churchyards, skipping o'er 

the graves. 
To the '°° loud music of the silent bell, 
All hail! 



Scene 2. 

{King and Ghost.) 

King. What noise is this? What villain 
dares. 
At this dread hour, with feet and voice 

profane, 
Disturb our royal walls'? 
Ghost. One who defies 

Thy empty power to hurt him; ^"^ one 

who dares 
Walk in thy bedchamber. 
King. Presumptuous slave ! 

Thou diest. 
Ghost. Threaten others with that word : 

^°^ I am a ghost, and am already dead. 
King. Ye stars ! 't is well. Were thy last 
hour to come. 
This moment had been it ; ^'^^ yet by thy 

shroud 
I '11 pull thee backward, squeeze thee to a 

bladder. 
Till thou dost groan thy nothingness 

away. 
Thou flyest ! 'T is well. 

{Ghost retires.) 

100 We have already given instances of this figure. 

101 Almanzor reasons in the same manner : 

A ghost I '11 be; 
And from a ghost, you know, no place is free. 

Conquest of Granada. 

102 " The man who writ this wretched pun," says 
Mr. D., "would have picked your pocket:" which he 
proceeds to show not only bad in itself, but doubly bo 
on so solemn an occasion. And yet, in that excellent 
play of Liberty Asserted, we find something very 
much resembling a pun in the mouth of a mistress, 
who is parting with the lover she is fond of : 

VI. Oh, mortal woe 1 one kiss, and then farewell. 

Irene. The gods have given to others to fare well. 
O ! miserably must Irene fare. 

Agamemnon, in the Yictim, is full as facetious on the 
most solemn occasion — that of sacrificing his daugh- 
ter : 

Yes, daughter, yes ; you will assist the priest ; 

Yes. you must offer up your — vows for Greece. 

103 l"'ll pull thee backwards by thy shroud to light, 
Or else I '11 squeeze thee, like a bladder, there. 
And make thee groan thyself away to air. 

Conquest of Granada 
Snatch me, ye gods, this moment into nothing. 

Cyrus the Great. 



'^^^ I thought what was the courage of a 

ghost ! 
Yet, dare not, on thy life — Why say I 

that, 
Since life thou hast not? — Dare not walk 

again 
Within these walls, on pain of the Ked 

Sea. 
For, if henceforth I ever find thee here, 
As sure, sure as a gun, I '11 have thee 

laid 

Ghost. Were the Ked Sea a sea of Hol- 
land's gin, 
The liquor (when alive) whose very smell 
I did detest, did loathe — yet, for the sake 
Of Thomas Thumb, I would be laid 

therein. 
King. Ha! said you? 
Ghost. Yes, my liege, I said Tom Thumb, 
Whose father's ghost I am — once not 

unknown 
To mighty Arthur. But, I see, 'tis true, 
The dearest friend, when dead, we all 

forget. 
King. 'T is he — it is the honest Gaffer 

Thumb. 
Oh ! let me })ress thee in my eager arms, 
Thou best of ghosts! thou something 

more than ghost ! 
Ghost. Would I were something more, 

that we again 
Might feel each other in the warm em- 
brace. 
But now I have th' advantage of my 

king, 
105 Pqp J fggj thee, whilst thou dost not 

feel me. 
King. But say, ^^^ thou dearest air, Oh ! 

say what dread, 
Important business sends thee back to 

earth? 
Ghost. Oh! then j^repare to hear — which 

but to hear 
Is full enough to send thy spirit hence. 
Thy subjects up in arms, by Grizzle led, 
Will, ere the rosy-fingered morn shall 

ope 
The shutters of the sky, before the gate 

104 So, art thou gone? Thou canst no conquest 

boast. 
I thought what was the courage of a ghost. 

Conquest of Granada 
King Arthur seems to be as brave a fellow as Alman- 
zor, who says most heroically. 

In spite of ghosts I Ml on. 

105 The ghost of Lausaria. in Cyru^. is a plain 
copy of this, and is therefore worth reading: 

Ah, Cyrus ! 

Thou mayest as well grasp water, or fleet air, 

As think of touching my immortal shade. 

Cyrus the Great. 

106 Thou better part of heavenly air 

Conquest of Granada. 



TOM THUMB THE GREAT 



631 



Of this thy royal palace, swarming 

spread. 
1°^ So have I seen the bees in clusters 

swarm, 
So have I seen the stars in frosty nights, 
So have I seen the sand in windy days, 
So have I seen the ghost [s] on Pluto's 

shore. 
So have I seen the flowers in spring arise, 
So have I seen the leaves in autumn fall, 
So have I seen the fruits in summer smile, 
So have I seen the snow in winter frown. 
King. D — n all thou hast seen ! dost thou, 

beneath the shape 
Of Gaffer Thumb, come hither to abuse 

me 
With similes, to keep me on the rack? 
Hence — or, by all the torments of thy 

hell, 
108 J '11 run thee through the body, though 

thou 'st none. 
Ghost. Arthur, beware! I must this mo- 
ment hence, 
Not frighted by your voice, but by the 

cocks ! 
Arthur beware, beware, beware, beware ! 
Strive to avert thy yet impending fate ; 
For if thou 'rt killed to-day, 
To-morrow all thy care will come too 

late. 



Scene 3. 
(King, solus.) 

King. Oh! stay, and leave me not uncer- 
tain thus! 

And, whilst thou tellest me what 's like 
my fate. 

Oh ! teach me how I may avert it too ! 

Cursed be the man who first a simile 
made! 

Cursed every bard who writes ! — So have 
I seen 

Those whose comparisons are just and 
true, 

And those who liken things not like at 
all. 

The devil is happy that the whole cre- 
ation 

Can furnish out no simile to his fortune. 

107 "A string of similes," says one, "proper to be 
hung up in the cabinet of a prince." 

108 This passage hath been understood several dif- 
ferent ways bv the commentators. For my part, I 
find it difficult to understand it at all. Mr. Dryden 
says — 

I 've heard something how two bodies meet. 

But how two souls join I know not. 

So that, till the body of a spirit be better understood, 

it will be difficult to understand how it is possible to 

run him through it. 



Scene 4. 

{King, Queen.) 

Queen. What is the cause, my Arthur, 

that you steal 
Thus silently from DollalloUa's breast"? 
Why dost thou leave me in the ^"^ dark 

alone, 
When well thou knowest I am afraid of 

sprites'? 
King. Oh, DoUallolla ! do not blame my 

love ! 
I hoped the fumes of last night's punch 

had laid 
Thy lovely eyelids fast. — But, oh ! I find 
There is no power in drams to quiet 

wives ; 
Each mom, as the returning sun, they 

wake. 
And shine upon their husbands. 
Queen. Think, Oh think! 

What a surprise it must be to the sun, 
Rising, to find the vanished world away. 
What less can be the wretched wife's 

surprise 
When, stretching out her arms to fold 

thee fast. 
She folds her useless bolster in her arms. 
110 Think, think, on that.— Oh ! think, 

think well on that ! 
I do remember also to have read 
m In Dryden's Ovid's Metamorphoses, 
That Jove in form inanimate did lie 
With beauteous Danae: and, trust me, 

love, 
11- 1 feared the bolster might have been 

a Jove. 
King. Come to my arms, most virtuous of 

thy sex ; 
Oh, DoUallolla ! Avere all wives like thee, 
So many husbands never had worn horns. 
Should Huncamunca of thy worth par- 
take, 
Tom Thumb indeed were blest. — Oh, fatal 

name ! 
For didst thou know one quarter what I 

know, 
Then wouldst thou know — Alas! what 

thou wouldst know! 

100 Cvdaria is of the same fearful temper with 
bollalloUa. 
I never durst in darkness be alone. 

(Dryden's) Indian Emperor. 

110 Think well of this, think that, think every way. 

Soplwnisha. 

111 These quotations are more usual in the comic 
than in the trasic writers. 

112 "This distress," says Mr. D — [Dennis], I 
must allow to be extremely beautiful, and tends to 
heighten the virtuous character of DoUallolla, who is 
so exceedingly delicate, that she is in the highest 
apprehension from the inanimate embrace of a bolster. 
An example worthy of imitation [for] all our writ- 
ers of tragedy." 



632 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Queen. What can I gather hence? Why 

dost thou speak 
Like men who carry rareeshows * about ? 
"Now you shall see, gentlemen, what you 

shall see." 
O, tell me more, or thou hast told too 

much. 



Scene 5. 

{King, Queen, Noodle.) 

Nood. Long life attend your majesties se- 
rene. 
Great Arthur, king, and Dollallolla, 



queen 



Lord Grizzle, with a bold rebellious 

crowd, 
Advances to the palace, threatening loud, 
Unless the princess be delivered straiglit, 
And the victorious Thumb, without his 

pate. 
They are resolved to batter down the 

gate. 



Scene C. 
{King, Queen, Iluncamunca, Noodle.) 

King. See where the princess comes! 

Where is Tom Thumb? 
llunc. Oh! sir, about an hour and half 

ago 
He sallied out to encounter willi the foe. 
And swore, unless his fate had him nus- 

led. 
From Grizzle's shoulders to cut oil' his 

head. 
And serve 't up with your cluicolalc in 

bed. 
King. 'T is well, I found one devil told 

us b(»th. 
Come, Dollallolla, Iluncanunica, come; 
Within we '11 wait for the victorious 

Thumb: 
In peace and safety we secure may stay, 
While to his arm we trust the bloody 

fray; 
Though men and giants should conspire 

with gods, 
^^^ He is alone equal to all these odds. 

113 "Credat Judoeus Appella, 

Non ego," 
says Mr. D — . "For, passing over the absurdity of 
being equal to odds, can we possibly suppose a little 
insignificant fellow — I say again, a little insignificant 
fellow — able to vie with a strength which all the Sam- 
sons and Herculeses of antiquity would be unable 
to encounter?" I shall refer this incredulous critics 
to Mr. Dryden's defence of his Almanzor ; and, lest 
that should not satisfy him, I shall quote a few lines 



Queen. He is, indeed, ^^* a helmet to us 
all; 
While he supports we need not fear to 

fall; 
His arm dispatches all things to our wish, 
And serves up eveiy foe's head in a dish. 
Void is the mistress of the house of care, 
AVhile the good cook presents the bill of 

fare; 
Whether the cod, that northern king of 

fish. 
Or duck, or goose, or pig, adorn the dish. 
No fears the number of her guests af- 
ford. 
But at her hour she sees the dinner on 
the board. 



Scene 7. A Plain. 
{Grizzle, Foodie, Behels.) 

Griz. Thus far our arms w^ith victory are 
crowned ; 
For, though we have not fought, yet we 

have found 
^^^ No enemy to fight withal. 
Food. Yet I, 

Methinks, would willingly avoid this day, 
11° This first of April, to engage our foes. 
Griz. This day, of all the days of th' year, 
I 'd choose. 
For on this day my gTandmother was 

born. 
Gods! I will make Tom Thumb an 
April-fool ; 

from the speech of a much braver fellow than Alman- 
zor, Mr. Johnson's Achilles : 
Thoiigh human race rise in embattled hosts. 
To force her from my arms — Oh ! son of Atreus 1 
By that immortal power, whose deathless spirit 
Informs this earth, I will oppose them all. 

Yictim. 

114 "I have heard of being supported by a staff," 
savs Mr. D., "but never of being supported by an 
helmet." I believe lie never heard of sailing witli 
wings, which he may read in no less a poet than Mr. 
Dryden : 
Unless we borrow wings, and sail through air. 

Love Triumphant. 
What will he sav to a kneeling valley ? 

1 '11 stand 

Like a safe valley, that low bends the knee 
To some aspiring mountain. Injured Love. 

I am ashamed of fo ignorant a carper, who doth not 
know that an epithet in tragedy is very often no other 
than an expletive. Do not we read in the New 
Sophonisba of "grinding chains, blue plagues, white 
occasions, and blue serenity?" Nay, it is not the 
adjective only, but sometimes half a sentence is put by 
way of expletive, as, "Beauty pointed high with 
spirit," in the same play ; and, "In the lap of bless- 
ing, to be most curst," in the Revenge. ^ 

iir> A victory like that of Almanzor: 
Almanzor is victorious without fight. 

Conquest of Oranada. 

11 G Well have we chose an happy day for fight; 
For every man, in course of time, has found 
Some days are lucky, some unfortunate. 

King Arthur. 



A peep-show, carried around in a box. 



TOM TIimiB THE GREAT 



G33 



^^^ Will teach his wit an errand it ne'er 

knew, 
And send it post to the Elysian shades. 
Food. I 'm glad to find onr army is so 
stout, 
Nor does it move my wonder less than 
joy. 
Griz. ^^^ Wliat friends we have, and how 
we came so strong, 
I 'II softly tell you as we march along. 

Scene S. Thunder and Lightning. 
{Tom Thumh, Cdumdalca, cum suis.*) 

Thumb. Oh, Noodle ! hast thou seen a day 
like this? 
^^^The unborn thunder rumbles o'er our 

heads, 
^-°As if the gods meant to unhinge the 

world ; 
And heaven and eartli in wild confusion 

hurl ; » 

Yet will I boldly tread the tottering ball. 
Merl Tom Thumb! 
Thumb. What voice is this I hear"? 

Merl. Tom Thumb ! 

Thumh. Again it calls. 
Merl Tom Thumb! 

Glum. It calls again. 

Thumb. Appear, whoe'er thou art; I fear 

thee not. 
Merl. Thou hast no cause to fear, I am 
thy friend. 
Merlin by name, a conjuror by trade. 
And to my art thou dost thy being owe. 
Thumh. How ! 

Merl. Hear then the mystic getting of 
Tom Thumb. 

^-^ His father was a ploughman plain, 

His mother milked the cow; 
And yet the way to get a son 

This couple knew not how. 
Until such time the good old man 

To learned Merlin goes, 
And there to him, in great distress. 

In secret manner shows; 
How in his heart he wished to have 

117 We read of such another in Lee : 
Teach his rude wit a flight she never made, 
And send her post to the Elysian shade. 

Gloriana. 

118 These lines are copied verbatim in the Indian 
Emperor. 

110 Unborn thunder rolling in a cloud. 

Conquest of Ornnnda. 

120 Were heaven and earth in wild confusion hurled, 
Should the rash gods unhinge the rolling world, 
Undaunted would I tread the tottering ball, 
Crushed, but unconqucred. in the dreadful fall. 

[Hopkins'! VemnJe. Warrior. 

121 See the History of Tom Thumb, page 2. 



A child, in time to come. 
To be his heir, though it may be 

No bigger tlian his thumb: 
Of whicli old Merlin was foretold 

That he his wish should have; 
And so a son of statui-e small 

The charmer to him gave. 

Thou'st heard the past, look up and see 

the future. 
Thumh. ^^^ Lost in amazement's gulf, my 

senses sink ; 
See there, Glumdalea, see another ^-^me! 
Glum. O, sight of horror! see, you are 

devoured 
By the expanded jaws of a red cow. 
Merl. Let not these sights deter thy noble 

mind, 
^-* For, lo! a sight more glorious courts 

thy eyes. 
See from afar a theatre arise; 
There ages, yet unborn, shall tribute pay 
To the heroic actions of this day ; 
Then buskin tragedy at length shall 

choose 
Tliy name the best supporter of her muse. 
Thtimh. Enough : let every warlike music 

sound. 
We fall contented, if we fall renown'd. 

Scene 9. 

(Lord Grizzle, Foodie, Bebels, on one side; 
Tom Thumh, Glumdalea, on the other.) 

Food. At Icngtli the enemy advances nigh, 
^-^ I hear them with my ear, and see 
them with my eye. 
Griz. Draw all your swords : for liberty 
we fight, 
^-^ And liberty the mustard is of life. 

122 Aniazoment swallows up my sense. 

And in the impetuous whirl of circling fati; 
Drinks down my reason. Persian Princess. 

1-^ I have outfaced myself. 

Whatl am I two? Is there another me? 

Kino Arthur. 

124 The character of Merlin is wonderful through- 
out; but most so in this prophetic part. We find 
several of these prophecies in the tragic authors, who 
frequently take this opportunity to pay a compliment 
to their country, and sometimes to their prince. 
None but our author (who seems to have detested 
the least appearance of flattery) would have passed 
by such an opportunity of being a political prophet. 

125 1 saw the villain, Myron; with these eyes I 

saw him. Busiri^. 

In both which places it is intimated that it is some- 
times possible to see with other eyes than your own. 

126 "This mustard," says Mr. D., "is enough to 
turn one's stomach. I would be glad to know what 
idea the author had in his head when he wrote it." 
Til is will lie, I believe, best explained by a line of Mr. 
Dennis : 

And gave him liberty, the salt of life. 

Libertu Asserted. 
The understanding that can digest the one will not 
rise at the other. 



With their followers. 



634 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Thumb. Are you the man whom men 

famed Giizzle name? 
Griz. ^"^ Are you the much more famed 

Tom Thumb? 
Thumb. The same. 

Griz. Come on; our worth upon ourselves 
we '11 prove ; 
For liberty I fight. 
Thumb. And I for love. 

{A bloody engagement between the two 
armies here; drums beating, trumpets 
sounding, thunder and lightning. They 
fight off and on several times. Some fall. 
Griz. and Glum, remain.) 
Glum. Turn, coward, turn; nor from a 

woman fly. 
Griz. Away — thou art too ignoble for my 

arm. 
Glum. Have at thy heart. 
Griz. Nay, then I thrust at thine. 

Glum. You push too well; you've run me 
through the guts. 
And I am dead. 
Griz. Then there's an end of one. 

Thumb. When thou art dead, then there 's 
an end of two, 
128 Villain. 
Griz. Tom Thumb ! 
Thumb. Rebel ! 
Griz. Tom Thumb! 
Thumb. Hell ! 
Griz. Huncamunca ! 
Thumb. Thou hast it there, 
Griz. Too sure I feel it. 
Thumb. To hell then, like a rebel as you 
are, 
And give my service to the rebels there. 
Griz. Triumph not. Thumb, nor think 
thou shalt enjoy 
Thy Huncamunca undisturbed; I'll send 
i29"]y[y (jhost to fetch her to the other 

world ; 
130 It shall but bait at heaven, and then 
return. 

127 Ban. Are you the chief whom men famed 
Scipio call ? 

Scip. Are you the much more famous Hannibal? 

Hannibal. 

128 Dr. Young seems to have copied this engage- 
ment in his Busiris. 

Myr. Villain! 
Mem. Myron 1 
Myr. Rebel 1 
Mem. Myron 1 
Myr. Hell I 
Mem. Mandane! 

129 This last speech of my Lord Grizzle hath been 
of great service to our poets: 

I '11 hold it fast 
As life, and when life's gone I'll hold this last; 
And if thou takest it from me when I'm slain, 
I'll send my ghost, and fetch it back again 

Conqiiest of Oranada. 

130 My soul should with such speed obey, 
It should not bait at heaven to stop its way. 



131 But, ha ! I feel death rumbling in my 

brains : 

132 Some kinder sprite knocks softly at 

my soul, 
And gently whispers it to haste away. 
I come, I come, most willingly I come. 

133 So when some city wife, for country 

air. 

To Hampstead or to Highgate does re- 
pair. 

Her to make haste her husband does im- 
plore, 

And cries, "My dear, the coach is at the 
door:" 

With equal wish, desirous to be gone, 

She gets into the coach, and then she 
cries — "Drive on !" 
Thumb. With those last words i3* he vom- 
ited his soul. 

Which, 135 like whipt cream, the devil 
will SAvallow down. 

Bear off the body, and cut off the head, 

Which I will to the king in ti'iumph lug. 

Rebellion 's dead, and now I '11 go to 
breakfast. 



Scene 10, 
{King, Queen, Huncamunca, Courtiers.) 

King. Open the prisons, set the wretched 

free. 
And bid our treasurer disburse six 

pounds 
To pay their debts. — Let no one weep 

to-day. 
Come, Dollallolla ;. i30(.^j.gg ^jj^t odious 

name ! 
It is so long, it asks an hour to speak it. 
By heavens ! I '11 change it into Doll, or 

Loll, 
Or any other civil monosyllable. 
That will not tire my tongue. — Come, sit 

thee down. 

Lee seems to have had this last in his eye: 
"T was not my purpose, sir, to tarry there; 
I would but go to heaven to take the air. 

Gloriana. 

131 A rising vapor rumbling in my brains. 

Cleomenes. 

132 Some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul. 
To tell me fate 's at hand. 

133 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this simile in his 
eye, when he says, 

My soul is packing up, and just on wing. 

Conquest of Granada. 
134 And in a purple vomit poured his soul. 

Cleomenes. 
135 The devil swallows vulgar souls 

Like whipt cream. Sebastian. 

136 How I could curse my name of Ptolemy! 
It is so long, it asks an hour to write it. 
By heaven! I '11 change it into Jove or Mars I 
Or any other civil monosyllable. 
That will not tire my hand. Cleomenes. 



TOM THUMB TPIE GREAT 



G35 



Here seated let us view the dancers' 

sports ; 
Bid 'em advance. This is the wedding-day 
Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom 

Thumb ; 
Tom Thumb ! who wins two victories ^^" 

to-day, 
And this way marches, bearing Grizzle's 

head. 
*~ A dance here. 

Nood. Oh ! monstrous, dreadful, terrible. 

Oh ! Oh ! 
Deaf be my ears, for ever blind my eyes ! 
Dumb be my tongue ! feet lame ! all 

senses lost ! 
^^^ Howl wolves, grunt bears, hiss snakes, 

shriek all ye ghosts ! 
King. What does the blockhead mean ? 
Nood. I mean, my liege, 

139 Only to grace my tale with decent 

horror. 
Whilst from my garret, twice two stories 

high, 
T looked abroad into the streets below, 
I saw Tom Thumb attended by the mob; 
Twice twenty shoe-boys, twice two dozen 

links, 
Chairmen and porters, hackney-coach- 
men, whores; 
Aloft he bore the grizly head of Grizzle; 
When of- a sudden through the streets 

there came 
A cow, of larger than the usual size. 
And in a moment — guess. Oh ! guess the 

rest ! — 
And in a moment swallowed up Tom 

Thumb. 
King. Shut up again the prisons, bid my 

treasurer 
Not give three farthings out — hang all 

the culprits. 
Guilty or not — no matter. — Ravish vir- 
gins: 
Go bid the schoolmasters whip all their 

boys! 
Let lawyers, parsons, and physicians 

loose, 
To rob, impose on, and to kill the world. 
Nood. Her majesty the queen is in a 

swoon. 

137 Here is a visible conjunction of two days in 
one, by which our author may have either intended 
an emblem of a wedding, or to insinuate th.at men in 
the honey-moon are apt to imagine time shorter than 
it is. It brings into my mind a passage in the com- 
edy called The CoffeeHouse Politician: 

We will celebrate this day at my house tomorrow. 

138 These beautiful phrases are all to be found in 
one single speech of Kino Arthur, or The British 
Worthy. 

139 I was but teaching him to grace his tale 
■With decent horror. Cleotnenes. 



Queen.- Not so much in a swoon but I have 
still 
Strength to reward the messenger of ill 
news. 

{Kills Noodle.) 
Nood. ! I am slain. 

Cle. My lover 's killed, I will revenge him 
so. 

{Kills the Queen.) 
Iliinc. My mamma killed ! vile murderess, 
beware. 

{Kills Cleora.) 
Dood. This for an old grudge to thy 
heart. 

{Kills Huncamunca.) 
Must. And this 

I drive to thine, Doodle ! for a new one. 
{Kills Doodle.) 
King. Ha ! murderess vile, take that, 
{Kills Must.) 
^*° And take thou this. 

{Kills himself, and falls.) 

So when the child, whom nurse from 

danger guards, 
Sends Jack tor mustard * with a pack of 

cards. 
Kings, queens, and knaves, throw one 

another down, 
Till the whole pack lies scattered and 

o'erthrown ; 
So all our pack upon the floor is cast. 
And all I boast is — that I fall the last. 

{Dies.) 

no We may say with Dryden [Conquest of G ran- 
ada\ : 

Death did at length so many slain forget, 
And left the tale, and took them by the great. 
I know of no tragedy which comes nearer to this 
charming and bloody catastrophe than Cleomenvs, 
where the curtain covers five principal characters 
dead on the stage. These lines too — 
I asked no questions then, of who killed who ? 
The bodies tell the story as they lie — 
seem to have belonged more properly to this scene of 
our author; nor can I help imagining they were orig- 
inally his. The, Rival Ladies Lhy DrydenJ, too, 
seem beholden to this scene : 
We're now a chain of lovers linked in death; 
Julia goes first, Gonsalvo hangs on her, 
And Angelina hangs upon Gonsalvo, 
As I on Angelina. 

No scene, I believe, ever received greater honors than 
this. It was applauded by several encores, a word 
very unusual in tragedy. And it was very difficult 
for the actors to escape without a second slaughter. 
This I take to be a lively assurance of that fierce spirit 
of liberty which remains among us, and which Mr. 
L)ryden, in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, hatli ob- 
served: "Whether custom," says he, "hath so insin- 
uated itself into our countrymen, or nature hatli so 
formed them to fierceness, I know not ; but they will 
scarcely suffer combats and other objects of horror 
to be taken from them." And indeed I am for 
having them encouraged in this martial disposition: 
nor do I believe our victories over the French have 
been owing to anything more than to those bloody 
spectacles daily exhibited in our tragedies, of which 
the French stage is so entirely clear. 



* Apparently a trick or game in which cards are stood up on end and then knocked over. 



OIJVKIJ nOLDSMITlI 



SHE STOOrS TO CONQUEl? 



Oliver ColdMiiiil.li ( 17'2S 177 1), lioni in coii- 
iriil Ireland, was I'diR'alcd in Dublin, Inter 
wtudyin},' nu'dieine in various parts «>!' (ireat 
r.ritain and the Cuntinenl. Alter attempts 
as seln)()hnasler and plivsieian, he nettled 
down as a hack or niiseellaneous writer, as 
wiiieli he was very sueeessiul, th()U<;h notliiu},' 
could have nnide liiin rieli. Careless, iner 
eurial, unpraetieal, f;t'nerous, lie like Steele 
and Slieridan was an example of Home of the 
trails often assoeiated with the Irislunan and 
with the artistic temperament. Most of his 
literary work was made l.o-order and 
mediocre; with now ami then a masterpiece, 
like 77(1' Discrlcd VUliKir amon;^' poems, 'ihc 
Vintr of Wuhcficld amon<;' novels, and t^ltr 
Sloops to Vonqmr anionjj; l»lays, whieii ad- 
\anee him elose to the front rank of eit^ht 
eenlh cenlnry wrilcrs. 

(loldsmith's |)iinei|ial oilier play, 77k 
(liuxl i\'(itiir'(t, Mail, only moderalidy }j;oo(l 
and only moderalely successful, in 17t»H had 
earned him LKK) or" IT)!)!), while 77k' \'ic<ir of 
Wakcfuld seems to have fetched only some 
l'(i;{; Ihouf^h otlieis of his non-draniatie works 
had made more than this, it is no wonder 
that in his needs he turned to the sta<j;e a^ain, 
and in 1771 wrote *S7((; Stoops lo (-on<ii(ir, 
which was piddished and ix'rformed two years 
later. Since lie badly needed money, it is 
the more (o (he credit of his literary con- 
science (hat he set himself a^'aiiist the pre- 
vailinfjf fashion of sen( imenlalism, and even 
jinbliely ridiculed it; but he had the per- 
sonal reason that Ww^U Kelly's l''(ilsi: J)c1i- 
cncjf, a rather wishy-washy specimen of the 
type, had eonio out as a rival to liia own 
earlier ])lay. (Jeor^'e t'olnnui, the maiuifjer of 
the Covent (larden theaier, doubtinfij the sne- 
cess of Skr Stoops to Contiiur, aeeejited it 
only (hroufih the persuasions and almost llie 
compulsion of Dr. .b)linson, a, warm friend 
of ( loldsmilli's. .lohnson and oilier friends 
went the lirsi. nij^dit to force applause, but 
when the nervous aiidior enlcred (he (liea(('r 
behind the sceiu's durinj,' the (ifdi act, and 
heard a hiss (at the sujiposed improbability 
of Mrs. llardcastle in her own fi;ard(Mi believ- 
in<j herself forty miles from home), (^olman 
inalicicnisly said to him, " Pshaw, Doclor, 
don't be fearful of scjtiibs, vvIhmi we have been 
sittin;,' almost these two hours u])on a barnd 
of ;fuiipowder." So str.)n^ had been the tide 
of sentimcnlalism. Hut (he tide was turned 
back, 'ilie hiss was underslood ne\(. day to 
luive come only from (umbirland, (he hi^li- 
priest t>f sentimenlal comedy; (he |day "suc- 



ceeded pro(lij:;iously," nc<'ordin}^ to even Hor- 
ace Walpole, who dislii^ed it; everybody 
walchinj,' Dr. dohiison, and laii;^liin;x when 
he did. No wonder (he aiidior dedicated his 
play to it.M }j;reatest supporter. 

'the ridicule of sentimcnlalism is most ap 
jiarent, in tin- jirolo^iie and in scene ii of act I. 
In (he foriiKT, which was writ(.en by David 
(.'arrick the actor, the play is represented as 
a, last ell'ort to revive the dyinj,' junse of sound 
lef:;itimali' comedy, and to save the world 
from (he <l(>luf^e of maudlin sentimentality 
and platilnde seiiliments poured ou(. by her 
rival, 'the parody of (he manner and 
speeches of the sen(,iniental hero must have 
been hijj;hly divertiufj^ on the slaj^e. In (.he 
other passajj;e, the fellows at The 'three 
l'i<j;eons love to hear the booby Tcmy Lumpkin 
siii<,', " bekeays he never fjives ns nolliinjj 
that's loir." " May this be my jioison if my 
bear ever dances Itut to the very j^('n(('eles(. 
of tunes." I<]|sewhere al.so there is plenty ol 
satins as in dial on (he insincere (alk of (he 
convent ion:il hero in (he embarrassed Mar- 
lowe's stutl-erinj;' adciiipts at j,M'ii(.eel convi'r- 
sation with Miss llardcastle (II. i), who 
s|)eaks salirically of "a man of suit i men t." 
Ve(;, so hard is ii. (o escape the mental adiios 
]>lier(> in which one lives, there are some 
slifjiht Hi}j;ns of tlie disease <'ven in the physi- 
cian who is to eur<( it, notably in Miss Ne- 
ville's somewhat exaf^jjcrated sense of pro- 
priety When she at last I'efuses (.o elope, 
" |irndence once more comes to her relief, and 
she will ob(<y its (lie(a(.es," but she is re- 
strained less by sense than by sensibility. 
It would have harmonized better with the 
hi^h s])irits (d* the |>lay if she had been al- 
lowed to rat.ih> oir toward Seodand. Itut 
this would have prevented not (uily a j;raiid 
finale, w'idi all the chief pi'rsona;,'es on the 
slaj^e, lint also a. sens»> of complete and duti- 
ful pi'opriety at the end. of all foi' the very 
best, of submidin;.^ oneself (.o all one's ^over 
inirs, teachers, sjiiritual pastors, and inasters. 
" i'sliaw, |>sliaw! " cries Mrs. llardcastle, ap- 
parently conscious of it, " this is all but the 
wliininf^ end of a. modern novel." 

Instead of the edidcation all'ordcd by (he 
over-sw(>et new style of jilay, (i(ddsmith meant 
simply to amuse, lie asked a friend (o whom 
he had fj;iven a ticket how he had liked the 
play. To (he reply dia( i(. had ma(h> him 
la,Uf,di h(! said, "'that is all I ask." lie would 
stick to <j;ood old-fashioned styles in comedy, 
as old llardcasde in dress: " Is not the 
whole aijc in a combinalion to drive sensi' 



fi.^d 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



C37 



iind discretion out of doorn?" He iiinifd 
hut little, jilter iiil, at eitlier autirc or tlio 
exliiljitioii of trutli for ita own sake; ratiier 
to oxcite a stato of mind as dillcront as pos- 
Hil)le from tJiat produced by a Kelly or a 
Cuiulieriand. tihc tit(j(>ps to Vom/uer is in 
tlicr main a ccjinedy of intrigue. J*jVen Horace 
VValpole, who tiiouglit it mean and " low," 
worse than the sort of comedy it satirized, 
allowed merit in tiu; situations, and that it 
made one laugh ; its admirer .Joinison, wiiile 
admitting that tlie plot, with its confusion of 
a gentleman's houst; with an inn, bordered 
upon farce, felt that the incidents were so 
|)repaied for as not to seem improbable. The 
jireparation is fairly obvious, as where in the 
(list scene Mrs. llardeastle calls the audi- 
enic's attention to the inn-like look of the 
house, and Mjss llardeastle informs her 
fathi'r that she? is wont at night to wear a 
" housewive's dicss, to please him"; and else- 
vvher(' infoiniation is given the audience in 
a sullicieiitly deliberate way. Like 8heri- 
dan, (Goldsmith caied less to 8urj)rise the 
spectator than to gratify him by sharing 
secrets with him. It may make us a little 
readier in accepting two of tlic most surpris- 
ing incidents, to know that Goldsmith as a 
boy sjient a night in a squire's house in 
Ardagh thinking it an inn, and that Sheri- 
dan played on Mme. de (ienlis a trick like 
Tony's on his mother. Chance constantly 
favors the di'ceptions, as in the jday of cross- 
purposes between Marlow and old llardeastle 
(IV. i), where the former thinks he is doing 
his landlord a favor by instructing his serv- 
ants to drink heavily and thus increase the 
bill. Hastings is too much absorbed in his 
own amorous schemes to undeceive his friend 
(his fear of disconcerting him is hardly 
enough). The light is dim when tiie bash- 
ful Marlow sees Miss llardeastle so little as 
not to recognize her the next time. We are 
willing to give the dramatist the benefit of 
every doubt; though our generosity is some- 
what tried where Miss Neville returns to 
Tony her lover's letter. The gaiety and ra- 
pidity of the action keep such improbabili- 
ties from ollending us. The farther any 
play departs from prol)al)ility — the nearer 
it comes to farce — , the more crowded must 
be the action; which here is quick and 
abundant, with an unusual amount of sur- 
prise and reversal. Assuredly it well ful- 
filled its purpose, as Dr. Johnson said: "I 
know of no comedy for many years that has 
so much exhilarated an audience, that has 
answered so much the great end of comedy 
— making an audience merry." 



'J'he characterization, as fits a comedy of 
intrigue, is simjile but lirm. l<'ew sketches 
of a heroine have more charm than Miss 
llardeastle. If her talk Uj her father some- 
times sounds a trille prim, that was only to 
be expected in a patriarchal century, and her 
merry impudence and tact in talking with 
Marlow, her freedom from prudishness, her 
living vigor, recall the heroines of fShakes- 
peare's comedies, the Kosalinds and the Leat- 
rices. Hastings, who realizes tJiat more ilies 
are caught by honey than vinegar, is the soft- 
tongued sort that gets what he wants, yet 
keeps the good-will of those who would have 
withheld it; Mrs. Hardcastle has never a 
harsh word for him. He is the oil-spring of 
an Irishman's heart. His one slip, if it is 
such, is assuring Mrs. Hardcastle that jewels 
do not befit a woman under forty, and so mak- 
ing it harder for Miss Neville to filch her 
own. Tony Lumpkin, the inspired hobble- 
dehoy, is the most enlivening creation in the 
play (suggested by Humphry Uubbin in 
Steele's The Tender Husband) . Though 
critics have protested that a fellow who could 
scarcely read should not have composed the 
admirable drinking-song in the first act, a 
light comedy may take full advantage of the 
license of art to nuike any type of person 
more perfect in the type than he would be 
in life; and is not a clever drinking-song di- 
rectly in the line of this resourceful lover of 
the bottle? Marlow and his adventures bring 
us nearest to farce, but his timidity or bold- 
ness with dilFerent sorts of women are only 
heightened beyond those of Thackeray's 
Harry Foker. 

i^hv Stoops to CoiKjuer prevailed over its 
adversary not only with a sling and with a 
stone, but also by temperate and sincere use 
of what had been overdone in the other. 
With all the merriment and extravagance, 
there is no lack of genuine sentiment, and old 
llardeastle even manages to slip in sotto voce 
a moral (V. ii) more practical than the edi- 
fying connnonjjlaces of the rival type of play. 
It follows the sentimental tradition as started 
by Steele in its entire cleanness and sweet- 
ness Garrick's promise in the prologue is 
well fulfilled; 

No poisonous drugs arc mixed in what he gives. 
If it is too much to say, though it has been 
said, that this play gave a deadly blow to the 
sentimental drama, it certainly reinstated 
pure comedy, and no reader needs to be told 
that, along with Sheridan's best two plays, 
alone among eighteenth-century dramas, it 
still e.xcites spontaneous delight on the stage. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF 

A NIGHT 



TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 

Dear Sir, — By inscribing this slight per- 
formance to you, I do not mean so much 
to compliment you as myself. It may do 
me some honor to inform the public, that 
I have lived many years in intnnacy witli 
you. It may serve the interests of man- 
kind also to inform them, that the greatest 
wit may be found in a character, without 
impairing the most unaffected piety. 

I have, particularly, reason to thank you 
for your partiality to tliis performance. 
The undertaking a comedy, not merely sen- 
timental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Col- 
man, wlio saw this piece in its various 
stages, always thought it so. However, I 
ventured to trust it to the public ; and, 
though it was necessarily delayed till late 
in the season, I have every reason to be 
grateful. — I am, dear Sir, your most sin- 
cere friend and admirer, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



PROLOGUE 

By David Garriclc, Esq. 

{Enter Mr. Wooduard,'^ dressed in hlack, 
and holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes.) 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet 

speak — 
I 'ra crying now — and have been all the 

week ! 
'T is not alone this mourniny suit, good 

masters ; 
/ 've that within — for which there are no 

plasters ! 
Pray would you know the reason why I 'm 

crying*? 
The Comic muse, lo.ng sick, is now a-dying! 
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For as a player, I can't squeeze out one 

drop: 
I am undone, that 's all — shall lose my 

bread — • 
I 'd rather, but that 's nothing — lose my 

head. 

1 An actor. 



638 



When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 

Shtitcr - and / shall be chief mourners here. 

To Iter a mawkish drab of si)urious breed, 

Who deals in sentimentals will succeed! 

Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents, 

AVe can as soon speak Greek as sentiments! 

Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 

We now and then take down a hearty cup. 

What shall we do*? — If Comedy forsake us! 

They 'll turn us out, and no one else will 
take us, 

But Avhy can't I be moral? — Let me try — 

My heart thus pressing — hxed my face and 
eye — 

With a sententious look, that nothing means 

(Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes), 

Thus I begin — All is not gold thai glit- 
ters, 

Pleasure seems sweet, hut proves a glass of 
hitters. 

When ignoranee enters, folly is at hand; 

Learning is hettcr far than house and land. 

Let not your virtue trip, who trips may 
stumhle, 

And virtue is not virtue, if she tumhle. 

I give it up — morals won't do for me; 

To make you laugh I nuist play tragedy. 

One hope remains — hearing the maid was 
ill, 

A doctor comes this night to show his skill. 

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles 
motion, 

He in five draughts prepared, presents a 
potion : 

A kind of magic charm — for be assured, 

If you will swallow it, the maid is cured. 

But desperate the Doctor, and her case 
is, 

If you reject the dose, and make wiy faces! 

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he 
lives, 

No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he 
gives ; 

Should he succeed, you'll give him his de- 
gree; 

If not, within he will receive no fee ! 

The college you, must his pretentions back, 

Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack, 

2 An actor vvlio played old Hardcastle. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 639 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E 



MEN 
Sir Charles Maklow. 
Young Maklow (His Son). 
Hakucastle. 
Hastings. 
Tony Lumpkin. 

DiGGORY. 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. A Chamber in an Old-Fashioyied 
House. 

[Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Ilard- 
castle.) 

Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, 
you 're very particular. Is there a crea- 
ture in the whole country, but ourselves, 
that does not take a trip ':o town now 
and then, to rub ot¥ the rust a little'? 
There 's the two Miss Hoggs, and our 
neighbor, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a 
month's polishing every winter. 

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and af- 
fectation to last them the whole year. I 
wonder why London cannot keep its own 
fools at home. In my time, the follies of 
the town crept slowly among us, but now 
they travel faster than a stage-coach. 
Its fopperies come down, not only as in- 
side passengers, but in the very basket.^ 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine 
times, indeed ; you have been telling us of 
them for many a long year. Here we 
live in an old rumbling mansion, that 
looks for all the world like an inn, but 
that we )iever see company. Our best 
visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's 
wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame 
dancing-master: and all our entertain- 
ment your old stories of Prince Eugene 
and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate 
such old-fashioned trumpery. 

Hard. And I love it. I love everything 
that 's old : old friends, old times, old 
manners, old books, old wine ; and, I be- 
lieve, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll 
own I have been pretty fond of an old 
wife. 

Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're 
for ever at your Dorothy's and your old 
wife's. You may be a Darby, but I '11 
be no Joan, I promise you.* I 'm not 
so old as you 'd make me, by more than 
one good year. Add twenty to twenty, 
and make money of that. 

3 The back-part of a stagecoach, a poor place to 
travel in. 



WOMEN 
Mrs. Hardcastle. 
Miss Hardcastle. 
Miss Neville. 
Maid. 

Landlord, Servants, &c., &c. 

Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty, 
makes just fifty and seven ! 

BIrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle: I 
was but twenty when I was brought to 
bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lump- 
kin, my firstjfusband; and he's not come 
to years of discretion yet. 

Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for 
him. Ay, you have taught him finely! 

BIrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin 
has a good fortune. My son is not to 
live by his learning. I don't think a boy 
wants much learning to spend fifteen hun- 
dred a year. 

Hard. Learning, quotha ! A mere compo- 
sition of tricks and mischief! 

BIrs. Hard. Humor, my dear: nothing but 
humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must 
allow the boy a little humor. 

Hard. I'd sooner allow him an horse- 
pond! If burning the footmen's shoes, 
frighting tlie maids, and worrying the 
kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but 
yesterday he fastened my wig to the back 
of my chair, and when I went to make a 
bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs. 
Frizzle's face! 

Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame? The 
poor boy was always too sickly to do any 
good. A school would be his death. 
When he comes to be a little stronger, 
who knows what a year or two's Latin 
may do for him? 

Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle ! 
No, no, the ale-house and the stable are 
the only schools he '11 ever go to ! 

BIrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the 
poor boy now, for I believe we shan't 
have him long among us. Anybody that 
looks in his face may see he 's consump- 
tive. 

Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of 
the symptoms. 

Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 

Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
way. 

Mrs. Hard. I 'm actually afraid of his 
lungs. 

4 Darby and Joan, in tradition, are a devoted el- 
derly couple. 



G40 



THE EIOIITEENTII CENTURY 



Hard. And truly, so am I; for lie some- 
times whoops like a speaking-trumpet — 
{Tony hallooing behind the scenes) — O, 
there he goes — A very consumptive fig- 
ure, truly ! 

{Enter Tony, crossing the stage.) 

Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, 
my charmer? Won't you give papa and 
1 a little of your company, lovey? 

Tony. I 'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. 

Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this 
raw evening, my dear: you look most 
shockingly. 

Tony. I can't stay, I toll you. The Three 
Pigeons expects me down every moment. 
There 's some fun going forward. 

Hard. Ay; the ale-house, the old place: 
I thought so. 

Mrs. Hard. A low, palti^ set of follows. 

Tony. Not so low, neither. There's Dick 
Muggins the exciseman. Jack Slang the 
horse doctor, Little Aminadab that 
grinds the music box, and Tom Twist 
that spins the pewter platter. 

3Irs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint 
them for one night, at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I 
should not so much mind ; but I can't 
abide to disappoint myself! 

Mrs. Hard. {Detaining him.) Y^ou shan't 
go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you 
or I, 

{Exit hauling her out.) 
{Hardcastle solus.) 

Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only 
spoil each other. But is not the whole 
age in a combination to drive sense and 
discretion out of doors'? There's my 
pretty darling, Kate ; the fashions of the 
times have almost infected her too. By 
living a year or two in town, she is as 
fond of gauze and French frippery as 
the best of them. 

{Enter Miss Hardcastle.) 

Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence! 
Dressed out as usual, my Kate! Good- 
ness! What a quantity of superfluous 
silk has thou got about thee, girl! I 
could never teach the fools of this age, 
that the indigent world could be clothed 
out of the trimmings of the vain. 

Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. 
Y^ou allow me the morning to receive and 
pay visits, and to dress in my own man- 



ner; and in the evening, I put on my 
housewife's dress, to please you. 

Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the 
terms of our agreement; and, by-the-bye, 
I believe I shall have occasion to try your 
obedience this very evening. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't com- 
prehend your meaning. 

Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, 
I expect the young gentleman I have 
chosen to be your husband from town 
this very day. I have his father's letter, 
in which he informs me his son is sot out, 
and that he intends to follow himself 
shortly after. 

Miss Hard. Indeed! I wish I bad known 
something of this before. Bless me, how 
shall I behave'? It's a thousand to one 
I shan't like him; our meeting will be so 
formal, and so like a thing of business, 
that I shall find no room for friendship 
or esteem. 

Hard. Depend upon it, child, I '11 never 
control your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, 
whom I have pitched upon, is the son of 
my old friend. Sir Charles Marlow, of 
Avhom you have heard me talk so often. 
The young gentleman has been bred a 
scholar, and is designed for an employ- 
ment in the service of his country. I am 
told he 's a man of an excellent under- 
standing. 

Miss Hard. Is he'? 

Hard. Veiy generous. 

Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 

Hard, Young and brave. 

Miss Hard. I 'm sure I shall like him. 

Hard. And very handsome. 

Miss Hard. ]\Iy dear papa, say no more 
[kissing liis hand), he's mine, I'll have 
him ! 

Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he 's one 
of the most bashful and reserved young 
fellows in all the world. 

Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to 
death again. That word reserved has un- 
done all the rest of his accomplishments. 
A reserved lover, it is said, always makes 
a suspicious husband. 

Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom 
resides in a breast that is not enriched 
with nobler virtues. It was the very fea- 
ture in his character that first struck me. 

Miss Hard. He must have more striking 
features to catch me, I promise you. 
However, if he be so young, so handsome, 
and so everything, as you mention, I be- 
lieve he '11 "do still. I think I '11 have 
him. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 641 



Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob- 
stacle. It is more than an even wager, 
he may not have you. 

Miss Hard. My dear paj^a, why will you 
mortify one so? — Well, if he refuses, in- 
stead of breaking my heart at his indif- 
ference, I '11 only break my glass for its 
flattery. Set m.y cap to some newer 
fashion, and look out for some less diffi- 
cult admirer. 

Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the mean- 
time I '11 go prepare the servants for his 
reception ; as we seldom see company, 
they want as much training as a company 
of recruits the first day's muster. 
{Exit.) 
{Miss Hardcastle sola.) 

Miss Hard. Lud, this news of papa's puts 
me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; 
these he put last ; but I put them fore- 
most. Sensible, good-natured ; I like all 
that. But then reserved, and sheepisli, 
that 's much against him. Yet can't he be 
cured of his timidity, by being taught to 
be proud of his wife ? Yes, and can't I — 
but I vow I 'm disposing of the husband 
before I have secured the lover ! 

{Enter Miss Neville.) 

Miss Hard. I 'm glad you 're come, Neville, 
my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I 
look' this evening? Is there anything 
whimsical about mef Is it one of my 
well-looking days, child? Am I in face 
to-day? 

Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, 
now I look again — bless me ! — sure no ac- 
. cident has happened among the canary 
birds or the goldfishes? Has your 
brother or the cat been meddling? Or 
has the last novel been too moving? 

Miss Hard. No; nothing of all this. I 
have been threatened — I can scarce get it 
out — I have been threatened with a lover ! 

Miss Neville. And his name 

Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 

Miss Neville. Indeed! 

Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Mar- 
low. 

Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate 
friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. 
They are never asunder. I believe you 
must have seen him when we lived in 
town. 

Miss Hard. Never. 

Miss Neville. He 's a very singular char- 
acter, I assure you. Among women of 
reputation and virtue, he is the modestest 



man alive ; but his acquaintance give him 
a vex-y diiferent character among crea- 
tures of another stamp : you understand 
me. 

Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed! I 
shall never be able to manage him. What 
shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of 
him, but trust to occurrences for success. 
But how goes on your own affair, my 
dear ? Has my mother been courting you 
for my bi'other Tony, as usual? 

Miss Neville. 1 have just come from one 
of our agreeable tete-d-tetes. She has 
been saying a hundred tender things, and 
setting off her pretty monster as the very 
pink of perfection. 

Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, 
that she actually thinks him so. A for- 
tune like yours is no small temptation. 
Besides, as she has the sole management 
of it, I 'm not surprised to see her un- 
Avilling to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which 
chiefly consists in jewels, is no such 
mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if 
my dear Hastings be but constant, I make 
no doubt to be too hard for her at last. 
However, I let her suppose that I am in 
love with her son, and she never once 
dreams that my affections are fixed upon 
another. 

3Iiss Hard. My good brother holds out 
stoutly. I could almost love him for 
hating you so. 

Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature 
at bottom, and I 'm sure would wish to 
see me married to anybody but himself. 
But my aunt's bell rings for our after- 
noon's walk round the improvements. 
Allons.^ Courage is necessary, as our af- 
fairs are critical. 

Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time and 
all were well. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. An Ale-house Room. 

{Several sliabhy fellows, with punch and 
tobacco. Tony at the head of the table, 
a little higher than the rest: a mallet in 
his hand.) 

Omnes. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo! 
First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for 

a song. The 'Squire is going to knock 

himself down for a song. 
Omnes. Ay, a song, a song. 
Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a 



5 Let's go. 



642 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



song I made upon this ale-house, the 
Three Pigeons. 

SONG 

Let school-mastere puzzle their brain 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learn- 
ing; 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus ** a better discerning. 
Let them brag of their Heathenish Gods, 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; 
Their Quis, and their Qufes, and their 
Quods, 
They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 

When Methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
I '11 wager the rascals a crown. 

They always preach best with a skinful. 
But when you come down with your pence. 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I '11 leave it to all men of sense. 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.'' 
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 

Then come, put the jorum ^ about. 
And let us be merry and clever. 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 

Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 

Your bustards, your ducks, and your 
widgeons ; 
But of all the birds in the air. 

Here's a health to the Three Jolly 
Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk 
in him. 

Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, 
bekeays he never gives us nothing that 's 
low. 

Third Fellow. O dnnm anything that 's 
low, I cannot bear it ! 

Fourth Felloiv. The genteel thing is the 
genteel thing at any time. If so be that 
a gentleman bees in a concatenation ac- 
cordingly. 

Third Felloio. T like the maxum of it, 
Master ]\Iuggins. What, though I am 
obligated to dance a bear, a man may be 
a gentleman for all that. May this be ray 
poison if my bear ever dances but to the 
very genteelest of tunes. Water Parted, 
or the minuet in Ariadne. 



Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 
'Squire is not come to his own. It would 
be well for all the publicans within ten 
miles round of him. 

Tony. Eeod, and so it would. Master 
Slang. I 'd then show what it was to 
keep choice of company. 

Second Fellow. 0, he takes after his own 
father for that. To be sure, old 'Squire 
Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever 
set my eyes on. For winding the straight 
horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or t 
wench, he never had his fellow. It was a 
saying in the place, that he kept the best 
horses, dogs, and girls in the whole 
county. 

Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age I '11 be 
no bastard, I promise you. I have been 
thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's 
grey mare to begin with. But come, my 
boys, di'ink about and be merry, for you 
pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what 's 
the matter? 

{Eyiter Landlord.) 

Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a 
postchaise at the door. They have lost 
their way upo' the forest ; and they are 
talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must 
be the gentleman that 's coming down to 
court my sister. Do they seem to be 
Londoners? 

Landlord. I believe they may. They look 
woundily ^ like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this waj', 
and I '11 set them right in a twinkling. 
{Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they 
may n't be g'ood enough company for you, 
step down for a moment, and I '11 be with 
you in the squeezing of a lemon. 
{Exeunt Mob.) 
{Tony solus.) 

Tony. Father-in-law ^"^ has been calling 
me whelp and hound, this half year. 
Now, if I pleased, T could be so revenged 
upon the old grumbletonian. But then 
I'm afraid — afraid of what? I shall 
soon be worth fifteen hundred a yeai", and 
let him frighten me out of that if he can 1 

{Enter Landlord, conducting Marloiv and 
Hastings. ) 

Marlow. Wliat a tedious uncomfortable 
day have we had of it ! We were told it 
was but forty miles across the country, 
and we have come above threescore ! 



6 Presumably 
geniits. 



for 



7 Kiill. dupe. 

8 bowl. 



9 extremely (a pro- 
vincial word). 



10 Sometimes 
wrongly used in 



England for step- 
father. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT G43 



Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that un- 
accountable reserve of yours, that would 
not let us enquire more frequently on the 
way. 

Harlow. I own, Hasting-s, I am unwilling 
to lay myself under an obligation to every 
one I meet; and often stand the chance 
of an unmannerly answer. 

Hastings. At present, however, we are not 
likely to receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm 
told you have been enquiring for one Mr. 
Hardcastle, in [these] parts. Do you 
know what part of the countiy you are 
in? 

Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should 
thank you for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came? 

Hastings. No, sir, but if you can infonn 
us 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know 
neither the road you are going, nor where 
you are, nor the road you came, the first 
thing I have to inform you is, that — you 
have lost your way. 

Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold 
as to ask the place from whence you 
came ? 

Marlow. That's not necessaiy towards di- 
recting us where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence; but question for ques- 
tion is all fair, you know. Pray, gentle- 
men, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- 
grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow 
with an ugly face, a daughter, and a 
pretty son ? 

Hastings. We have not seen the gentle- 
man, but he has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trol- 

loping, talkative maypole The son, a 

pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that 
everybody is fond of! 

Marlow. Our information differs in this. 
The daughter is said to be well-bred and 
beautiful ; the son, an awkward booby, 
reared up and spoiled at his mother's 
apron-string. 

Tony. He-he-hem — then, gentlemen, all I 
have to tell you is, that you won't reach 
Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I be- 
lieve. 

Hastings. Unfortunate ! 

Tony. It 's a damned long, dark, boggy, 
dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the 
gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's. 
{Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr. 
Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, you un- 
derstand me. 



Landlord. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a- 
daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly 
deal wrong! When you came to the bot- 
tom of the hill, you should have crossed 
down Squash Lane. 

Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane! 

Landlord. Then you Avere to keep straight 
forward, until you came to four roads. 

Marlow. Come to where four roads meet! 

Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take 
only one of them. 

Marlow. 0, sir, you're facetious! 

Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are 
to go sideways till you come upon Crack- 
skull Common : there you must look sharp 
for the track of the wheel, and go for- 
ward, till you come to Farmer Murrain's 
barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you 
are to turn to the right, and then to the 
left, and then to the right about again, 
till you find out the old mill 

Marlow. Zounds, man! we could as soon 
find out the longitude ! 

Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow? 

Marlow. This house promises but a poor 
reception, though, perhaps, the landlord 
can accommodate us. 

Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one 
S23are bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that 's taken 
up by thi'ee lodgers already. {After a 
pause, in which the rest seem discon- 
certed.) 1 have hit it. Don't you think, 
Stingo, our landlady could accommodate 

the gentlemen by tlie fire-side, with 

three chairs and a bolster? 

Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 

Marlow. And I detest your three chairs 
and a bolster. 

Tony. You do, do you? — then let me see — 
what — if you go on a mile further, to the 
Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the 
hill, one of the best inns in the whole 
county ? 

Hastings. ho ! so we have escaped an 
adventure for this night, however. 

Landlord. {Apart to Tony.) Sure, you 
be n't sending them to your father's as an 
inn, be you? 

Tony. Mum, you fool, you. Let them find 
that out. {To them.) You have only to 
keep on straight forward, till you come 
to a large old house by the roadside. 
You '11 see a pair of large horns over the 
door. That 's the sign. Drive up the 
yard, and call stoutly about you. 
Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The 

servants can't miss the way? 
Tony. No, no: but I tell you though, the 



"644 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



landlord is rich, and going to leave off 
business; so he wants to be thought a gen- 
tleman, saving your presence, he! he! he! 
He '11 be for giving you his company, 
and, ecod, if you mind him, he '11 per- 
suade you that his mother was an alder- 
man, and his aunt a justice of peace! 

Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be 
sure ; but 'a keeps as good wines and beds 
as any in the Avhole country. 

Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, 
we shall want no further connection. We 
are to turn to the right, did you say*? 

Tonif. No, no; straight fomvard. I '11 just 
step myself, and show you a piece of the 
way. {To the Landlord.) Mum. 

Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a 
sweet, pleasant, — damned mischievous son 
of a whore. 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT II 

Scene 1. An Old-Fashioned House. 

(Enter Ilardcastle, followed hy three or 
four awkward Servants.) 

Ilardcastle. Well, I hope you 're perfect 
in the table exercise I have been teaching 
you these three days. You all know your 
posts and your places, and can show that 
you have been used to good company, 
without ever stirring from home. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hard. When company comes, you are not 
to pojD out and stare, and then run in 
again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. 

Omnes. No, no. 

Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken 
from the barn, are to make a show at the 
side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have 
advanced from the plough, are to place 
yourself behind m?/ chair. But you 're 
not to stand so, with your hands in your 
pockets. Take your hands from your 
pockets, Roger; and from your head, you 
blockhead, you. See how Diggory car- 
ries his hands. They 're a little too stiff, 
indeed, but that 's no great matter. 

Piggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I 
learned to hold my hands this way, when 
I was upon drill for the militia. And 
so being upon drill 

Hard. You must not be so talkative, Dig- 
gory. You must be all attention to the 
guests. You must hear us talk, and not 



think of talking; you must see us drink, 
and not think of drinking; you must see 
us eat, and not think of eating. 
Diggory. By the laws, your worshij), 
that 's parfectly unpossible. Whenever 
Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, 
he 's always wishing for a mouthful him- 
self. 
Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a bellyful in 
the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the 
parlor? Stay your stomach with that re- 
flection. 

Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 
make a shift to stay my stomach with a 
slice of cold beef in the pantry. 

Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. 
Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or 
tell a good story at taJale, you nmst not 
all burst out a-laughing, as if you made 
part of the company. 

Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must 
not tell the story of Ould Grouse in the 
gun-room : I can't help laughing at that 
— he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me ! We 
have laughed at that these twentj'^ years 
— ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good 
one. Well, honest Diggory, you may 
laugh at that — but still remember to be 
attentive. Suppose one of the company 
should call for a glass of wine, how will 
you behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you 
please (to Diggory) — Eh, why don't you 
move ? 

Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have 
courage till I see the eatables and drink- 
ables brought upo' the table, and then 
I 'm as bauld as a lion. 

Hard. What, will nobody move"? 

First Servant. I 'm not to leave this 
pleace. 

Second Servant. I 'm sure it 's no pleace 
of mine. 

Third Servant. Not mine, for sartain. 

Diggory. Wauns, and I 'm sure it eanna 
be mine. 

Hard. You numskulls! and so while, like 
your betters, you are quarrelling for 
places, the guests must be starved. O, 
you dunces! I find I must begin all over 
again. — But don't I hear a coach drive 
into the yard ? To your posts, you block- 
heads! I'll go in the meantime and give 
my old friend's son a hearty reception at 
the gate. 

(Exit Hardcastle.) 

Diggory. By the elevens," my pleace is 
gone quite out of my head. 



11 A meaningless exclamation. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 645 



Roger. I know that my pleaee is to be 
eveiywbere ! 

First Servant. Where the devil is mine? 

Second Servant. My pleaee is to be no- 
where at all ; and so I 'ze go about my 
business ! 

{Exeunt Servants, running about as if 
frighted, different ways.) 

{Enter Servant tcith candles, sliowing in 
Mario w and Hastings.) 

Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very wel- 
come. This way. 

Hastings. After the disappointments of 
the day, welcome once more, Charles, to 
the comforts of a clean room and a good 
fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking 
bouse; antique but creditable. 

Marlow. The usual fate of a large man- 
sion. Having first ruined tlie master by 
good housekeeping, it at last comes to 
levy contributions as an inn. 

Hastings. As you say, we passengers are 
to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I 

• have often seen a good sideboard, or a 
marble chimney-piece, though, not actually 
put in the bill, inflame a reckoning con- 
foundedly. 

Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in 
all places. The only difference, is, that 
in good inns, you pay dearly for luxuries ; 
in bad inns, you are fleeced and starved. 

Hastings. You have lived pretty much 
among them. In truth, I have been often 
surprised, that you who have seen so 
much of the world, with your natural 
good sense, and your many opportunities, 
could never yet acquire a requisite share 
of assurance. 

Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But 
'tell me, George, where could I have 
learned that assurance you talk off My 
life has been chiefly spent in a college, or 
an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part 
of the creation that chiefly teach men 
confidence. I don't know that I was ever 
familiarly acquainted with a single 
modest woman — except my mother — But 
among females of another class, you 
know ■ 

Hastings. Ay, among them you are im- 
pudent enough of all conscience ! 

Marlow. They are of us, you know. 

Hastings. But in the company of women 
of reputation I never saw such an idiot, 
such a trembler; you look for all the 
world as if you wanted an oppoi'tunity of 
stealing out of the room. 



Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do 
want to steal out of the room. Faith, I 
have often formed a resolution to break 
the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But 
I don't know how, a single glance from a 
pair of fine eyes has totally overset my 
resolution. An impudent fellow may 
counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged 
if a modest man can ever counterfeit 
impudence. 

Hastings. If you could but say half the 
fine things to them that I have heard you 
lavish upon the barmaid of an inn, or 
even a college bedmaker 

Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine 
things to them. They freeze, they 
petrify me. They may talk of a comet, 
or a burning mountain, or some such bag- 
atelle. But to me, a modest woman, 
dressed out in all her fineiy, is the most 
tremendous object of the whole creation. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this I'ate, man, 
how can you ever expect to marry ! 

Marlow. Never, unless, as among kings 
and princes, my bride were to be courted 
by prox}'. If, indeed, like an Eastern 
bridegroom, one were to be introduced to 
a wife he never saw before, it might be 
endured. But to go through all the ter- 
rors of a formal courtship, together with 
the episode of aunts, grandmothers and 
cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad 
staring question of, madam, will you 
marry me? No, no, that 's a strain much 
above me, I assure you ! 

Hastings. I pity you. But how do you 
intend behaving to the lady you are come 
down to visit at the request of your 
father? 

Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. 
Bow very low. Answer yes, or no, to all 
her demands — But for the rest, I don't 
think I shall venture to look in her face, 
till I see my father's again. 

Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is 
so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. 

Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, 
my chief inducement down was to be in- 
strumental in forwarding your happiness, 
not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the 
family don't know you, as my friend you 
are sure of a reception, and let honor do 
the rest. 

Hastings. My dear Marlow ! But I '11 
suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, 
meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you 
should be the last man in the world I 
would apply to for assistance. But Miss 
Neville's person is all I ask, and that is 



646 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



mine, both from her deceased father's 
consent, and her own inclination. 
Marlow. Happy man! You have talents 
and art to captivate any woman. I 'm 
doomed to adore the sex, and yet to con- 
verse with the only part of it I despise. 
This stammer in my address, and this 
awkward [un] prepossessing visage of 
mine, can never jDermit me to soar above 
the reach of a milliner's apprentice, or 
one of the duchesses of Drury Lane.i- 
Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. 

(Enter Hardcastle.) 

Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are 
heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Mar- 
low? Sir, you're heartily welcome. 
It 's not my way, you see, to receive my 
friends with my back to the fire. I like 
to give them a hearty reception in the old 
style at my gate. I like to see their 
horses and trunks taken care of. 

Marlow. (Aside.) He has got our names 
from the sen^ants already. (To him.) 
We approve your caution and hospitality, 
sir. [To Hastings.) I have been think- 
ing, George, of changing our travelling 
dresses in the morning. I am grown con- 
foundedly ashamed of mine. 

Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you '11 use no 
ceremony in this house. 

Hastings. I fancy, George, you 're right : 
the first blow is half the battle. I intend 
opening the campaign with the white and 
gold. 

Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gen- 
tlemen — pray be under no constraint in 
this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentle- 
men. You may do just as you please 
here. 

Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the cam- 
paign too fiercely at first, we may want 
ammunition before it is over. I think to 
reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. 

Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Mar- 
low, puts me in mind of the Duke of 
Marlborougb, Avhen we went to besiege 
Denain.^^ He first summoned the garri- 



might consist of about five thousand 



Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or 
waistcoat will do with the plain lirown? 

Hard. He first summoned the garrison, 
which might consist of about five thou- 
sand men 

Hastings. I think not: brown and yellow 
mix but very poorly. 

Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling 
you, he summoned the garrison, which 

12 courtesans. 



Marlow. The girls like finery. 

Hard. Which might consist of about five 
thousand men, well appointed with stores, 
ammunition, and other implements of 
war. "Now," says the Duke of Marl- 
borough to George Brooks, that stood 
next to him — you must have heard of 
George Brooks ; "I '11 pawn my duke- 
dom," says he, "but I take that gaiTison 
without spilling a drop of blood !" 
So 

Marlow. What, my good friend, if you 
gave vis a glass of punch in the mean- 
time, it would help us to carry on the 
siege with vigor. 

Hard. Punch, sir! — (Aside.) This is the 
most unaccountable kind of modesty I 
ever met with ! 

Marlow. Yes, sir, punch! A glass of 
warm punch, after our journey, will be 
comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you 
know. 

Hard. Here's cup, sir. 

Marloio. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his 
Liberty Hall, w^ill only let us have just 
what he pleases. 

Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll 
find it to your mind. I have prepared it 
with my own hands, and I believe you '11 
own the ingredients are tolerable. Will 
you be so good as to pledge me, sir'? 
Here, Mr. Marlow, here is our better ac- 
quaintance ! 

(Drinks.) 

Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fel- 
low this! but he's a character, and I'll 
humor him a little. Sir, my service to 
you. 

(Drinks.) 

Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fello\v 
wants to give us his company, and forgets 
that he 's an innkeeper, before he has 
learned to be a gentleman. 

Marlow. From the excellence of your cup. 
my old friend, I suppose you have a good 
deal of business in this part of the coun- 
tiy. Warm work, now and then, at elec- 
tions, I suppose? 

Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work 

over. Since our betters have hit upon 

the expedient of electing each other, 

there 's no business for us that sell ale. 

Hastings. So, then you have no turn for 

politics, I find. 
Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, 
indeed, I fretted myself about the mis- 
is Where the English and their allies were beaten by the French in 1712. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OP A NIGHT 647 



takes of government, like other people; 
but, finding myself every day grow more 
angry, and the government growing no 
better, I left it to mend itself. Since 
that, I no more trouble my head about 
Heyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about 
Ally Croaker.^'^ Sir, my service to you. 

Hastings. So that, with eating above 
stairs, and drinking below, with receiving 
your friends within, and amusing them 
without, you lead a good pleasant bus- 
tling life of it. 

Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that 's 
certain. Half the differences of the 
parish are adjusted in this very parlor. 

Mario w. [After drinking.) And you have 
an argument in your cup, old gentleman, 
better than any in Westminster Hall. 

Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a 
little philosophy. 

Mario w. (Aside.) Well, this is the first 
time I ever heard of an innkeeper's phi- 
losophy, 

Hastings. So then, like an experienced 
general, you attack them on every quar- 
ter. If you find their reason manageable, 
you attack it with your philosophy ; if 
you find they have no reason, you attack 
them with this. Here 's your health, my 
philosopher. 

(Drinks.) 

Hard. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! 
ha ! Your generalship puts me in mind 
of Prince Eugene, when he fought the 
Turks at the battle of Belgrade. ^^ You 
shall hear. 

Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, 
I believe it's almost time to talk about 
supper. What has your philosophy got 
in the house for supper? 

Hard. For supper, sir ! (Aside.) Was 

ever such a request to a man in his own 
house ! 

Marlow. Yes, sir, sujDper, sir; I begin to 
feel an appetite. I shall make devilish 
work to-night in the larder, I promise 
you. 

Hard. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure 
never my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, 
really, sir, as for supper I can't well tell. 
My Dorothy, and the cook maid, settle 
these things between them. I leave these 
kind of things entirely to them. 

Marlow. You do, do yoni 

Hard. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe 
they are in actual consultation upon 
what 's for supper this moment in the 
kitchen. 



Marlow. Then I beg they'll admit me as 
one of their privy council. It 's a way I 
have got. When I travel, I always 
choose to regulate my own supper. Let 
the cook be called. No offence, I hope, 
sir. 

Hard. 0, no, sir, none in the least; yet, I 
don't know how: our Bridget, the cook 
maid, is not very communicative upon 
these occasions. Should we send for her, 
she might scold us all out of the house. 

Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, 
then. I ask it as a favor. I always 
match my appetite to my bill of fare. 

Marlow. (To Hardcastle, tvlio looks at 
them with surprise.) Sir, he's very 
right, and it 's my way, too. 

Hard. Sir, you have a right to command 
here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of 
fare for to-night's supper. I believe it 's 
drawn out. Your manner, Mi\ Hastings, 
puts me in mind of my uncle. Colonel 
Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no 
man was sure of his supper till he had 
eaten it. 

Hastings. (Aside.) All upon the high 
ropes ! His uncle a colonel ! We shall 
soon hear of his mother being a justice 
of peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. 

Marlow. (Perusing.) What's here? For 
the first course ; for the second course ; 
for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you 
think we have brought down the whole 
Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of 
Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two 
or three little things, clean and comfort- 
able, will do. 

Hastings. But let 's hear it. 

Marlow. (Reading.) For the first course 
at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce. 

Hastings. Damn your pig, I say! 

Marlow. And damn your pruin sauce, 
say I! 

Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that 
are hungry, pig, with pruin sauce, is veiy 
good eating. 

Marlow. At the bottom, a calf's tongue 
and brains. 

Hastings. Let your brains be knocked 
out, my good sir; I don't like them. 

Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate 
by themselves, I do. 

Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence con- 
founds me. (To them.) Gentlemen, you 
are my guests, make what alterations you 
please. Is there anything else you wish 
to retrench or alter, gentlemen? 

Marlow. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rab- 



14 The first two were Hindoo potentates; the third, a popular Irish song. 



15 In 1717. 



648 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



bit and sausages, a florentine/'^ a shaking 
pudding, and a dish of tiff — taif — taft'ety 
cream ! 

Hastings. Confound your made dishes, I 
shall be as much at a loss in this house as 
at a green and yellow dinner at the 
French ambassador's table. I 'm for 
plain eating. 

Hard. I 'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
nothing you like, but if there be anything 
you have a particular fancy to 

Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare 
is so exquisite, that any one part of it 
is full as good as another. Send us what 
you please. So much for supper. And 
now to see that our beds are aired, and 
properly taken care of. 

Hard. I entreat you '11 leave all that to 
me. You shall not stir a step. 

Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, 
sir, you must excuse me, I always look to 
these things myself. 

Hard. I must insist, sir, you '11 make your- 
self easy on that head. 

Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. — 
{Aside.) A veiy troublesome fellow this", 
as ever I met with. 

Hard. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to 
attend you. — {Aside.) This may be 
modem modesty, but I never saw any- 
thing look so like old-fashioned impu- 
dence. 

{Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastlc) 
{Hastings solus.) 

Hastings. So I find this fellow's civilities 
begin to grow troublesome. But Avho can 
be angry at those assiduities which are 
meant to please him *? Ha ! what do I 
see ! Miss Neville, by all that 's happy ! 

{Enter Miss Neville.) 

Miss Neville. My dear Hastings! To 
what unexpected good fortune? to what 
accident am I to ascribe this happy meet- 
ing? 

Hastings. Rather let me ask the same ques- 
tion, as I could never have hoped to meet 
my dearest Constance at an inn. 

Miss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake ! 
my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What 
could induce you to think this house an 
inn? 

Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with 
whom I came down, and I, have been sent 
here as to an inn, I assure you. A young 
fellow whom we accidentally met at a 
house hard by directed us hither. 

Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of 



my ho^Deful cousin's tricks, of whom you 
have heard me talk so often, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Hastings. He whom j^our aunt intends for 
you? He of whom I have such just ap- 
prehensions? 

Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear 
from him, I assure you. You 'd adore 
him if you knew how heartily he despises 
me. My aunt knows it too, and has un- 
dertaken to court_ me for him, and actu- 
ally begins to think she has made a con- 
quest. 

Hastings. Thou dear dissembler! You 
must know, my Constance, I have jv;st 
seized this happy oioportunity of my 
friend's visit here to get admittance into 
the family. The horses that carried us 
down are now fatigued with their jour- 
ney, but they'll soon be refreshed; and 
then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed 
in France, where even among slaves the 
laws of marriage are respected. 

Miss Neville. I have often told you, that 
though ready to obey you, I yet should 
leave my little fortune behind with re- 
luctance. The greatest part of it was 
left me by my uncle, the India Director, 
and chiefly consists in jewels. I have 
been for some time persuading my aunt 
to let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very 
near succeeding. The instant they are 
put into my possession you shall find me 
ready to make them and myself yours. 

Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your per- 
son is all I desire. In the meantime, my 
friend Marlow must not be let into his 
mistake. I know the strange reserve of 
his temper is such, that if abruptly in- 
formed of it, he would instantl^y quit the 
house before our plan was ripe for execu- 
tion. 

Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him 
in the deception? Miss Hardcastle is 
just returned from walking; what if we 
still continue to deceive him? — This, this 



way- 



(They confer.) 
{Enter Marlow.) 



Marlow. The assiduities of these good peo- 
ple tease me beyond bearing. My host 
seems to think it ill manners to leave me 
alone, and so he claps not only himself, 
but his old-fashioned wife on my back. 
They talk of coming to sup with us, too; 
and then, I suppose, we are to run the 



16 A kind of pie. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 



649 



gauntlet through all the rest of the fam- 
ily. — What have we got here? — 

Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me con- 
gratulate you — The most fortunate acci- 
dent ! — Who do you think is just 
alighted ? 

Marlow. Cannot guess. 

Hastings. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hard- 
castle and Miss Neville. Give me leave 
to introduce Miss Constance Neville to 
your acquaintance. Happening to dine 
in the neighborhood, they called, on their 
return, to take fresh horses here. Miss 
Hardcastle has just slept into the next 
room, and will be back in an instant. 
Was n't it lucky ? eh ! 

Marlow. (Aside.) I have just been morti- 
fied enough of all conscience, and here 
comes something to complete my em- 
barrassment. 

Hastings. Well! but wasn't it the most 
fortunate thing in the world? 

Marlow. Oh! yes. Very fortunate — a 

most joyful encounter But our 

dresses, George, you know, are in dis- 
order What if we should postpone the 

happiness till to-morrow ? To-morrow 



at her own house 

as convenient 

spectful To-morrow let it be 



It will be every bit 
And rather more re- 



[Offering to go.) 

Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your 
ceremony will displease her. The dis- 
order of your dress will show the ardor 
of your impatience. Besides, she knows 
you are in the house, and will permit 
you to see her. 

Marlow. ! the devil ! how shall I support 
it ? Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not 
go. You are to assist me, you knoAv. I 
shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, 
hang it ! I '11 'take courage. Hem ! 

Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it 's but the first 
plunge, and all 's over. She 's but a 
woman, you know. 

Marlow. And of all women, she that I 
dread most to encounter! 

[Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from 
walking, a bonnet, etc.) 

Hastings. (Introducing them.) Miss Hard- 
castle, Mr. Marlow, I 'm proud of bring- 
ing two persons of such merit together, 
that only want to know, to esteem each 
other. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) Now, for meeting 
my modest gentleman with a demure face, 
and quite in his own manner. (After a 
pause, in which he appears very uneasg 



and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your 

safe arrival, sir 1 'm told you had 

some accidents by the way. 

Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we 
had some. Yes, madam, a good many ac- 
cidents, but should be sorry — madam — 
or rather glad of any accidents — that are 
so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hastings. (To him.) You never spoke 
better in your whole life. Keep it up, 
and I '11 insure you the victory. 

Miss Hard. I 'm afraid you flatter, sir. 
You that have seen so much of the finest 
company can find little entertainment in 
an obscure corner of the country. 

Marlow. (Gathering courage.) I have 
lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but I 
have kept very little company. I have 
been but an oljserver upon life, madam, 
while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the 
way to enjoy it at last. 

Hastings. (To him.) Cicero never spoke 
better. Once more, and you are con- 
firmed in assurance for ever. 

Marloiv. (To him.) Hem! Stand by me, 
then, and when I 'm down, throw in a 
word or two to set me up again. 

Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon 
life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, 
since you must have had much more to 
censure than to approve. 

Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was al- 
ways willing to be amused. The folly of 
most people is rather an object of mirth 
than uneasiness. 

Hastings. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. 
Never spoke so well in your whole life. 
Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and 
Mr. Marlow are going to be very good 
company. I believe our being here will 
but embarrass the interview. 

Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. 
We like your company of all things. 
(To Mm.) Zounds! George, sure you 
won't go"? How can you leave us? 

Hastings. Our presence will but spoil con- 
versation, so we '11 retire to the next room. 
(To him.) You don't consider, man, that 
we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of 
our own. 

(Exeunt.) 

Miss Hard. (After a pause.) But you 
have not been wholly an observer, I pre- 
sume, sir. The ladies, I should hope, have 
employed some part of your addresses. 

Marlow. (Relapsing into timidity.) Par- 
don me, madam, I — I — I — as yet have 
studied — only — to — desen^e them. 



650 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Bliss Hard. And that some say is the very 
worst way to obtain them. 

Maiiow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love 
to converse only with the more grave and 

sensible part of the sex. But I 'm 

afraid I grow tiresome. 

Miss Hard. Not at all, sir; there is noth- 
ing I like so much as grave conversation 
myself : I could hear it for ever. Indeed, 
I have often been surprised how a man 
of sentiment could ever admire those light 
aiiy pleasures, where nothing reaches the 
heart. 

Marloiv. It 's — a disease — of the mind, 
madam. In the variety of tastes there 
must be some who, wanting a relish for 
— um-a-um. 

Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There 
must be some, who, wanting a relish for 
refined pleasures, pretend to despise what 
they are incapable of tasting. 

Mario w. My meaning, madam, but in- 
finitely better exjDressed. And I can't 
help observing — a 

Miss Hard. {Aside.) Who could ever 
suppose this fellow impudent upon some 
occasions. {To him.) You were going 
to observe, sir 

Marlow. I was observing, madam 1 

protest, madam, I forget wdiat I was go- 
ing to observe. 

Miss Hard. {Aside.) I vow and so do I. 
{To him.) You were observing, sir, that 
■ in this age of hypocrisy — something 
about hypocrisy, sir. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of 
hypocrisy, there are few who upon strict 
enquiry do not — a — a — a 

Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Marlow. {Aside.) Egad ! and that 's more 
than I do myself ! 

Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypo- 
critical age there are few that do not 
condemn in public what they practise in 
private, and think they pay every debt to 
virtue when they praise it. 

Marlow-. Tnie, madam; those who have 
most virtue in their moutlis, have least 
of it in their bosoms. But I 'm sure I 
tire you, madam. 

Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's 
something so agreeable and spirited in 

your manner, such life and force 

pray, sir, go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. I was saying 

that there are some occasions when a 

total want of courage, madam, destroys 

all the and puts us upon a a 

a 



Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely, a 
want of courage upon some occasions as- 
sumes the ai3i3earance of ignorance, and 
betrays us when we most want to excel. 
I beg you '11 proceed. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, 
madam But I see Miss Neville expect- 
ing us in the next room. I would not in- 
trude for the world. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was 
more agreeably entertained in all my life. 
Pray go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. I was But she 

beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I 
do myself the honor to attend you? 

Miss Hard. Well then, I '11 follow. 

Marlow. {Aside.) This pretty smooth 
dialogue has done for me. 
{Exit.) 
{Miss Hardcastle sola.) 

Miss Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever 
such a sober sentimental interview ? I 'm 
certain he scarce looked in my face the 
whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his 
unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well, 
too. He has good sense, but then so 
buried in his fears, that it fatigues oue 
more than ignorance. If I could teach 
him a little confidence, it would be doing 
somebody that I know of a piece of 
service. But who is that somebody"? — 
that, faith, is a question I can scarce 
answer. 

{Exit.) 

{Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed hjj 
Sirs. Hardcastle and Hastings.) 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cov;sin 
Con f I wonder you 're not ashamed to 
be so very engaging. 

Bliss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may 
speak to one's owai relations, and not be 
to blame. 

Tony. Ay, but I know what soi-t of a re- 
lation you want to make me, though ; but 
it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it 
won't do, so I beg you '11 keep your dis- 
tance, I want no nearer relationship. 

{SJie folloivs coquetting him to the back 
scene.) 

Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, 
you are very entertaining. There 's noth- 
ing in the world I love to talk of so much 
as London, and the fashions, though I 
was never tliere myself. 

Hastings. Never thei-e! You amaze me! 
From your air and manner, I concluded 
you had been bred all your life either at 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 651 



Ranelag'li, St. James's or Tower Wharf.^'^ 

3Irs. Hard. ! sir, you 're only pleased to 
say so. We country persons can have no 
manner at all. I 'm in love with the 
town, and that serves to raise me above 
some of our neighboring rustics; but who 
can have a manner, that has never seen 
the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the 
Borough,^ ^ and such places where the 
nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is 
to enjoy London at second-hand. I take 
care to know every tete-a-tete from the 
Scandalous Magazine, and have all the 
fashions as they come out, in a letter from 
the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. 
Pray how do you like this head, Mr. 
Hastings 1 

Hastings. Extremely elegant and dega- 
gee,^^ upon my word, madam. Your 
friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose? 

Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself 
from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum- 
book for the last year. 

Hastings. Indeed. Such a head in a side- 
box, at the Play-house, would draw as 
many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a 
City Ball. 

Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation '° be- 
gan, there is no such thing to be seen as 
a plain woman ; so one must dress a little 
particular or one may escape in the 
crowd. 

Hastings. But that can never be your case, 
madam, in any dress! (Bowing.) 

Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dress- 
ing when I have such a piece of antiquity 
by my side as Mr. Hai'dcastle: all I can 
say will never argue down a single button 
from his clothes. I have often wanted 
him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and 
where he was bald, to plaster it over like 
my Lord Pately, with powder. 

Hastings. You are right, madam; for, 
as among the ladies there are none 
ugly, so among the men there are none 
old! 

Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his 
answer was? Why, with his usual 
Gothic -^ vivacity, he said I only wanted 
him to throw off his wig to convert it into 
a tete for my own wearing! 

Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you 
may wear what you please, and it must 
become you. 

Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do 



you take to be the most fashionable age 
about town? 

Hastings. Some time ago forty was all 
the mode ; but I 'm told the ladies intend 
to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. 

Mrs. Hard. Seriously! Then I > shall be 
too young for t|he fashion ! 

Hastings. No tady begins now to put on 
jewels till she 's past forty. For in- 
stance, miss there, in a polite circle, would 
be considered as a child, as a mere maker 
of samplers. 

Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. -Niece thinks 
herself as much a woman, and is as fond 
of jewels, as the oldest of us all. 

Hastings. Your niece, is she? And that 
young gentleman, a brother of yours, I 
should presume? 

3Irs. Hard. My son, sir. They are con- 
tracted to each other. Observe their lit- 
tle sports. They fall in and out ten 
times a day, as if they were man and 
wife already. {To them.) Well, Tony, 
child, what soft things are you saying to 
your cousin Constance, this evening? 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things; 
but that it/'s very hard to be followed 
about so ! Ecod ! I 've not a place in the 
house now that 's left to myself but the 
stable. 

3Irs. Hard. Never mind him. Con, my 
dear. He 's in another story behind your 
back. 

Miss Neville. There 's something generous 
in my cousin's manner. He falls out be- 
fore faces to be forgiven in private. 

Tony. ThaVs a damned confounded 

crack. 2 2 

Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he 's a sly one. Don't 
you think they 're like each other about 
the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blenkin- 
sop mouth to a T. They 're of a size, 
too. Back to back, my pretties, that 
Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I 
tell you. 

(Measuring.) 

Miss Neville. lud ! he has almost cracked 
my head. 

Mrs. Hard. 0, the monster! For shame, 
Tony. You a man, and behave so ! 

Tony. If I 'm a man, let me have my 
f ortin. Ecod ! I '11 not be made a fool 
of no longer. 

Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all 



17 The first two 
were fashionable 
places in (he city, 
the third was 
just the reverse. 



Of course he is 
playing on her 
ignorance, 
l"* She betrays her 
ignorance ; the 



Borough, in hall on Oxford 

Southwark, was St. 

very unlike the 19 unconstrained, 

fashionable Pan- easy. 

theon, a concert 



20 Which diminish- 
ed small-pox. 

21 barbarous. 

22 lie. 



652 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



that I 'm to get for the pains I have 
taken in your education? I that have 
rocked you in your cradle, and fed that 
pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I 
work that waistcoat to make you genteel 
Did not I prescribe for you every day, 
and weep while the receipt was operat- 
ing? 

Tony. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for 
you have been dosing me ever since I was 
born. I have gone through every re- 
ceipt in the Complete Housewife ten 
times over; and you have thoiights of 
coursing me througli Quiney next spring. 
But, ecod ! I tell you, I '11 not be made a 
fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Bard. Wasn't it all for your good, 
viper? Wasn't it all for your good? 

Tony. I wish you 'd let me and my good 
alone, then. Snubbing this way when 
I 'm in spirits. If I 'm to have any 
good, let it come of itself; not to keep 
dinging it, dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hard. That 's false ; I never see you 
when you 're in spirits. No, Tony, you 
then go to the ale-house or kennel. I 'm 
never to be delighted with your agree- 
able, wild notes, unfeeling monster! 

Tony. Ecod ! Mamma, your own notes are 
the wildest of the two. 

Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like? But I 
see he wants to break my heart, I see he 
does. 

Ha.stinfjs. Dear madam, pennit me to lec- 
ture the young gentleman a little. I 'm 
certain I can persuade him to his duty. 

3Irs. Hard. Well! I must retire. Come, 
Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hast- 
ings, the wretchedness of my situation. 
Was ever poor woman so plagued with a 
dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful 
boy? 
(Exeunt Mrs. Hardeastle and Miss 
Neville.) 
( Hastings. Tony. ) 

Tony. (Singing.) There was a young 
man riding hy, and fain xoould have his 
will. Rang do didlo dee. Don't mind 
her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
her heart. I have seen her and sister 
cry over a book for an hour together, 
and they said, they liked the book the 
better the more it made them cry. 
Hastings. Then you 're no friend to the 
ladies, I find, my pretty young gentle- 
man? 
Tony. That's as T find 'urn. 
Hastings. Not to her of your mother's 



choosing, I dare answer ! And yet she 
appears to me a pretty, well-temjDered 
girl. 

Tony. That 's because you don't know her 
as well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch 
about her; and there's not a more bitter 
cantankerous toad in all Christendom ! 

Hastings. (Aside.) Pretty encourage- 
ment, this, for a lover ! 

Tony. 1 have seen her since the height of 
that. She has as many tricks as a hare 
in a thicket, or a colt the first day's 
breaking. 

Hastings. To me she appears sensible and 
silent ! 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when 
she 's with her playmates, she 's as loud as 
a hog in a gate. 

Hastings. But there is a meek modesty 
about her that charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, 
she kicks up, and you 're flung in a ditch. 

Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a 
little beauty. — Yes, you must allow her 
some beauty. 

Tony. Bandbox ! She 's all a made up 
thing, mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet 
Boimcer of these parts, you might then 
talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes 
as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and 
red as a pulpit cushion. She 'd make 
two of she. 

Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend 
that would take this bitter bargain of£ 
your hands? 

Tony. Anon.^^ 

Hastings. Would you thank him that 
would take Miss Neville, and leave you to 
happiness and your dear Betsy? 

Tony. Ay; but where is there such a 
friend, for who would take herf 

Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, 
I '11 engage to whip her otf to France, 
and you shall never hear more of hei'. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the 
last drop of my blood. I '11 clap a pair 
of horses to your chaise that shall trun- 
dle you off in a twinkling, and maybe 
get you a part of her fortin beside, in 
jewels, that you little dream of. 

Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like 
a lad of spirit. 

Tony. Come along then, and you shall 
see more of my spirit before you have 
done with me. 

{Singing.) 
We are the boys 
That fears no noise 



23 What do you mean ? 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 653 



Wbere the thundering cannons roar. 
(Exeunt.) 

ACT III. 

Scene 1. The House. 

(Enter Ilardcastle solus.) 

Hard. What could my old friend Sir 
Charles mean by reeoumiending his son as 
the modestest young' man in town'? To 
me he appears the most impudent piece 
of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. 
He has taken possession of the easy chair 
by the fireside already. He took off his 
boots in the parlor, and desired me to see 
them taken care of. I 'm desirous to 
know how his impudence affects my 
daughter. — She will certainly be shocked 
at it. 

(Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed.) 

Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have 
changed your dress as I bid you ; and yet, 
I believe, there was no great occasion. 

Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
obeying your commands, that I take care 
to observe them without ever debating 
their propriety. 

Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give 
you some cause, particularly when I rec- 
ommended my modest gentleman to you 
as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hard. You taught me to expect 
something extraordinary, and I find the 
original exceeds the description ! 

Hard. I was never so surprised in my 
life ! He has quite confounded all my 
faculties ! 

Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it! 
And a man of the world, too ! 

Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad, — 
what a fool was I, to think a young man 
could learn modesty by travelling. He 
might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. 

Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 

Hard. A good deal assisted by bad com- 
pany and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hard. Sure, you mistake, papa! a 
French dancing-master could never have 
taught him that timid look, — that awk- 
ward address, — that bashful manner 

Hard. Whose look"? whose manner, child? 

Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise 
honte,-* his timidity struck me at the first 
sight. 

Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; 
for I think him one of the most brazen 



first sights that ever astonished my 
senses ! 

Miss Hard, Sure, sir, you rally ! I never 
saw anyone so modest. 

Hard. And can you be serious? I never 
saw such a bouncing swaggering puppy 
since I was born. Bully Dawson was but 
a fool to him. 

Miss Hard. Surprising! He met me with 
a respectful bow, a stammering voice, 
and a look fixed on the ground. 

Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a 
lordly air, and a familiarity that made 
my blood freeze again. 

Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence 
and respect ; censured the manners of the 
age; admired the prudence of girls that 
never laughed; tired me with apologies 
for being tiresome; then left the room 
with a bow, and, "madam, I would not 
for the world detain you." 

Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me 
all his life before. Asked twenty ques- 
tions, and never waited for an answer. 
Interrupted my best remarks with some 
silly pun, and when I was in my best 
story of the Duke of Marlborough and 
Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a 
good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, 
he asked your father if he was a maker 
of punch ! 

3Iiss Hard. One of us must certainly be 
mistaken. 

Hard. If he be what he has shown him- 
self, I 'm determined he shall never have 
my consent. 

Bliss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing 
I take him, he shall never have mine. 

Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — 
to reject him. 

Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. 
For if you should find him less impudent, 
and I more presuming; if you find him 
more respectful, and I more importunate 
— I don't know — the fellow is well 
enough for a man — Certainly we don't 
meet many such at a horse race in the 
country. 

Hard. If we should find him so. — But 
that's impossible. The first appearance 
has done my business. I 'm seldom de- 
ceived in that. 

Miss Hard. And yet there may be many 
good qualities under that first appear- 
ance. 

Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's 
outside to her taste, she then sets about 
guessing the rest of his furniture. With 



24 embarrassment. 



654 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



her, a smooth face stands for good sense, 
and a genteel figure for every virtue. 

31iss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation 
begun with a compliment to my good 
sense won't end with a sneer at my un- 
derstanding? 

Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young 
Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling 
contradictions, he may please us both, 
perhaps. 

3Iiss Hard. And as one of us must be 
mistaken, what if we go to make further 
discoveries ? 

Hard. Agreed. But depend on 't I 'm in 
the right. 

Miss Hard. And depend on 't I 'm not 
much in the wrong. 

(Exeunt.) 
{Enter Tony, running in with a casket.) 

Ton//. Ecod ! I have got them. Here 
they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, 
bobs ^^ and all. My mother shan't cheat 
the poor souls out of their fortune 
neither. ! my genius, is that you "? 
{Enter Hastings.) 

Hastings. My dear friend, how have you 
managed with your mother ? I hope you 
have amused her with pretending love 
for your cousin, and that you are willing 
to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will 
be refreshed in a short time, and we shall 
soon be ready to set off. 

Tony. And here 's something to bear your 
charges by the way. (Giving the cas- 
ket.) Your sweetheart's jewels. Keep 
them, and hang those, I say, that would 
rob you of one of them! 

Hastings. But how have you procured 
them from your mother? 

Tony. Ask me no questions, and I '11 tell 
you no fibs. I procui'ed them by the rule 
of thumb. If I had not a key to every 
drawer in mother's bureau, how could I 
go to the ale-house so often as I do? An 
honest man may rob himself of his own 
at any time. 

Hastings. Thousands do it every day. 
But to be plain with you ; Miss Neville is 
endeavoring to procure them from her 
aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, 
it will be the most delicate way at least 
of obtaining them. 
Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how 
it will be. But I know how it will be well 
enough, she 'd as soon part with the only 
sound tooth in her head ! 



Hastings. But I dread the effects of her 
resentment, when she finds she has lost 
them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment, 
leave me to manage that. I don't value 
her resentment the bounce of a cracker. 
Zounds! here they are! Morrice,^*' 
prance ! 

(Exit Hastings.) 
(Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Neville.) 

Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
me. Such a girl as you want jewels? It 
will be time enough for jewels, my dear, 
twenty years hence, when your beauty be- 
gins to want repairs. 

Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty 
at forty, will certainly improve it at 
twenty, madam. 

Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of 
none. That natural blush is beyond 
a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, 
jewels are quite out at present. Don't 
you see half the ladies of our acquaint- 
ance, my lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs. 
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their 
jewels to town, and bring nothing but 
paste and marcasites-^ back? 

Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but 
somebody that shall be nameless would 
like me best with all my little finery 
about me? 

Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, 
and then see, if with such a pair of eyes, 
you want any better sparklers. What do 
you think, Tony, my dear, does your 
cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, 
to set off her beauty? 

Tony. That 's as thereafter may be. 

Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew 
how it would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned 
rose and table-cut -^ things. They would 
make you look like the court of king 
Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I 
believe I can't readily come at them. 
They may be missing, for aught I know 
to the contrary. 

Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hard.) Then why 
don't you tell her so at once, as she 's so 
longing for them. Tell her they 're lost. 
It 's the only way to quiet her. Say 
they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tomj.) You know, 
my dear, I 'm only keeping them for you. 
So if I say they 're gone, you '11 bear me 
witness, will you? He! he! he! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I '11 say I 



2r> nendants. 
20 Be off! 



27 A cheap mineral, used for ornaments. 



28 Cut with a large flat surface. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT G55 



saw them taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, 
madam. Just to be i^ermitted to show 
them as relics, and then tliey may be 
locked up again. 

Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my 
dear Constance, if I could find them, you 
should have them. They 're missing, I 
assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but 
we must have patience wherever they are. 

Miss Neville. I'll not believe it; this is 
but a shallow pretence to deny me. I 
know they 're too valuable to be so 
slightly kept, and as you are to answer 
for the loss. 

Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. 
If they be lost, I must restore an equiva- 
lent. But my son knows they are miss- 
ing, and not to be found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They 
are missing, and not to be found, I '11 
take my oath on 't ! 

Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, 
my dear; for though we lose our fortune, 
yet we should not lose our patience. See 
me, how calm I am ! 

Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally 
calm at the misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your 
good sense should waste a thought upon 
such trumpery. We shall soon find them; 
and, in the meantime, you shall make use 
of my garnets till your jewels be found. 

Miss Neville. I detest garnets ! 

Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in 
the world to set off a clear complexion. 
You have often seen how well they look 
upon me. You shall have them. 
(Exit.) 

Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. 
You shan't stir. — Was ever anything so 
provoking — to mislay my own jewels, and 
force me to wear her trumpery. 

Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you 
the garnets, take what you can get. The 
jewels are your own already. I have 
stolen them out of her bureau, and she 
does not know it. Fly to your spark, 
he '11 tell you more of the matter. Leave 
me to manage her. 

Miss Neville. My dear cousin! 

Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has 
missed them already. {Exit Miss Ne- 
ville.) Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits 
about like a Catharine wheel ! 

{Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 

Mrs. Hard. Confusion! thieves! robbers! 



We are cheated, plundered, broke open, 
undone ! 

Tony. What 's the matter, what 's the mat- 
ter, mamma? I hope nothing has hap- 
pened to any of the g-ood family! 

Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau 
has been broke open, the jewels taken out, 
and I 'm undone ! 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By 
the laws, I never saw it better acted in 
my life. Eeod, I thought you was ruined 
in earnest, ha, ha, ha! 

Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in 
earnest. My bureau has been broke open, 
and all taken away. 

Tony. Stick to that; ha, ha, ha! stick to 
that. I '11 bear witness, you know, call 
me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's 
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall 
be ruined for ever. 

Tony. Sure I know they 're gone, and I 
am to say so. 

Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear 
me. They 're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me 
for to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took 
them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a block- 
head, that can't tell the diiference be- 
tween jest and earnest? I tell you I'm 
not in jest, booby ! 

Tony. That's right, that's right: You 
must be in a bitter passion, and then no- 
body will suspect either of us. I '11 bear 
witness that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross- 
grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can 
you bear witness that you 're no better 
than a fool? Was ever poor woman so 
beset with fools on one hand, and thieves 
on the other? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you 
blockhead, you, and I '11 turn you out of 
the room directly. My poor niece, what 
will become of herf Do you laugh, you 
unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my 
distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? 
I '11 teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

{He runs off, she follnics him.) 

{Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid.) 

Miss Hard. What an imaceoxintable crea- 
tux'e is that brother of mine, to send them 



656 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I don't 
wonder at his impudence. 

Maid. But what is more, madam, the 
young gentleman as you passed by in 
your present dress, asked me if you were 
the barmaid ! He mistook you for the 
barmaid, madam. 

Miss Hard. Did he? Then as I live I'm 
resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell 
me, Pimple, how do you like my present 
dress? Don't you think I look something 
like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem? ^''^ 

Maid. It 's the dress, madam, that eveiy 
lady wears in the country, but when she 
visits or receives company. 

Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not 
remember my face or person? 

Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so; for 
though we spoke for some time together, 
yet his fears were such, that he never 
once looked up during the interview. In- 
deed, if he had, my bonnet would have 
kept him from seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keep- 
ing him in his mistake? 

Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be 
seen, and that is no small advantage to a 
girl who brings her face to market. Then 
I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, 
and that 's no small victory gained over 
one who never addresses any but the 
Avildest of her sex. But my chief aim is 
to take my gentleman off his guard, and 
like an invisible champion of romance 
examine the giant's force before I offer 
to combat. 

Maid. But you are sure you can act your 
part, and disguise your voice, so that he 
may mistake that, as he has already mis- 
taken your person ? 

Bliss Hard. Never fear me. I think I 
have got the true bar cant. — Did your 

honor call? Attend the Lion there. 

Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The 
Lamb 3*^ has been outrageous this half- 
hour! 

Maid. It will do, madam. But he 's here. 
[Exit Maid.) 

(Enter Marloiv.) 

Marlow. What a bawling in every part of 
the house; I have scarce a moment's re- 
pose. If I go to the best room, there I 
find my host and his story. If I fly to 
the gallery, there we have my hostess 
Avith her curtsey down to the ground. I 

29 A play by Farquhar (1707). 



have at last got a moment to myself, and 
now for recollection. 

{Walks and muses.) 

Miss Hard. Did yuu call, sir? did your 
honor call? 

Marlow. {Musing.) As for Miss Hard- 
castle, she 's too grave and sentimental 
for me. 

Miss Hard. Did your honor call? 

{She still places herself before him, he turn- 
ing away. ) 

Marlow. No, child! (Musing.) Besides 
from the glimpse I had of her, I think 
she squints. 

Miss Hard. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
ring. 

Marlow. No, no! (Musing.) I have 
pleased my father, however, by coming 
down, and I '11 to-morrow please myself 
by returning. 
(Talcing out his tablets, and perusing.) 

Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman 

- called, sir? 

Marlow. I tell you, no. 

Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. 
We have such a parcel of servants. 

Marlow. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full 
in her face.) Yes, child, I think I did 

call. I wanted 1 wanted 1 vow, 

child, you are vastly handsome ! 

Miss Hard. la, sir, you'll make one 
ashamed. 

Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly ma- 
licious ej^e. Yes, yes, my dear, I did 
call. Have you got any of your — a — 
what d'ye call it in the house? 

Miss Hard. No, sii', we have been out of 
that these ten days. 

Marlow. One may call in this house, I 
find, to very little purpose. Suppose I 
should call for a taste, just by way of 
trial, of the nectar of your lips; per- 
haps I might be disappointed in that, 
too! 

Miss Hard. Nectar! nectar! that's a 
liquor there 's no call for in these parts. 
French, I suppose. We keep no French 
wines here, sir. 

Marlow. Of ti'ue English growth, I assure 
you. 

Miss Hard. Then it 's odd I should not 
know it. We brew all sorts of wines in 
this house, and I have lived here these 
eighteen years. 

Marlow. Eighteen years! Why one would 
think, child, you kept the bar before you 
were born. How old are you? 

Miss Hard. 0! sir, I must not tell my 

30 The rooms in inns were often given such names. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 657 



age. They say women and music should 
never be dated. 

Mario w. To guess at this distance, you 
can't be much above forty. {Approach- 
ing.) Yet nearer I don't think so much. 
{Approaching.) By coming- close to 
some women they look younger still; but 
when we come very close indeed — {At- 
tempting to kiss her.) 

Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. 
One would think you wanted to know 
one's age as they do horses, by mark of 
mouth. 

Mario w. I protest, child, you use me ex- 
tremely ill. If you keep me at this dis- 
tance, how is it possible you and I can 
ever be acquainted? 

Miss Hard. And who wants to be ac- 
quainted with you"? I want no such ac- 
quaintance, not I. I 'm sure you did not 
treat Miss Hardeastle that was here 
awhile ago in this obstropalous manner. 
I '11 warrant me, before her you looked 
dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, 
and talked, for all the world, as if you 
was before a justice of peace. 

Marlow. {Aside.) Egad! she has hit it, 
sure enough. {To her.) In awe of her, 
child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward, 
squinting thing, no, no ! I find you don't 
know me. I laughed, and rallied her a 
little; but I was unwilling to be too se- 
vere. No, I could hot be too severe, 
curse me! 

Miss Hard. ! then, sir, you are a favor- 
ite, I find, among the ladies'? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. 
And yet, hang me, I don't see what they 
find in me to follow. At the Ladies' 
Club in town I 'm called their agreeable 
Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real 
name, but one I 'm known by. My name 
is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at 
your service. 

{Offering to salute her.) 

Miss Hard. Hold, sir; you were introduc- 
ing me to your club, not to yourself. 
And you 're so great a favorite there, you 
say? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. 
Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the 
Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Longhorns, old 
Miss Biddy Buckskin and your humble 
servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 

Miss Hard. Then it 's a very merry place. 
I suppose. 

Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, 
wine, and old women can make us. 



Miss Hard. And their agxeeable Rattle, 

ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Marlow. {Aside.) Egad! I don't quite 

like this chit. She looks knowing, me- 

thinks. You laugh, child ! 
Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think 

what time they all have for minding their 

work or their family. 
Marlow. {Aside.) All's well, she don't 

laugh at me. {To her.) Do you ever 

work, child? 
Bliss Hard. Ay, sure. There 's not a 

screen or a quilt in the whole house but 

what can bear witness to that. 
Marlow. Odso ! Then you must show me 

your embroidery. I embroider and draw 

patterns myself a little. If you want a 

judge of your work you must apply to 

me. 

{Seizing her hand.) 
Miss Hard. Ay, but the colors don't look 

well by candle light. You shall see all 

in the morning. 

{Struggling.) 
Marlow. And why not now, my angel? 

Such beauty fires beyond the power of 

resistance. Pshaw! the father here! 

My old luck : I never nicked seven that I 

did not throw amesaee ^^ three times fol- 
lowing. 

{Exit Marlow.) 

{Enter Hardeastle, xclio stands in surprise.) 

Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your 
modest lover. This is your humble ad- 
mirer that kept his eyes fixed on the 
ground, and only adored at humble dis- 
tance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed 
to deceive your father so? 

Bliss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, 
but he 's still the modest man I first took 
him for, you '11 be convinced of it as well 
as I. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe 
his impudence is infectious ! Did n't I 
see him seize your hand? Didn't I see 
him haul you about like a milkmaid? 
And now you talk of his respect and his 
modesty, forsooth ! 

Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you 
of his modesty, that he has only the 
faults that will pass off with time, and 
the virtues that will improve with age, I 
hope you '11 forgive him. 

Hard. The girl would actually make one 
run mad ! I tell you I '11 not be con- 
vinced. I am convinced. He has 
scarcely been three hours in the house. 



31 Made a high throw without making a low throw (in dice). 



658 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



and he has already encroached on all my 
prerogatives. You may like his impu- 
dence, and call it modesty. But my son- 
in-law, madam, must have very dil!ferent 
qualifications. 

Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to 
convince you. 

Hard. You shall not have half the time, 
for I have thoughts of turning him out 
this very hour. 

Miss Hard. Give me that hour then, and 
I hope to satisfy you. 

Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But 
I '11 have no trifling with your father. 
All fair and open, do you mind me? 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever 

found that I considered your commands 

as my pride; for your kindness is such, 

that my duty as yet has been inclination. 

(Exeunt.) 

ACT IV. 

Scene 1. The House. 
{Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 

Hastings. You surprise me! Sir Charles 
Marlow exjDected here this night? 
Where have you had your information? 

Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I 
just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in 
which he tells him he intends setting out 
a few hours after his son. 

Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must 
be completed before he arrives. He 
knows me; and should he find me here, 
would discover my name, and perhaps 
my designs, to the rest of the family. 

Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe. 

Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to 
Marlow, who keeps the keys of our bag- 
gage. In the meantime, I '11 go to pre- 
pare matters for our elopement. I have 
had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh pair 
of horses; and, if I should not see him 
again, will write him further directions. 
(Exit.) 

Miss Neville. Well! success attend you. 
In the meantime, I '11 go amuse my aunt 
with the old pretence of a violent pas- 
sion for my cousin. 

(Exit.) 
(Enter Marlow, followed hy a Servant.) 

Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could 
mean by sending me so valuable a thing 
as a casket to keep for him, when he 
knows the only place I have is the seat 
of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have 



you deposited the casket with the land- 
lady, as I ordered you? Have you put 
it into her own hands? 

Servant. Yes, your honor. 

Marlow. She said she 'd keep it safe, did 
she? 

Servant. Yes, she said she 'd keep it safe 
enough ; she asked me how I came by it ? 
and she said she had a great mind to 
make me give an account of myself. 
(Exit Servant.) 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, how- 
ever. What an unaccountable set of be- 
ings have we got amongst! This little 
barmaid though runs in my head most 
strangely, and drives out the absurdities 
of all the rest of the family. She 's mine, 
she must be mine, or I 'm greatly mis- 
taken. 

(Enter Hastings.) 

Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell 
her that I intended to prepare at the bot- 
tom of the garden. Marlow here, and in 
spirits too ! 

Blarloiv. Give me joy, George! Crown 
me, shadow me with laurels! Well, 
George, after all, we modest fellows don't 
want for success among the women. 

Hastings. Some women, you mean. But 
what success has your honor's modesty 
been crowned with now, that it grows so 
insolent upon us? 

Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, 
brisk, lovely little thing that runs about 
the house with a bunch of keys to its 
girdle? 

Hastings. Well! and what then? 

Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. 
Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such 

lips but egad ! she would not let me 

kiss them though. 

Hastings. But are you so sure, so very 
sure of her? 

Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing 
me her work above-stairs, and I am to 
improve the pattern. 

Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go 
about to rob a woman of her honor? 

Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! we all know the 
honor of the barmaid of an inn. I don't 
intend to roh her, take my word for it; 
there's nothing in this house I shan't 
honestly pay for! 

Hastings. I i)elieve the girl has virtue. 

Marlow. And if she has, I should be the 
last man in the world that would attempt 
to corrupt it. 

Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 659 



the casket I sent you to lock up "? It 's in 
safety? 

Marluw. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I 
have taken care of it. But how could 
you think the seat of a post-coach at an 
inn-door a place of safety? Ah! numb- 
skull! I have taken better precautions 

for you than you did for yourself. 

I have 

Hastings. \Miat ? 

Mario w. I have sent it to the landlady to 
keep for you. 

Hastings. To the landlady ! 

Mario w. The landlady. 

Hastings. You did ! 

Marlow. I did. She 's to be answerable 
for its foi'th-coming', you know. 

Hastings. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a 
witness. 

Marlow. Was n't I right ? I believe you '11 
allow that I acted prudently upon this 
occasion? 

Hastings. (Aside.) He must not see my 
uneasiness. 

Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted, 
though, methinks. Sure nothing has 
happened? 

Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in bet- 
ter spirits in all my life. And so you left 
it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very 
readily undertook the charge? 

Marloiv. Rather too i-eadily. For she not 
only kept the casket, but, through her 
great precaution, was going to keep the 
messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha I 

Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They 're safe, 
however. 

Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 

Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of 
fortune are at an end, and we must set 
off without it. (To him.) Well, Charles, 
I '11 leave you to your meditations on the 
pretty barmaid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you 
be as successful for yourself as you have 
been for me. 

(Exit.) 

Marlow. Thank ye, George! I ask no 
more. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

(Enter Hardcastle.) 

Hard. I no longer know my own house. 
It 's turned all topsy-turvy. His serv- 
ants have got drunk already. I '11 bear it 
no longer, and yet, from my respect for 
his father, I '11 be calm. (To him.) Mr. 
Marlow, your servant. I 'm your very 
humble servant. 

(Bowing low.) 

Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. 



(Aside.) What 's to be the wonder now? 

Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
sir, that no man alive ought to be more 
welcome than your father's son, sir. I 
hope you think so? 

Marlow. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't 
want much entreaty. I generally make 
my father's son welcome Avherever he 
goes. 

Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
But though I say nothing to your own 
conduct, that of your servants is insuffer- 
able. Their manner of drinking is set- 
tmg a very bad example in this house, I 
assure you. 

Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, 
that 's no fault of mine. If they don't 
drink as they ought, they are to blame. 
I ordered them not to spare the cellar, I 
did, I assure you. (To the side scene.) 
Here, let one of my servants come up. 
(To him.) My positive directions were, 
that as I did not drink myself, they 
should make up for my deficiencies below. 

Hard. Then they had your orders for what 
tliey do ! I 'm satisfied ! 

Marlow. They had, I assure you. You 
shall hear from one of themselves. 

(Enter Servant, drunk.) 

Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, 
sirrah! What were my orders? Were 
you not told to drink freely, and call for 
what you thought fit, for the good of the 
house ? 

Hard. (Aside.) I begin to lose my pa- 
tience. 

Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and 
Fleet Street for ever ! Though I 'm but 
a servant, I 'm as good as another man. 
I '11 drink for no man before supper, sir, 
dammy ! Good liquor will sit upon a 
good suppei', but a good supper will not 
sit upon hiccup upon my con- 
science, sir. 

Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fel- 
low is as drunk as he can possibly be. I 
don't know what you 'd have more, unless 
you 'd have the poor devil soused in a 
beer-barrel. 

Hard. Zounds ! He '11 drive me distracted 
if I contain myself any longer. Mr. 
Marlow ! Sir ! I have submitted to your 
insolence for more than four hours, and 
I see no likelihood of its coming to an 
end. I 'm now resolved to be master 
here, sir, and I desire that you and your 
drunken pack may leave my house di- 
rectly. 



660 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Marlow. Leave your bouse! — Sure, you 
jest, my good friend? What, when I'm 
domg what I can to please you ! 
Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me; 

so I desire you '11 leave my house. 
Marlow. Sure, you cannot be serious ! At 
this time of night, and such a night ! 
You only mean to banter me! 
Hard. I tell you, sir, I 'm serious ; and, 
now that my passions are roused, I say 
this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, 
and I command you to leave it directly. 
Marlow. Ha! ha! ha! A puddle in a 
storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. 
{In a serious tone.) This your bouse, 
fellow! It's my house. This is my 
bouse. Mine, while I choose to stay. 
What right have you to bid me leave this 
house, sir? I never met with such impu- 
dence, curse me, never in my whole life 
before ! 
Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did! 
To come to my house, to call for what be 
likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to 
insult the family, to order his servants to 
get drunk, and then to tell me, — This 
house is mine, sir. By all that 's impu- 
dent, it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
• Pray, sir (Bantering), as you take the 
bouse, what think you of taking the rest 
of the furniture f There's a pair of sil- 
ver candlesticks, and there 's a fire-screen, 
and here 's a pair of brazen-nosed bel- 
lows, perhaps you may take a fancy to 
them? 
Marlow. Bring me your bill, six', bring me 
your bill, and let's make no more words 
about it. 
Hard. There are a set of prints, too. 
What think you of the Rake's Progress ^- 
for your own apartment? 
Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say; and 
I '11 leave you and your infernal house 
directly. 
Hard. Then there 's a mahogany table, 

that you may see your own face in. 
Marlow. My bill, I say. 
Hard. 1 had forgot the great chair, for 
your own particular slumbers, after a 
hearty meal. 
Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, 

and let 's hear no more on 't. 
Hard. Young man, young man, from your 
father's letter to me, I was taught to ex- 
pect a well-bred modest man, as a visitor 
here, but now I find him no better than 
a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be 

32 A series of pictures by Hogarth. 



down bere presently, and shall bear more 
of it. 

(Exit.) 
Marlow. IIow 's this ! Sure, I have not 
mistaken the house? Everything looks 
like an inn. The servants cry "coming." 
The attendance is awkward; the barmaid, 
too, to attend us. But she 's here, and 
will further inform me. Whither so fast, 
child? A word with you. 

{Enter Bliss Hardcastle.) 

Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in 
a hurry. — (Aside.) I believe he begins 
to find out his mistake, but it 's too soon 
Ci[uite to undeceive him. 

Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one ques- 
tion. What are you, and what may your 
business in this house be? 

Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marlow. What ? A poor relation ? 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation ap- 
pomted to keep the keys, and to see that 
the guests want nothing in my power to 
give them. 

Marlow. That is, you act as the barmaid 
of this inn. 

Miss Hard. Inn ! law ! — What brought 
that in your head? One of the best fam- 
ilies in the county keejD an inn ! Ha, 
ha, ha, old Mr. Hardcastle's house an 
inn! 

Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this 
house Mr. Hardcastle's house, child? 

Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should 
it be? 

Marlow. So then all's out, and I have 
been damnably imposed on. 0, confound 
my stupid head, I shall be laughed at 
over the whole town. I shall be stuck up 

in earicatura in all the print-shops, 

The Dullissimo Maccaroni.^^ To mistake 
this house of all others for an inn, and 
my father's old friend for an inn-keei:)er ! 
What a swaggering puppy must he take 
me for! What a silly puppy do I find 
nayself ! There again, may I be hanged, 
my dear, but I mistook you for the bar- 
maid ! 

Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I 'm sure 
there 's nothing in my behavour to put me 
upon a level with one of that stamp. 
Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But 
I was in for a list of blunders, and could 
not help making you a subscriber. My 
stupidity saw everything the wrong way. 
I mistook your assiduity for assurance, 

33 A dandy ; Dullissimo, a mock-Italian superlative. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 661 



and your simplicity for allurement. But 
it 's over — this house I no more show my 
face in ! 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done noth- 
ing to disoblige you. I 'm sure I should 
be sorry to affront any gentleman who 
has been so polite, and said so many civil 
things to me. I 'm sure I should be 
sorry {pretending to cry) if he left the 
family upon my account. I 'm sure I 
should be soriy people said anything 
amiss, since I have no fortune but my 
character. 

Marlow. {Aside.) By heaven, she weeps. 
This is the first mark of tenderness I ever 
had from a modest woman, and it touches 
me. {To her.) Excuse me, my lovely 
girl, you are the only part of the family 
I leave with reluctance. But to be plain 
with you, the difference of our birth, for- 
tune and education, make an honorable 
connexion impossible ; and I can never 
harbor a thought of seducing simplicity 
that trusted in my honor, or bringing 
ruin upon one whose only fault was being 
too lovely. 

Miss Hard. {Aside.) Generous man! I 
now begin to admire him. {To him.) 
But I 'm sure my family is as good as 
Miss Hardcastle's, and though I 'm poor, 
that 's no great misfortune to a con- 
tented mind, and, until this moment, I 
never thought that it was bad to want 
fortune. 

Marlow. And why now, my pretty sim- 
plicity'? 

Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a dis- 
tance from one, that if I had a thousand 
pound I would give it all to. 

Marlow. {Aside.) This simplicity be- 
witches me, so that if I stay I 'm undone. 
I must make one bold effort, and leave 
her. {To her.) Your partiality in my 
favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly, 
and were I to live for myself alone, I 
could easily fix my choice. But I owe 
too much to the opinion of the world, 
too m.uch to the authority of a father, so 
that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects 
me ! Farewell ! 

{Exit.) 

Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit 
till now. He shall not go, if I have 
power or art to detain him. I '11 still 
preserve the character in which I stooped 
to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, 
who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his 
resolution. {Exit.) 



{Enter Tony, Miss Neville.) 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves 
the next time. I have done my duty. 
She has got the jewels again, that's a 
sure thing; but she believes it was all a 
mistake of the servants. 

Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure, 
you won't forsake us in this distress. If 
she in the least suspects that I am going 
off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent 
to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times 
worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are 
damned bad things. But what can I dof 
I have got you a pair of horses that will 
fly like Whistlejacket, and I 'm sure you 
can't say but I have courted you nicely 
before her face. Here she comes, we 
must court a bit or two more, for fear 
she should suspect us. 

{They retire, and seem to fondle.) 
{Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 

Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, 
to be sure. But my son tells me it was 
all a mistake of the servants. I shan't 
be easy, however, till they are fairly mar- 
ried, and then let her keep her own for- 
tune. But what do I see? Fondling to- 
gether, as I 'm alive ! I never saw Tony 
so sprightly before. Ah! have I caught 
you, my pretty doves'? What, billing, 
exchanging stolen glances, and broken 
murmurs ! Ah ! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grum- 
ble a little now and then, to be sure. 
But there 's no love lost between us. 

Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, 
upon the flame, only to make it burn 
brighter. 

Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to 
give us more of his company at home. 
Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It 
won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ■? 

Tony. ! it 's a pretty creature. No, I 'd 
sooner leave my horse in a pound, than 
leave you when you smile upon one so. 
Your laugh makes you so becoming. 

Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can 
help admiring that natural humor, that 
pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless, {Pat- 
ting his cheek.) 'ah ! it 's a bold face. 

Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence! 

Tony. I 'm sure I always loved cousin 
Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long fin- 
gers, that she twists this way and that, 
over the haspicholls,^* like a parcel of 
bobbins. 



34 A corrupt form for harpsichord. 



662 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Mrs. Hard. Ah, he would charm the bird 
from the tree. I was never so happy be- 
fore. My boy takes after his father, 
poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. Tire jewels, 
my dear Con, shall be yours inconti- 
nently. You shall have them. Is n't he 
a sweet boy, my dear "? You shall be mar- 
ried to-morrow, and we '11 put off the rest 
of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's ser- 
mons, to a fitter opportunity. 

{Enter Diggory.) 

Diggory. Where's the 'Squire? I have 
got a letter for your worship. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads 
all my letters first. 

Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into 
your own hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from'? 

Diggory. Your worship mun ask that of 
the letter itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know, though. 
{Turning the letter, and gazing on it.) 

Miss Neville. {Aside.) Undone, undone! 
A letter to him from Hastmgs. I know 
the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are 
ruined for ever. I '11 keep her employed 
a little if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle.) 
But I have not told you, madam, of my 
cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. 
Marlow. We so laughed — you must 
know, madam — this way a little, for he 
must not hear us. {They confer.) 

Tony. {Still gazing.) A damned cramp 
piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in 
my life. I can read your print-hand very 
well. But here there are such handles, 
and shanks, and dashes, that one can 
scarce tell the head from the tail. To 
Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire. It 's very 
odd, I can read the outside of my letters, 
where my own name is, well enough. 
But when I come to open it, it 's all — 
buzz. That 's hard, very hard ; for the 
inside of the letter is always the cream of 
the correspondence. 

Mrs. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very 
well. And so my son was too hard for 
the philosopher! 

Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must 
hear the rest, madam. A little more this 
way, or he may hear us. You '11 hear 
how he puzzled him again. 

Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled 

now himself, methinks. 
Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned up and 
down hand, as if it was disguised in 
liquor. (Beading.) Dear Sir. Ay, 



that 's that. Then there 's an M, and a 
T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
izzard ^^ or an R, confound me, I cannot 
tell ! 

Mrs. Hard. What 's that, my dearf Can 
I give you any assistance*? 

Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. 
Nobody reads a cramp hand better than 
I. {Twitching the letter from her.) Do 
you know who it is from"? 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Gin- 
ger the feeder. 

Miss Neville. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to 
read.) "Dear 'Squire, Hoping that 
you 're in health, as I am at this present. 
The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has 
cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
quite out of feather. The odds — um — 
odd battle — um — long fighting — um, here, 
here, it's all about cocks, and fighting; 
It 's of no consequence, here, put it up, 
put it up. 

(Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.) 

Tony. But I tell you, miss, it 's of all the 
consequence in the world ! I would not 
lose the rest of it for a guinea ! Here, 
mother, do you make it out. Of no con- 
sequence ! 
(Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter.) 

Mrs. Hard. How's this! (Reads.) ''Dear 
'Squire, I 'm now waiting for Miss 
Neville, with a post-chaise and a pair, at 
the bottom of the garden, but I find my 
horses yet unable to perform the journey. 
I expect you '11 assist us with a pair of 
fresh horses, as you promised. DisjDatch 
is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your 
mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 
Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall 
run distracted ! My rage chokes me. 

Miss Neville. 1 hope, madam, you '11 sus- 
pend your resentment for a few moments, 
and not impute to me any impertinence, 
or sinister design that belongs to another. 

Mrs. Hard. (Ciirtseying very low.) Fine 
spoken, madam, you are most miracu- 
lously polite and engaging, and quite the 
veiy pink of courtesy and circumspection, 
madam. (Changing her tone.) And 
you, you g:reat ill-fashioned oaf, with 
scarce sense enough to keep your mouth 
shut. Were you too joined against me*? 
But I '11 defeat all your plots in a mo- 
ment. As for you, madam, since you 
have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it 
would be cruel to disappoint them. So, 
if you please, instead of running away 
with your spark, prepare, this very mo- 



35 z. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 663 



ment to run off with me. Your old aunt 
Pedigree will keep you secure, I '11 war- 
rant me. You, too, sir, may mount your 
horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, 
Thomas, Roger, Diggcry ! I '11 show you 
that I wish you better than you do your- 
selves. 

(Exit.) 

Miss Neville. So now I 'm completely 
ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 

Miss Neville. What better could be ex- 
pected from being connected with such a 
stupid fool, and after all the nods and 
signs I made him"? 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 
cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did 
your business. You were so nice and so 
busy with your Shake-bags and Goose- 
greens that I thought you could never be 
making believe. 

{Enter Hastings.) 

Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, 
that you have shown my letter, and be- 
trayed us. Was this well done, young 
gentleman 1 

Tony. Here 's another. Ask miss there 
who betrayed you. Ecod, it was her do- 
ing, not mine. 

{Enter Marlow.) 

Marlow. So I have been finely used here 
among you. Rendered contemptible, 
di'iven into ill manners, despised, insulted, 
laughed at. 

Tony. Here 's another. We shall have old 
Bedlam broke loose presently. 

Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentle- 
man to whom we all owe every obligation. 

Marlow. What can I say to him? a mere 
boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age 
are a protection. 

Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that 
would but disgTace correction. 

Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice 
enough to make himself merry with all 
our embarrassments. 

Hastings. An insensible cub. 

Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
'Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you 

both one after the other, with bas- 

kets.^'' 

Marlow. As for him, he 's below resent- 
ment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, 
requires an explanation. You knew of 
my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. 

Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own 



disappointments, is this a time for expla- 
nations'? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 

Marlow. But, sir 

Miss Neville. Mr. Mai-low, we never kept 
on your mistake, till it was too late to 
undeceive you. Be iDacified. 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get 
ready immediately, madam. The horses 
are putting to. Your hat and things are 
in the next room. We are to go thirty 
miles before morning. 

{Exit Servant.) 

Miss Neville. Well, well ; I '11 come pres- 
ently. 

Marlow. {To Hastings.) Was it well 
done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridicu- 
lous"? To hang me out for the scorn of 
all my acquaintance? Depend upon it, 
sir, I shall expect an explanation. 

Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're 
upon that subject, to deliver what I en- 
trusted to yourself, to the care of another, 
sir? 

Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow. 
Why will you increase my distress by this 
groundless disiDute? I implore, I en- 
treat you 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mis- 
tress is impatient. 

{Exit Servant.) 

Miss Neville. I come. Pray be pacified. 
If I leave you thus, I shall die with ap- 
prehension ! 

{Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, 
madam. The horses are waiting. 

Miss Neville. 0, Mr. Marlow! if you 
knew what a scene of constraint and ill- 
nature lies before me, I 'm sure it would 
convert your resentment into pity. 

Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety 
of passions, that I don't know what I do. 
Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. 
You know my hasty temper, and should 
not exasi^erate it. 

Hastings. The torture of my situation is 
my only excuse. 

Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if 
you have that esteem for me that I think, 
that I am sure you have, your constancy 
for three years will but increase the hap- 
piness of our future connection. If 



36 Probably a stick with a hilt of basket-work. 



664 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Mrs. Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville. Con- 
stance, why, Constance, I say. 

3Iiss Neville. I 'm coming. Well, con- 
stancy. Remember, constancy is the 
word. 

(Exit.) 

Hastings. My heart ! How can I support 
this? To be so near happiness, and such 
happiness ! 

Marlow. [To Tony.) You see now, young 
gentleman, the effects of your folly. 
What might be amusement to you, is here 
disappointment, and even distress. 

Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit 
it. It 's here. Your hands. Yours and 
yours, my iDOpr Sulky. My boots there, 
ho ! Meet me two hours hence at the bot- 
tom of the garden ; and if you don't find 
Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fel- 
low than you thought for, I '11 give you 
leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
Bouncer into the bargain ! Come along. 
My boots, ho ! 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. Continues. 
(Enter Hastings and Servant.) 

Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss 
Neville drive off, you sayl 

Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off 
in a post-coach, and the young 'Squire 
went on horseback. They 're thirty miles 
off by this time. 

Hastings. Then all my hopes are over. 

Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is ar- 
rived. He and the old gentleman of the 
house have been laughing at Mr. Mar- 
low's mistake this half-hour. They are 
coming this way. 

Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So 
now to my fruitless 'appointment at the 
bottom of the garden. This is about the 
time. 

(Exit.) 

(Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle.) 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptoiy tone 
in which he sent forth his sublime com- 
mands ! 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I 
suppose he treated all your advances. 

Hard. And yet he might have seen some- 
thing in me above a common innkeeper, 
too. 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook 



you for an uncommon innkeeper, ha! ha! 
ha! 

Hard. Well, I 'm in too good spirits to 
think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear 
friend, this union of our families will 
make our personal friendships heredi- 
tary : and though my daughter's fortune 
is but small 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of 
fortune to me? My son is possessed of 
more than a competence already, and can 
want nothing but a good and virtuous girl 
to share liis happiness and increase it. 
If they like each other, as you say they 
do 

Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like 
each other. My daughter as good as told 
me so. 

Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter 
themselves, you know. 

Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the 
warmest manner myself; and here he 
comes to put you out of your ifs, I war- 
rant him. 

(Enter Marlow.). 

Marlo^v. I come, sir, once more, to ask 
pardon for my strange conduct. I can 
scarce reflect on my insolence without con- 
fusion. 

Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with 

- my daughter will set all to rights again. 
She '11 never like you the worse for it. 

Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of 
her approbation. 

Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, 
Mr. Marlow; if I am not deceived, you 
have something more than approbation 
thereabouts. You take me. 

Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that hap- 
piness. 

Hard. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and 
know what 's what, as well as you that are 
younger. I know what has passed be- 
tween you ; but mum. 

Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has passed be- 
tween us but the most profound respect 
on my side, and the most distant reserve 
on hers. You don't think, sir, that my 
impudence has been passed upon all the 
rest of the family. 

Hard. Impudence! No, I don't say that — 
Not quite impudence — Though girls like 
to be played with, and I'umpled a little 
too, sometimes. But she has told no 
tales, I assure you. 

Marlow. I never gave her the slightest 
cause. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 6G5 



Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its 
place well enough. But this is over-act- 
ing, young gentleman. You may be 
open. Your father and I will like you 
the better for it. 

Mario w. May I die, sir, if I ever 

Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you; 
and as I 'm sure you like her 

Marlow. Dear sir — I protest, sir 

Hard. I see no reason why you should not 
be joined as fast as the parson can tie 
you. 

Marlow. But hear me, sir 

Hard. Your father approves the match, I 
admire it, every moment's delay will be 
doing mischief, so 

Marlow. But why won't you hear met 
By all that 's just and true, I never gave 
Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my 
attachment, or even the most distant hint 
to suspect me of affection. We had but 
one interview, and that was formal, mod- 
est, and uninteresting. 

Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, 
modest impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her 
hand, or made any protestations ! 

Marlow. As heaven is my witness, I came 
down in obedience to your commands, I 
saw the lady without emotion, and parted 
without reluctance. I hope you '11 exact 
no further proofs of my duty, nor pre- 
vent me from leaving a house in which I 
suffer so many mortifications. 
(Exit.)^ 

Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of 
sincerity with which he parted. 

Hard. And I 'm astonished at the deliber- 
ate intrepidity of his assurance. 

Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and 
honor upon his truth. 

Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I 
would stake my happiness upon her 
veracity. 

(Enter Miss Hardcastle.) 

Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer 

us sincerely, and without reserve ; has Mr. 

Marlow made you any professions of love 

and affection"? 
Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, 

sir! But since you require unreserved 

sincerity, I think he has. 
Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 
Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you 

and my son had more than one interview f 
Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 



Sir Charles. But did he profess any at- 
tachment ? 

Miss Hard. A lasting one. 

Sir Charles. Did he talk of love? 

Miss Hard. Much, sir. 

Sir Charles. Amazing! And all this for- 
mally.? 

Miss Hard. Formally. 

Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are 
satisfied. 

Sir diaries. And how did he behave, 
madam? 

Miss Hard. As most professed admirers 
do. Said some civil things of my face, 
talked much of his want of merit, and the 
greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, 
gave a short tragedy speech, and ended 
with pretended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I 'm perfectly convinced, 
indeed. I know his conversation among 
women to be modest and submissive. 
This forward, canting,^'^ ranting manner 
by no means describes him, and I am 
confident he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should 
convince you to your face of my sincer- 
ity? If you and my papa, in about half- 
an-hour, will place yourselves behind that 
screen, you shall hear him declare his 
passion to me in person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him 
what you describe, all my happiness in 
him must have an end. 
(Exit.) 

Miss Hard. And if you don't find him 
what I describe — I fear my happiness 
must never have a beginning. 
(Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. Changes to the Back of the 
Garden. 

(Enter Hastings.) 

Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here 
for a fellow, who probably takes a delight 
in mortifying me ! He never intended to 
be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. 
What do I see? It is he, and perhaps 
with news of my Constance. 

(Enter Tony, hooted and spattered.) 

Hastings. My honest 'Squire ! I now find 

you a man of your word. This looks like 

friendship. 
Tony. Ay, I 'm your friend, and the best 

friend you have in the world, if you 

knew but all. This riding by night, by- 



37 Conventionally affected. 



666 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



the-bye, is cursedly tiresome. It has 
shook me worse than the basket of a 
stage-coach. 

Hastings. But how ? Where did you leave 
your fellow-travellers"? Are they in 
safety"? Are they housed ? 

Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours 
and a half is no such bad driving. The 
poor beasts have smoked for it : rabbit 
nie, but I 'd rather ride forty miles after 
a fox, than ten with such varment. 

Hastings. Well, but where have you left 
the ladies'? I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them? Why, where should I 
leave them, but where I found them"? 

Hastings. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Riddle me this, then. What 's that 
goes round the house, and round the 
house, and never touches the house*? 

Hastings. I 'm still astray. 

Tony. Why, that 's it, mon. I have led 
them astray. By jingo, there 's not a 
pond or slough within five miles of the 
place but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. Ha, ha, ha, I understand ; you 
took them in a round, while they sup- 
posed themselves going forward. And 
so you have at last brought them home 
again "? 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them 
down Feather-Bed Lane, where we stuck 
fast in the mud. I then rattled them 
crack over the stones of Up-and-down 
Hill — I then introduced them to the gib- 
bet on Heavy-Tree Heath, and from that, 
with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged 
them in the horse-pond at the bottom of 
the garden. 

Hastings. But no accident, I hope. 

Tony. No, no. Only mother is confound- 
edly frightened. She thinks herself forty 
miles off. She 's sick of the journey, and 
the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your 
own horses be ready, you may whip off 
with cousin, and I '11 be bound that no 
soul here can budge afoot to follow you. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be 
grateful "? 

Tony. Ay, now it 's dear friend, noble 
'Squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, 
and run me through the guts. Danui 
your way of fighting, I say. After we 
take a knock in this part of the country, 
we kiss and be friends. But if you had 
run me through tlie guts, then T should 
be dead, and you might go kiss the hang- 
man. 

Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must 
hasten to relieve Miss Neville ; if you keep 



the old lady em^jloyed, I promise to take 
care of the young one. 

{Exit Hastings.) 
Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. 
Vanish. She 's got from the pond, and 
draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 

{Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 

Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I 'm killed. Shook. 
Battered to death. I shall never survive 
it. That last jolt that laid us against the 
quick-set hedge has done my business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own 
fault. You would be for running away 
by night, without knowing one inch of the 
way. 

Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. 
I never met so many accidents in so short 
a journey. Drenched in the mud, over- 
turned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, 
jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our 
way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, 
Tony? 

Tony. By my guess we should be upon 
Crack-skull Common, about forty miles 
from home. 

Mrs. Hard. lud ! lud ! the most no- 
torious spot in all the country. We only 
want a robbery to make a complete night 
on 't. 

Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be 
afraid. Two of the five that kept here 
are hanged, and the other three may not 
find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man 
that's galloj^ing behind us? No; it's 
only a tree. Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill 
me. 

Tony. Do you see any thing like a black 
hat moving behind the thicket? 

Mrs. Hard. death ! 

Tony. No, it 's only a cow. Don't be 
afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a 
man coming towards us. Ah ! I 'm sure 
on 't. If he perceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. {Aside.) Father-in-law, by all 
that 's unlucky, come to take one of his 
night walks. {To her.) Ah, it 's a high- 
wayman, with pistols as long as my arm. 
A damned ill-looking fellow. 

Mrs. Hard. Good heaven defend us! He 
approaches. 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, 
and leave me to manage him. If there be 
any danger I '11 cough and cry hem. 
Wiien T cougli be sure to keep close. 

{Mrs. Hardcastle hides })ehind a tree in the 
back scene.) 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 667 



{Enter Hardcastle.) 

Hard. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is 
that you? I did not expect you so soon 
back. Are your mother and her charge 
in safety? 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedi- 
gree's. Hem. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Ah death! 
I find there 's danger. 

Hard. Forty miles in three hours; sure, 
that 's too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds 

. make short journeys, as they say. Hem. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Sure he'll 
do the dear boy no harm. 

Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should 
be glad to know from whence it came ? 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. 
I was saying that forty miles in four 
hours was very good going. Hem. As 
to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a 
sort of cold by being out in the air. 
We '11 go in if you please. Hem. 

Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you 
did not answer yourself. I am certain I 
heard two voices, and am resolved {Bais- 
ing his voice.) to find the other out. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Oh! he's 
coming to find me out. Oh ! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? 
Hem. I '11 lay down my life for the 
truth — -liem — I '11 tell you all, sir. 
{Detaining him,.) 

Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I 
insist on seeing. It 's in vain to expect 
I '11 believe you. 

Mrs. Hard. {Running forivard from be- 
hind.) lud, he '11 murder my poor boy, 
my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet 
your rage upon me. Take my money, my 
life, but spare that young gentleman, 
spare my child, if you have any mercy. 

Hard. My wife! as I'm a Christian. 
From whence can she come, or what does 
she mean ? 

Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compas- 
sion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. 
Take our money, our watches, all we have, 
but spare our lives. We will never bring 
you to justice, indeed we won't, good Mr. 
Highwayman. 

Hard. I believe the woman 's out of her 
senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know 
mef 

Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! 
My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, 
could have exj^ected to meet you here, in 



this frightful place, so far from home? 
What has brought you to follow us ? 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost 
your wits ! So far from home, when you 
are within forty yards of your own door ! 
{To him.) This is one of your old tricks, 
you graceless rogue, you! {To her.) 
Don't you know the gate, and the mul- 
berry-tree; and don't you remember the 
horsepond, my dear? 

3Irs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the 
horsepond as long as I live ; I have caught 
my death in it. {To Tony.) And is it 
to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all 
this ? I '11 teach you to abuse your 
mother, I will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says 
you have spoiled me, and so you may take 
the fruits on 't. 

Mrs. Hard. I '11 spoil you, I will. 

{Follows him off the stage. Exit.) 

Hard. There's morality, however, in his 
reply. 

{Exit.) 

{Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 

Hastings. My dear Constance, wdiy will 
you deliberate thus? If we delay a mo- 
ment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a 
little resolution, and we shall soon be out 
of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My 
spirits are so sunk with the agitations I 
have suffered, that I am unable to face 
any new danger. Two or three years' 
patience will at last crown us with happi- 
ness. 

Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse 
than inconstancy. Let us fly, my 
charmer. Let us date our happiness from 
this very moment. Perish fortune. Love 
and content will increase what we possess 
beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me 
prevail. 

Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. 
Prudence once more comes to my relief, 
and I will obey its dictates. In the mo- 
ment of passion, fortune may be despised, 
but it ever produces a lasting repentance. 
I 'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's 
compassion and justice for redress. 

Hastings. But though he had the will, he 
has not the power to relieve you. 

Miss Neville. But he has influence, and 
upon that I am resolved to rely. 

Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you 
persist, I must reluctantly obey you. 
{Exetmt.) 



668 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Scene 3. Scene changes [to a Room at 
Mr. Harclcastle's.] 

{Enter Sir Charles and Miss Hardcastlc.) 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! 
If what you say appears, I shall then find 
a guilty son. If what he says be true, I 
shall then lose one that, of all others, I 
most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hard. I am proud of your approba- 
tion ; and, to show I merit it, if you place 
yourselves as I directed, you shall hear 
his explicit declaration. But he comes. 

Sir Charles. I '11 to your father, and keep 
him to the appointment. 

{Exit Sir Charles.) 

{Enter Marlow.) 

Mario w. Tliough prepared for setting out, 
I come once more to take leave, nor did I, 
till this moment, know the pain I feel in 
the separation. 

Miss Hard. {In her oion natural manner.) 
I believe these sufferings cannot be very 
great, sir, which you can so easily remove. 
A day or two longer, perhaps, might les- 
sen your uneasiness, by showing the little 
value of what you now think proper to 
regret. 

Marlow. {Aside.) This girl every mo- 
ment improves upon me. {To-her.) It 
must not be, madam. I have already 
trifled too long with my heart. My very 
pride begins to submit to my passion. 
The disparity of education and fortune, 
the anger of a parent, and the contempt 
of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; 
and nothing can restore me to myself but 
this painful effort of resolution. 

Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I '11 ui^ge noth- 
ing more to detain you. Though my 
family be as good as hers you came doAvn 
to visit, and my education, I hope, not 
inferior, what are these advantages with- 
out equal affluence? I must remain con- 
tented with the slight approbation of im- 
puted merit; I must have only the mock- 
ery of your addresses, while all your 
serious aims are fixed on fortune. 

{Enter Hardcastlc and Sir Charles from 
behind.) 

Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I '11 engage 

my Kate covei's him with confusion at 

last. 
Marlow. By heavens, madam, fortune was 

ever my smallest consideration. Your 



beauty at first caught my eye; for who 
could see that without emotion"? But 
every moment that I converse with you, 
steals in some new grace, heightens the 
picture, and gives it stronger expression. 
What at first seemed rustic plainness, now 
appears refined simplicity. What seemed 
forward assurance, now strikes me as the 
result of courageous innocence, and con- 
scious virtue. 

Sir Charles. What can it mean? He 
amazes me ! 

Hard. 1 told you how it would be. Hush ! 

Marlow. I am now determined to stay, 
madam, and I have too good an opinion 
of my father's discernment, when he sees 
you, to doubt his approbation. 

Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, 
cannot detain you. Do you think I could 
suffer a connexion, in which there is the 
smallest room for repentance? Do you 
think I would take the mean advantage 
of a transient passion, to load you with 
confusion ? Do you think I could ever 
relish that happiness, which was acquired 
by lessening yours? 

Marlow. By all that 's good; I can have no 
happiness but what 's in your power to 
grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repent- 
ance, but in not having seen your merits 
before. I M'ill stay, even contraiy to your 
wishes; and though you should persist 
to shun me, I will make my respectful 
assiduities atone for the levity of my past 
conduct. 

Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you '11 de- 
sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it 
end, in indifference. I might have given 
an hour or two to levity; but, seriously, 
Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
submit to a connection where I must ap- 
pear mercenary, and you imprudent ? 
Do you think I could ever catch at the 
confident addresses of a secure admirer? 

Marlow. {Kneeling.) Does this look like 
security? Does this look like confidence? 
No, madam, eveiy moment that shows me 
your merit, only serves to increase my 
diffidence and confusion. Here let me 
continue 

Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. 
Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived 
me ! Is this your indiffei'ence, your unin- 
teresting conversation ! 

Hard. Your cold contempt ! your formal 
interview! What have you to say now? 

Marlow. That T 'm all amazement ! What 
can it mean ? 

Hard. It means that you can say and un- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 



669 



say things at pleasure. That you can ad- 
dress a lady in private, and deny it in 
public; that you have one stoiy for us, 
and another for my daughter ! 

Marlow. Daughter! — this lady your 
daughter! 

Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My 
Kate, whose else should she be? 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical 
tall squinting lady you were pleased to 
take me for. {Curtseying.) She that 
you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
mental man of gravity, and the bold, for- 
ward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' 
Club : ha, ha, ha ! 

Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this; 
it 's worse than death ! 

Miss Hard. In which of your chai'acters, 
sir, will you give us leave to address you f 
As the faltering gentleman, with looks on 
the ground, that speaks just to be heard, 
and hates hypocrisy: or the loud confident 
creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man- 
trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till 
three in the morning; ha, ha, ha! 

Marlow. 0, curse on my noisy head. T 
never attemj^ted to be impudent yet, that 
I was not taken down. I must be gone. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, but you 
shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and 
I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, 
sir, I tell you. I know she '11 forgive you. 
Won't you forgive him, Kate? We '11 all 
forgive you. Take courage, man. 

{They retire, she tormenting him to the 
back scene.) 

{Enter Mrs. Hardcastle, Tony.) 

Mrs. Hard. So, so, they 're gone off. Let 
them go, I care not. 

Hard. Who gone? 

Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gen- 
tleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He 
who came down with our modest visitor 
here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George 
Hastings! As worthy a fellow as lives, 
and the girl could not have made a more 
prudent choice. 

Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm 
proud of the connection. 

Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away 
the lady, he has not taken her fortune, 
that remains in this family to console us 
for her loss. 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
mercenary ? 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not 



yours. But you know, if your son, when 
of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her 
whole fortune is then at her own disposal. 
Hard. Ah, but he 's not of age, and she 
has not thought proper to wait for his re- 
fusal. 

{Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 

Mrs. Hard. (Aside.) What! returned so 
soon? I begin not to like it. 

Hastings. {To Hardcastle.) For my late 
attempt to tiy off with your niece, let my 
present confusion be my punishment. 
We are now come back, to appeal from 
your justice to your humanity. By her 
father's consent, I first paid her my ad- 
dresses, and our passions were first 
founded in duty. 

Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been 
obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid 
oppression. In an hour of levity, I was 
ready even to give up ray fortune to se- 
cure my choice. But I 'm now recovered 
from the delusion, and hope from your 
tenderness what is denied me from a 
nearer connection. 

Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but 
the whining end of a modern novel. 

Hard. Be it what it will, I 'm glad they 'i*e 
come back to reclaim their due. Come 
hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this 
lady's hand whom I now offer you? 

Tony. What signifies my refusing? You 
know I can't refuse her till I 'm of age, 
father. 

Hard. While I thought concealing your 
age, boy, was likely to conduce to your 
improvement, I concurred with your 
mother's desii'e to keep it secret. But 
since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I 
must now declare, you have been of age 
these three months. 

Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father? 

Hard. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 
make of my liberty. {Taking Miss 
Neville's hand.) Witness all men by 
these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Con- 
stantia Neville, spinster, of no place at 
all, for my true and lawful wife. So 
Constance Neville may marry whom she 
pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own 
man again ! 

Sir Charles. brave 'Squire ! 

Hastings. My worthy friend ! 

Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring! 

Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you 
joy, sincerely. And could I prevail upon 



670 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, 
I should l3e the happiest man alive, if 
you would return me the favor. 

Hastings. {To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, 
madam, you are now driven to the very 
last scene of all your contrivances. I 
know you like him, I 'm sure he loves you, 
and you must and shall have him. 

Hard. {Joining their hands.) And I say 
so, too. And Mr. Marlow, if she makes 
as good a wife as she has a daughter, I 
don't believe you '11 ever repent your bar- 
gain. So now to supper, to-morrow we 
shall gather all the poor of the parish 
about us, and the Mistakes of the Night 
shall be crowned with a merry morning; 
so boy, take her; and as you have beeii 
mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that 
you may never be mistaken in the wife. 

EPILOGUE 
By Dr. Goldsmith. 

Well, having stooped to conquer with suc- 
cess, 
And gained a husband Avithout aid from 

dress, 
Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too, 
As I have conquered him to conquer you : 
And let me say, for all your resolution. 
That pretty bamiaids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please, 
"We have our exits and our entrances." ^^ 
The first act shows the simple country maid. 
Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; 
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning 

action, 
I hopes as hoio to give you satisfaction. 
Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
Th' unblushing barmaid of a countiy inn, 
Who whisks about the house, at market 

eaters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds 

the waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she 

soars. 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. 
On 'Squires and Cits ^^ she there displays 

her arts, 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' 

hearts — 
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete. 
Even Common Councilmen forget to eat. 
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 

'Squire, 



And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
Pretends to taste, at Operas cries caro**^ 
And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che 

Faro.'^^ 
Boats upon dancing, and in all her pride, 
Swims round the room, the Heinel ^^ of 

Cheapside : 
Ogles and leers with artificial skill. 
Till having lost in age the power to kill. 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at 

spadille.*^ 
Such, through our lives, the eventful his- 

toi-y— 
The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
The barmaid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female barrister, and pleads for 

Bayes.** 

EPILOGUE 

To he spoken in the character of 
Tony Lumpkin. 

By J. Craddoek, Esq. 

Well — now all 's ended — and my comrades 
gone. 

Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son? 

A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my sta- 
tion. 

And tiy to make a bluster in the nation. 

As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, 

Off — in a ci'ack — I '11 carry big Bet 
Bouncer. 

Why should not I in the great world ap- 
pear? 

I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year; 

No matter what a man may here inherit. 

In London — 'gad, they 've some regard to 
sj^irit. 

I see the horses prancing up the streets. 

And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 

Then hoikes to jiggs and pastimes ev'ry 
night — 

Not to the plays — they say it a'n't polite. 

To Sadler's- Wells *^ perhaps, or Operas go. 

And once by chance, to the roratoi'io. 

Thus hei'e and there, for ever up and down. 

We '11 set the fashions too, to half the town ; 

And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, 

Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a 
yard : 

Zounds, we shall make these London gentry 
say, 

We know what 's damned genteel, as well as 
they. 



38 This line and 
what follows are 
after the pattern 
of the "seven 
ages" in Shakes- 
peare's A.t You 
Like It, II. vii. 



3n Citizens, "bour- 
geois." 

40 7. c, braro. 

41 The former is a 
popular song, 
the latter is an 
aria in Gliick's 



opera Orfeo, 

1764. — Che faro 
senza Euridice? 
42 A Prussian dan- 
cer popular in 
London about 

this time. 



43 The ace of spades 
in certain card- 
ganies. 

44 r. (»., the drama- 
tist (from the 
person who was 
a parody on Dry- 



den in The Re- 
hearsal). There 
is mock-modesty 
in using the 
word. 

' A pleasure-resort 
in the north of 
London. 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-181G), 
like Goldsmith, was Irish in blood and some- 
what in temperament; he was born in Dublin, 
though in boyhood he came to England, his 
home thereafter. Through his father, an 
actor and theater-manager, he was doubtless 
from the tirst thoroughly familiar with the 
stage. His six plays were all written in his 
youth; of the two best and most permanently 
popular, The Rivals was first acted in 1775 
and The School for Scandal in 1777. His 
later eminence was political ; he was in Par- 
liament for many years, rose high in the gov- 
ernment, and was celebrated as an eloquent 
and brilliant speaicer. 

The School for Scandal is the finest ex- 
ample in the eighteenth century of the comedy 
of manners. As usual with this type, the 
characters are many, the dialogue is spark- 
ling, action bustling, and plot somewhat loose. 
It has often been noticed that the title of 
the play is derived from a very minor ele- 
ment in it, Lady Sneerwell and her sister- 
hood, and their irresponsible and venomous 
gossip. It is hardly true, however, that the 
scandal scenes are without fimction, for they 
give an extensive background, a sense that 
the action of the play is tj'pical of a large 
society, which is essential to the comedy of 
manners. They also sharpen the satire; 
scandal half the time is mistaken, as the 
audience is shown in advance (Sheridan fully 
understood the advantage of flattering his 
audience) ; the tattlers make out Joseph Sur- 
face to be Lady Sneerwell's lover instead of 
Lady Teazle's; and him to be the saint and 
his brother Charles the sinner, instead of the 
nearly opposite trutli ; and no one will forget 
the immortal satire on scandal-mongering in 
act V. ii, where a purely imaginary bullet is 
said to have rebounded from the little bronze 
Pliny " and wounded the postman, who was 
just coming to the door with a double letter 
from Northamptonshire." 

The essentials of the plot are neither espe- 
cially original nor striking. Domestic quar- 
rels and intrigues, the exposure of hypocrisy 
and the rewarding of generosity, are no more 
entertaining and pleasing than they are usual 
in comedy. Even the gossip-club is fore- 
shadowed in Congreve's The Wat/ of the 
World (Li) and elsewhere. Much the same 
is true of the characters. The humor of the 
old man who marries a young wife, brags to 
her of the exploits of his youth, and is cajoled, 
managed, and deceived by her, is at least 



as old as Cliaucer's Merchant's Tale; the two 
brothers, one plausible and unlovely, the otlier 
reckless but good-hearted, are familiar in 
Fielding's Tom Jones (not to mention the 
parable of the Prodigal Son). In this play, 
as often, the comedy of manners verges into 
the comedy of humors. That each character 
is intended to embody a single trait is an- 
nounced in the names of most of them — 
Teazle, Surface, Crabtree, etc. The char- 
acterization is broad and simple, with little 
aim at subtlety. But it is endlessly diverting 
and vigorous; every stroke counts, and its 
force makes it seem more lifelike than it is. 
Nor is it wanting in original discernment, as 
in the person of Mrs. Candour, who gets a 
reputation for cliarity by professing disbelief 
in the malevolent gossip she spreads. 

The vitality of the play consists chiefly in 
its situations and its dialogue. Every action 
and line show Sheridan's keen eye for tlie 
dramatically efl'ective. Two scenes are espe- 
cially celebrated. One (IV. i) is where 
Charles has his ancestors' portraits auctioned 
oft', the otiier (IV. iii) where the screen is 
thrown down and Lady Teazle is disclosed. 
In each of them every speech makes the situa- 
tion more tense. The comedy is made 
more piquant in each by the spectator being 
in the secret, which is not shared by the char- 
acters; he rejoices that Charles' loyalty to 
his uncle is serving him better than he knows, 
and that Joseph's agonized struggles (luiseen 
by the other persons) are entangling him 
more and more. The scenes where Joseph re- 
jects his disguised uncle's request (V. i ) , 
where Sir Peter walks in upon the gossips 
(V. ii), and the general clearing up at the 
end, are also admirable. It is perhaps chiefly 
the etfectiveness on the stage of such scenes 
in this play and The Rivals that has enabled 
Sheridan to outlive all other men of the 
eighteenth century except Goldsmith as an 
acting dramatist; and that made Sir Henry 
Irving call this play the most popular comedy 
in the English language. 

His popularity on the stage has been hardly 
less helped by his dialogue; which is the 
chief reason for his popularity among readers. 
He and Congreve are the most constantly 
brilliant of the older Englisli dramatists, and 
Congreve is perhaps less epigrammatic and 
quotable. Sheridan's dialogue resembles 
those fireworks which emit a steady shower 
of sparks, and now and then an exploding ball 
of fire. Its sheer cleverness cannot be sur- 



671 



672 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



passed, and justifies the sacrifices he makes 
to it. The chief of these is realism. It was 
said of Ben Jonson that he would rather lose 
his friend than his jest; Sheridan would 
rather lose his truth to nature than his jest 
Snake declares that, since he lives by the bad- 
ness of his character, " if it were once known 
that he had been betrayed into an honest 
action, he should lose every friend he has in 
the world." Tlie cynical impudence is of the 
stage, not of life." It is acceptable because 
the play is a work of art, not a study of 
human character. Even the fop Sir Benjamin 
Backbite says clever things, and the clever 
Trip is rather the roguish servant of fiction 
than of life. The vigor of the play carries us 
over the obstructions of sober truth. Sheri- 
dan neglects no source of mirth; he is fond 
of leading his characters, especially Sir Peter 
Teazle, into verbal pitfalls whence they 
scramble out covered with ridicule. When 
Lady Teazle in her new station aspires to be 
thought a woman of taste, he sputters back, 
" Zounds, madam ! You had no taste when 
you married me" (II. i). 

No play is a more lifelike reflection of the 
age when it was written than The School for 
Scandal. Being a comedy of manners, it il- 
lustrates social life and conceptions; we are 
conscious of the dress and bearing of modish 
society, of its amusements, and its moral 
standards. The play vividly illustrates the 
differing moral standards for the two sexes, 
and the petty vices with which what vised to 
be called the" softer sex was allowed to solace 
itself for strictness in weightier matters. 
Maria, the model young woman, declares, 
" We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thou- 
sand motives to depreciate each other; bvit 
the male slanderer must have the cowardice 
of a woman before he can traduce one " ( I i ) . 
In a literary way, too, the play is of its 
time, just as Goldsmith's are. It embodies 
sentim'entalism even more than She Stoops to 
Conquer does; but in the main satirizes it. 
It makes some concession to the popular taste 
in the complete poetic justice of the close, and 
in the ease with which the characters mend 
their ways. Lady Teazle is to settle down to 
rural domesticity (at least according to the 
epilogue). Charles is to illustrate the good 
old-fashioned theory that the reformed rake 
makes the best husband, though he is cau- 
tious enough to " make no promises " " as to 
reforming." He is the sentimental type of 
hero, almost to the present day beloved on the 



suburban stage, and inherited by the nine- 
teenth century from the eighteenth, the reck- 
less dare-devil fellow, his own worst enemy, 
who rises to an occasion for loyalty and gen- 
erosity where the plausible and well-behaved 
fails; a type more attractive than true to 
morals and life. Sentimental love appears 
but little; it is said because Sheridan doubted 
the success in a love-scene of the actor who 
was to play Charles. The play was called in 
its own day an " attempt to destroy the taste 
for sentimental comedy revived by Mr. Cum- 
berland " ( whose West Indian and other 
plays had met great success ) . Sheridan ridi- 
cules sentimentalism chiefly in the person of 
Joseph Surface, " a man of sentiment." To 
the world he is a highly moral young man, 
who hardly opens his mouth without drop- 
ping edification. In reality he is a cynical 
hypocrite, who throws off his mask when he 
fancies it unnecessary. " Lud," says Lady 
Sneerwell, " you are going to be moral, and 
forget that you are among friends." " Egad, 
that's true," says he; "I '11 keep that senti- 
ment till I see Sir Peter." He is a very 
difficult character to play. He must not 
seem shifty and unctuous, for he appears 
honest enough to deceive the world, and 
dashing enough to be the lover of the 
frivolous Lady Teazle, and to pass for the 
lover of the experienced Lady Sneerwell. 
Though heightened beyond ordinary reality, 
he is exceedingly effective dramatically. 

The greatest charm of The School for 
Scandal is its combination of cleverness with 
geniality; in which it contrasts with Re- 
storation comedy. We laugh with a clearer 
heart at the cynical wit of the scandalmongers 
because we are not expected to sympathize 
with them. Nothing is made ridiculous that 
does not deserve to be; the dramatist spares 
us the ordinary stage Jew. even Moses has his 
good points.i We accept characters on 
analysis somewhat conventional, situations a 
little forced, and poetic justice far more com- 
plete than squares with experience, because of 
the brilliant dash and good spirits with which 
it all goes through. It is all no more arti- 
ficial than art has the right to be. It shows 
us something better than life, but with such 
originality and energy as insures sufficient 
illusion for supreme effectiveness. 

1 Some seventeen years later the sentimental 
dramatist Cumberland produced a still more chiv- 
alrous picture in his play The Jew. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



PROLOGUE 
Written by Mr. Garriek. 

A School for Scandal! tell me, I beseech 

you, 
Needs there a school this modish art to 

teach you? 
No need of lessons now, the knowing think ; 
We might as well be taught to eat and 

drink. 
Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the 

vapors ^ 
Distress our fair ones — let them read the 

papers ; 
Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit ; 
Crave what you will — there 's quantum 

sufficit.^ 
"Lord !" cries my Lady Wormwood (who 

loves tattle, 
And puts much salt and pepper in her 

prattle). 
Just risen at noon, all night at cards when 

threshing 
Strong tea and scandal — "Bless me, how re- 
freshing ! 
Give me the pajDers, Lisp — how bold and 

free! (Sips.) 
Last night Lord L. (Sips) was caught with 

Lady D. 
For aching heads what charming sal voln- 

tile! (Sips.) 
If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting, 
We hope she 'II draw, or we 'II undraw the 

curtain. 
Fine satire, poz ^ — in public all abuse it. 



But, by ourselves (Sips), our praise we 

can't refuse it. 
Now, Lisp, read you — there, at that dash 

and star :" 
"Yes, ma'am — A certain lord had best he- 
ware, 
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor 

Square; 
For, should he Lady W. find willing, 
Wormwood is bitter" "Oh, that's me! 

the villain ! 
Throw it behind the fire, and never more 
Let that vile paper come within my door." 
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the 

dart; 
To reach our feelings, we ourselves must 

smart. 
Is our young bard so young, to think that he 
Can stop the full spring-tide, of calumny? 
Knows he the world so little, and its trade? 
Alas ! the devil 's sooner raised than laid. 
So strong, so swift, the monster there 's no 

gagging : 
Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is 

wagging. 
Proud of your smiles once lavishly be- 
stowed. 
Again our young Don Quixote takes the 

road ; 
To show his gi'atitude he draws his pen, 
And seeks his hydra. Scandal, in his den. 
For your applause all perils he would 

through — 
He '11 fight — that 's write — a cavalliero true, 
Till every drop of blood — that's ink — is 

spilt for you. 



Sib Peter Teazle. 

Sib Oliver Surface. 

Young Surface. 

Charles, Ms Brother. 

Crabtree. 

Sir Benjamin Backbite. 

Rowley. 

Spunge. 

Moses. 

ACT L 

Scene 1. Lady SneerwelVs House. 
{Lady Sneerwell at her dressing table with 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Snake. 
Careless ■ 
Trip. 



■ and other companions to Charles. 



Lady Teazle. 

Maria. 

Lady Sneerwell. 

Mrs. Candour. 

Miss Verjuice. 



Lappet; Miss Verjuice drinking choco- 
late.) 

1 A fit of melancholy. 



Lady Sneer. The paragraphs you say 
were all inserted? 

Verj. They were, madam — and as I copied 
them myself in a feigned hand there can 
be no suspicion whence they came. 

Lady Sneer, Did you circulate the report 

2 A sufficiency. 3 positively, 

673 



674 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



of Lady Brittle 's intrigue with Captain 
Boastall? 

Verj. Madam, by this time Lady Brittle 
is the talk of half the town — and I doubt 
not in a week the men will toast her as a 
demirep. 

Lady Sneer. What have you done as to 
the insinuation as to a certain baronet's 
lady and a certain cook? 

Verj. That is in as fine a train as your 
Ladyship could wish. I told the story 
yesterday to my own maid with directions 
to communicate it directly to my hair- 
dresser. He, I am informed, has a 
brother who courts a milliner's prentice in 
Pallmall, whose mistress has a first cousin 
whose sister is femme de chamhre to Mrs. 
Clackit — so that in the common course of 
thmgs it must reach Mrs. Clackit's ears 
within four-and-twenty hours, and then 
you know the business is as good as 
done. 

Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackit has 
a veiy pretty talent — a great deal of in- 
dustiy — yet — yes — been tolerably success- 
ful in her way. To my knowledge she 
has been the cause of breaking off six 
matches, of three sons being disinherited 
and four daughters being turned out of 
doors; of three several elopements, as 
many close confinements, nine separate 
maintenances, and tAvo divorces. — Nay, I 
have more than once traced her causing a 
tete-a-tete in the Town and Country 
Magazine, when the parties perhaps had 
never seen each other's faces before in 
the course of their lives. 

Verj. She certainly has talents. 

Lady Sneer. But her manner is gross. 

Verj. 'T is veiy true. She generally de- 
signs well, has a free tongue, and a bold 
invention ; but her coloring is too dark 
and her outline often extravagant. She 
wants that delicacy of tint and mellow- 
ness of sneer which distinguish your 
Ladyship's scandal. 

Lady Sneer. Ah, you are partial. Verjuice. 

Verj. Not in the least ; everybody allows 
that Lady Sneerwell can do moi'e with a 
word or a look than many can with the 
most labored detail, even when they hap- 
pen to have a little truth on their side to 
support it. 

Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Verjuice. I 
am no hypocrite to deny the satisfaction T 
reap from the success of my efforts. 
Wounded myself in the early part of my 
life by the envenomed tongue of slander, 
I confess I have since known no pleasure 



equal to the reducing others to the level 
of my own injured reputation. 

Verj. Nothing can be more natural. But, 
my dear Lady Sneerwell, there is one 
affair in which you have lately employed 
me, wherein, I confess, I am at a loss to 
guess your motives. 

Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with re- 
spect to my neighbor, Sir Peter Teazle, 
and his family — Lappet. — And has my 
conduct in this matter really appeared to 
you so mysterious? 

{Exit Maid.) 

Verj. Entirely so. An old bachelor as Sir 
Peter was, having taken a young wife 
from out of the country — as Lady Teazle 
is — are certainly fair subjects for a lit- 
tle mischievous raillery ; but here are two 
young men to whom Sir Peter has acted 
as a kind of guardian since their father's 
death, the eldest possessing the most ami- 
able character and universally w^ell 
spoken of, the youngest the most dissi- 
pated and extravagant young fellow in 
the kingdom, without friends or charac- 
ter; the former one an avowed admirer 
of yours and apparently your favorite, 
the latter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's 
ward, and confessedly beloved by her. 
Now on the face of these circumstances it 
is utterly unaccountable to me why you, 
a young widow with no great jointure, 
should not close with the passion of a 
man of such character and expectations 
as Mr. Surface, and more so why you 
should be so uncommonly earnest to 
destroy the mutual attachment sub- 
sisting between his brother Charles and 
Maria. 

Lady Sneer. Then at once to unravel this 
mystery, I must inform you that love has 
no share whatever in the intercourse be- 
tween Mr. Surface and me. 

Verj. No ! 

Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to 
Maria or her fortune, but finding in his 
brother a favored rival, he has been 
obliged to mask his pretensions and profit 
by my assistance. 

Verj. Yet still I am more puzzled why 
you should interest yourself in his suc- 
cess. 

Lady Sneer. Heavens ! how dull you are ! 
cannot you surmise the weakness which I 
hitherto thro' shame have concealed even 
from you? — must I confess that Charles 
— that libertine, that exti'avagant, that 
bankrupt in fortune and reputation — that 
he it is for whom I am thus anxious and 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



675 



malicious and to gain whom I would 
sacrifice — everything *? 

Verj. Now indeed, your conduct aj^pears 
consistent and I no longer wonder at your 
enmity to Maria ; but how came you and 
Surface so confidential? 

Lady Sneer. For our mutual interest ; but 
I have found out him a long time since, 
altho' he has contrived to deceive eveiy- 
body beside. I know him to be artful, 
selfish, and malicious ; while with Sir 
Peter, and indeed with all his acquaint- 
ance, he passes for a youthful miracle of 
prudence, good sense, and benevolence. 

Verj. Yes, yes, I know Sir Peter vows he 
has not his equal in England ; and, above 
all, he praises him as a man of sentiment. 

Lady Sneer. True, and with the assistance 
of his sentiments and hypocrisy he has 
brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests 
with respect to Maria, and is now, I be- 
lieve, attempting to flatter Lady Teazle 
into the same good opinion towards him, 
while poor Charles has no friend in the 
house; though I fear he has a powerful 
one in Maria's heart, against whom we 
must direct our schemes. 

Serv. Mr. Surface. 

Lady Sneer. Show him up. He generally 
calls about this time. I don't wonder at 
people's giving him to me for a lover. 

{Enter Surface.) 

Surf. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do 
you do to-day — your most obedient. 

Lady Sneer. Miss Verjuice has just been 
arraigning me on our mutual attachment 
now ; but I have informed her of our real 
views and the purposes for which our 
geniuses at present co-operate. You 
know how useful she has been to us ; 
and believe me, the confidence is not ill- 
placed. 

Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to 
suspect that a lady of Miss Verjuice's 
sensibility and discernment 

Lady Sneer. \Yell, well, no compliments 
now ; but tell me Avhen you saw your mis- 
tress or, what is more material to me, 
your brother. 

Surf. I have not seen either since I saw 
you, but I can inform you that they ai'e 
at present at variance; some of your 
stories have taken good effect on Maria. 

Lady Sneer. Ah! ray dear Verjuice, the 
merit of this belongs to you. But do 
your brother's distresses increase"? 

Surf. Every hour. I am told he had an- 
other execution in his house yesterday ; in 



short, his dissipation and extravagance 
exceed anything I have ever heard of. 

Lady Sneer. Poor Charles ! 

Surf. True, madam, notwithstanding his 
vices one can't help feeling for him ; ah, 
poor Charles ! I 'm sure I wish it was in 
my power to be of any essential service 
to him, for the man who does not share 
in the distresses of a brother, even 
though merited by his own misconduct, 
deserves 

Lady Sneer. Lud, you are going to be 
moral, and forget that you are among 
friends. 

Surf. Egad, that 's true — I '11 keep that 
sentiment till I see Sir Peter. However, 
it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria 
from such a libertine, who, if he is to be 
reclaimed, can be so only by a person of 
your ladyship's superior accomplishments 
and understanding. 

Verj. 'T would be a hazardous experiment. 

Surf. But, madam, let me caution you to 
place no more confidence in our friend 
Snake the libeller; I have lately detected 
him in frequent conference with old 
[Rowley], who was formerly my father's 
stewai'd and has never been a friend of 
mine. 

Lady Sneer. I 'm not disappointed in 
Snake; I never suspected the fellow to 
have virtue enough to be faithful even to 
his own villany. 

(Enter 3Iaria.) 

Maria, my dear, how do you do f What 's 

the matter*? 
Maria. 0, there is that disagreeable lover 

of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just 

called at my guardian's with his odious 

Uncle Crabtree; so I slipt out and ran 

hither to avoid them. 
Lady Sneer. Is that all"? 
Verj. Lady Sneerwell, I '11 go and write 

the letter I mentioned to you. 
(Exit Verj.) 
Surf. If my brother Charles had been of 

the party, madam, perhaps you would not 

have been so much alarmed. 
Lady Sneer. Nay, now, you are severe, 

for I dare swear the ti'uth of the matter 

is Maria heard you were here; but, my 

dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that 

you should avoid him so"? 
Mar. Oh, he has done nothing; but his 

conversation is a perpetual libel on all his 

acquaintance. 
Surf. Aye, and the worst of it is there is 

no advantage in not knowing [him], for 



676 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



he '11 abuse a stranger just as soon as his 
best friend; and Crabtree is as bad. 

Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make al- 
lowance — Sir Benjamin is a wit and a 
poet. 

Mar. For my part, I own, madam, wit 
loses its respect with me, when I see it in 
company with malice. — What do you 
think, Mr. Surface? 

Surf. Certainly, madam ; to smile at the 
jest which plants a thorn on another's 
breast is to become a princijial in the mis- 
chief. 

Ladji Sy%eer. Pshaw, there 's no possibility 
of being witty without a little [ill-] na- 
ture — the malice of a good thing is the 
barb that makes it stick. — What 's your 
opinion, Mr. Surface? 

Surf. Certainly, madam ; that conversation 
where'the spirit of raillery is suppressed 
will ever appear tedious and insipid. 

Mar. Well, I '11 not debate how far scandal 
may be allowable, but in a man I am 
sure it is always contemptible. We have 
pride, envy, rivalshii^, and a thousand 
motives to depreciate each other, but the 
male-slanderer must have the cowardice 
of a woman before he can traduce one. 

Ijadii Sneer. I wish my cousin Verjuice 
hadn't left us — she should embrace you. 

Surf. Ah ! she 's an old maid, and is privi- 
leged, of course. 

{Enter Servant.) 

Serv. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below and 
if your Ladj'shii? 's at leisure will leave 
her carriage. 

Lady Sneer. Beg her to walk in. {Exit 
Servant.) Now, Maria, however, here is 
a character to your taste, for tho' Mrs. 
Candour is a little talkative, eveiybody 
allows her to be the best-natured and best 
sort of woman. 

Mar. Yes, with a very gross atfectation of 
good nature and benevolence, she does 
more mischief than the direct malice of 
old Crabtree. 

Surf. V faith, 't is very true, Lady Sneer- 
well. When ever I hear the current run- 
ning again [st] the characters of my 
friends, I never think them in such dan- 
ger as when Candour undertakes their 
defence. 

Lady Sneer. Hush, here she is 

{Enter Mrs. Candour.) 

Mrs. Can. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how 
have you been this century? I have 
never seen you the' I have heard of you 



very often. — Mr. Surface, the world says 
scandalous things of you — but indeed it is 
no matter what the world says, for I 
think one hears nothing else but scandal. 

Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am. 

Mrs. Can. Ah, Maria, child — what! is the 
whole affair off between you and Charles'? 
His extravagance, I j^resume — the town 
talks of nothing else 

Mar. I am very soriy, ma'am, the town 
has so little to do. 

Mrs. Can. True, true, child ; but there 's 
no stopping j^eople's tongues. I own I 
was hurt to hear it — as I indeed was to 
learn from the same cjuarter that your 
guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle 
have not agreed lately so well as could be 
wished. 

Mar. 'T is strangely impertinent for peo- 
ple to busy themselves so. 

31rs. Can. Very true, child ; but what 's to 
be done? People will talk — there's no 
preventing it. Why, it was but yester- 
day I was told that Miss Gadabout had 
eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, 
Lord ! there is no minding what one 
hears ; tho' to be sure I had this from very 
good authority. 

Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous. 

Mrs. Can. So they are, child — shameful! 
shameful ! but the world is so censorious 
no character escapes. Lord, now ! who 
Vv^ould have suspected your friend. Miss 
Prim, of an indiscretion; yet such is the 
ill-nature of people that they say her 
uncle stopped her last week just as she 
was stepping into a postchaise with her 
dancing-master. 

Mar. I '11 answer for 't there are no 
grounds for the report. 

Mrs. Can. Oh, no foundation in the world, 
I dare swear; no more probably than for 
the story circulated last month, of Mrs. 
Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino — 
though to be sure that matter was never 
rightly cleared up. 

Surf. The licence of invention some peo- 
ple take is monstrous indeed. 

Mar. 'T is so; but in my opinion those 
who report such things are equally cul- 
pable. 

Mrs. Can. To be sure they are; tale bear- 
ers are as bad as the tale makers — 't is an 
old observation and a veiy true one — but 
what 's to be done, as I said before ? 
How will you prevent people from talk- 
ing? To-day Mrs. Clackitt assured me 
Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last be- 
come mere man and wife — like [the rest 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



G77 



of their] acquaintance; she likewise 
hinted that a certain widow in the next 
street had got rid of her dropsy and re- 
covered her shape in a most surjjrising 
manner; at the same [time] Miss Tattle, 
who was by, affirmed that Lord Boffalo 
had discovered his Lady at a house of no 
extraordinaiy fame, and that Sir Harry 
Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to meas- 
ure swords on a similar provocation. 
But, Lord ! do you think I would report 
these things ? No, no ! tale bearers, as I 
said before, are just as bad as the tale 
makers. 

Surf. Ah ! Mrs. Candour, if everybody 
had your forbearance and good nature — 

Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I can- 
not bear to hear people traduced behind 
their backs ; and when ugly circumstances 
come out against our acquaintance, I own 
I always love to think the best. — By the 
bye, I hope 't is not true that your brother 
is absolutely ruined — 

Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are 
very bad indeed, ma'am. 

Mrs. Can. Ah ! I heard so ; but you must 
tell him to keep up his spirits ; everybody 
almost is in the same way — Lord Spindle, 
Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and 
Mr, Niekit — all. up, I hear, within this 
week ; so if Charles is undone, he '11 find 
half his acquaintance ruined too, and 
that, you know, is a consolation. 

Surf. Doubtless, ma'am, a very great one. 

{Enter Servant.) 

Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin 

Backbite, 
Lady Sneer. Soh ! Maria, you see your 

lover pursues you. Positively you shan't 

escape. 

{Enter Crahtree and Sir Benjamin 
Backbite. ) 

Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. 
Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are ac- 
quainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin 
Backbite. Egad, ma'am, he has a pretty 
wit, and is a pretty poet too, is n't he. 
Lady Sneei'well'? 

Sir Ben. fie, uncle ! 

Crab. Nay, egad, it's true. I back him 
at a rebus or a charade against the best 
rliymer in the kingdom. Has your Lady- 
sliip heard the epigram he wrote last 
week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching 
fire? — do, Benjamin, repeat it — or the 



4 A sort of recep- 

tion. 

5 Petrarch (1304- 



1374) addressed 
his love-lyrics to 
Laura, and the 



Enirlish poet 

Waller (1606- 
1687) addressed 



charade you made last night extem- 
pore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione ? * 
— Come now, your first is Ihe name of a 
fish, your second a gi-eat naval com- 
mander — and — 

Sir Ben. Dear uncle — now — prithee 

Crab. V faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise 
you to hear how ready he is at all these 
things. 

Lady Sneer. I wonder. Sir Benjamin, you 
never publish anything. 

Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very 
vulgar to print, and as my little produc- 
tions are mostly satires and lampoons, I 
find they cii'culate more by giving copies 
in confidence to the friends of the 
parties; however, I have some love-ele- 
gies, whicli, when favored with this 
lady's smile, I mean to give to the public. 
{Pointing to Maria.) 

Crab. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they '11 im- 
morialize you — you '11 be handed down to 
posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Wal- 
ler's Sacharissa.^ 

Sir Ben. Yes, madam, I think you will 
like them — when you shall see in a beau- 
tiful quarto page how a neat rivulet of 
text shall meander thro' a meadow of 
margin — 'fore Gad, they will be the most 
elegant things of their kind. 

Crab. But, ladies, have you heard the 
news? 

Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the re- 
port of 

Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it. — Miss 
Nicely is going to be married to her own 
footman. 

Mrs. Can. Impossible ! 

Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin. 

Sir Ben. 'T is veiy true, ma'am ; every- 
thing is fixed and the wedding livery be- 
spoke. 

Crab. Yes, and they say there wei*e press- 
ing reasons for 't, 

Mrs. Can. It cannot be — and I wonder 
any one should believe such a story of so 
prudent a lady as Miss Nicely. 

Sir Ben. Lud ! ma'am, that 's the very 
reason 'twas believed at once. She has 
always been so cautious and so reserved 
that everybody was sure there was some 
reason for it at bottom. 

Lady Sneer. Yes, a tale of scandal is as 
fatal to the reputation of a prudent lady 
of her stamp as a fever is generally to 
those of the strongest constitutions, but 
there is a sort of puny sickly reputation, 

Lady Dorothy 

Sidney ) . 



his to Sacharissa 
( his name for 



678 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



that is always ailing yet will outlive 
the robuster characters of a hundred 
prudes. 

Sir Ben. True, madam, there are valetudi- 
narians in reputation as well as constitu- 
tion, who being' conscious of their weak 
part, avoid the least breath of air, and 
supply their want of stamina by care and 
circumspection. 

Mrs. Can. Well, but this may be all mis- 
take. You know. Sir Benjamin, very 
trifling circumstances often give rise to 
the most injurious tales. 

Crab. That they do, I '11 be sworn, ma'am. 
Did you ever hear how Miss Shepherd 
came to lose her lover and her character 
last summer at Tunbridge? — Sir Benja- 
min, you remember it. 

Sir Ben. to be sure, the most whimsical 
circumstance — 

Lady Sneer. How was it, pray? 

Crah. Why, one evening at Mrs. Ponto's 
assembly, the conversation happened to 
turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova- 
Scotia sheep in this country. Says a 
young lady in company, "I have known 
instances of it, for Miss Letitia Shep- 
herd, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova- 
Scotia sheep that produced her twins." — 
"What !" cries the old Dowager Lady 
Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a 
post), "has Miss Letitia Shepherd had 
twins'?" — This mistake, as you may 
imagine, threw the whole company into a 
fit of laughing. However, 't was the next 
morning everywhere reported and in a 
few days believed by the whole toAvn, that 
Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been 
brought to bed by a fine boy and girl, and 
in less than a week there were people 
who could name the father, and the farm 
house where the babies were put out to 
nurse. 

Lady Sneer. Strange indeed ! 

Crah. Matter of fact, I assure you. 
Lud ! Mr. Surface, pray, is it true 
that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming 
home ? 

Surf. Not that I know of indeed, sir. 

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a 
long time ; you can scarcely remember 
him, I believe. Sad comfort on his ar- 
rival to hear how your brother has gone 
on! 

Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir. 



6 A street in the 
center of Lon- 
don, named from 
a synagogue 

which stood there 



in the 
Ages. 
7 An annual pay- 
ment made hy a 
debtor. 



Middle s A tontine is a 
kind of insurance 
scheme which 

sometimes paid 



to be sure; but I hope no busy people 
have already prejudiced Sir Oliver 
against him. He may reform. 

Sir Ben. To be sure he may; for my part 
I never believed him to be so utterly void 
of princii^le as people say; and tho' he 
has lost all his friends, I am told nobody 
is better spoken of — by the Jews. 

Crab. That 's true, egad, nephew ; if the 
Old Jewry " was a ward I believe Charles 
would be an alderman — no man more 
popular there; 'fore Gad, I hear he pays 
as many annuities ''' as the Irish Ton- 
tine,^ and that whenever he 's sick they 
have prayers for the recovery of his 
health in the synagogue. 

Sir Ben. Yet no man lives in greater 
splendor: — they tell me when he enter- 
tains his friends, he can sit down to din- 
ner with a dozen of his own securities, 
have a score of tradesmen waiting in the 
ante-chamber, and an officer behind every 
guest's chair. 

Surf. This may be entertainment to you, 
gentlemen, but you pay very little re- 
gard to the feelings of a brother. 

Mar. Their malice is intolerable. Lady 
Sneei'w^ell, I must wish you a good morn- 
ing — I 'm not very well. 
{Exit Mar.) 

Mrs. Can. dear, she changed color very 
much ! 

Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow 
her — she may want assistance. 

Mrs. Can. That I will with all my soul, 
ma'am. — Poor, dear girl, who knows 
what her situation may be ! 
{Exit Mrs. Can.) 

Lady Sneer. 'T was nothing but that she 
could not bear to hear Charles reflected 
on, notwithstanding their difference. 

Sir Ben. The young lady's penchant is 
obvious. 

Crah. But, Benjamin, you must n't give 
up the pursuit for that; follow her and 
put her into good humor — repeat her 
some of your verses ; come, I '11 assist 
you— 

Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to 
hurt you, but depend on 't your brother 
is utterly undone. 

{Going.) 

Crah. Lud ! aye — undone — as ever man 
was — can't raise a guinea. 

Irish government 
liad undertaken 
to raise money by 
starting one. 



annual divi- 

dends. Shortly 

before the date 
of this play the 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



679 



Sir Ben. And everything sold, I 'm told, 
that was movable. 

(Going.) 

Crab. I was at his house — not a thing 
leit but some empty .bottles that were 
overlooked and the family pictures, 
which 1 believe are framed in the wain- 
scot, 

( Going. ) 

Sir Ben. And I 'm very sorry to hear also 
some bad stories against him. 
( Going. ) 

Crab. he has done many mean things, 
tliat 's certain ! 

Sir Ben. But however, as he is your 

brother 

(Going.) 

Crab. We '11 tell you all another oppor- 
tunity. 

(Exeunt.) 

Lachj Sneer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 't is veiy hard 
for them to leave a subject they have not 
quite run down. 

Surf. And I believe the abuse was no 
more acceptable to your ladyship than 
Maria. 

Ladij Sneer. I doubt her affections are 
farther engaged than we imagined ; but 
the family are to be here this evening, 
so you may as well dine where you are 
and we shall have an opi^ortunity of ob- 
serving farther. In the meantime, I '11 
go and plot mischief and you shall study 
sentiments 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. Sir Peter's House. 

(Enter Sir Peter.) 

Sir Pet. When an old bachelor takes a 
young wife, what is he to expect '? 'T is 
now six months since Lady Teazle made 
me the hap]iiest of men — and I have been 
the most miserable dog ever since that 
ever committed wedlock. We tift a little 
going to church — and came to a quarrel 
before the bells had done ringing. I was 
more than once nearly choked with gall 
during the honeymoon, and had lost all 
comfort in life before my friends had 
done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with 
caution — a girl bred wholly in the coun- 
try, who never knew luxury beyond one 
silk gown, nor dissipation above the 
annual gala of a race-ball. Yet she now 
plays her part in all the extravagant fop- 
peries of the fashion and the town, with 

9 A fashionable district in the West End of London. 



as ready a grace as if she had never seen 
a bush nor a grass plot out of Gros- 
venor-Square ! '^ I am sneered at by my 
old acquaintance — paragraphed in the 
newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, 
and contradicts all my humors. Yet the 
worst of it is I doubt ^° I love her or I 
should never bear all this. However, 
I '11 never be weak enough to own it. 

(Enter Rowley.) 

Row. Sir Peter, your servant : — how is 't 
with you, sir? 

Sir Pet. Very bad, Master Rowley, very 
bad. I meet with nothing but crosses 
and vexations. 

Row. What can have happened to trouble 
you since yesterday? 

Sir Pet. A good question to a married 
man ! 

Row. Nay, I 'm sure your lady, Sir Peter, 
can't be the cause of your uneasiness. 

Sir Pet. Why, has anybody told you she 
was dead? 

Row. Come, come. Sir Peter, you love her, 
notwithstanding your tempers do not ex- 
actly agree. 

Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, 
Master Rowley; I am myself the sweet- 
est tempered man alive, and hate a teas- 
ing temper; and so I tell her a hundred 
times a day. 

Row. Indeed ! 

Sir Pet. Aye, and what is very extraordi- 
nary in all our disputes, she is always in 
the wrong ! But Lady Sneenvell and the 
set she meets at her house encourage the 
perverseness of her disposition. Then to 
complete my vexations, Maria, my ward, 
whom I ought to have the power of a 
father over, is determined to turn rebel 
too and absolutely refuses the man whom 
I have long resolved on for her husband 
— meaning, I suppose, to bestow herself 
on his profligate brother. 

Row. You know. Sir Peter, I have always 
taken the liberty to differ with you on 
the subject of these two young gentle- 
men ; I only wish you may not be de- 
ceived in your opinion of the elder. For 
Charles, my life on 't ! he will retrieve 
his errors yet; their worthy father, once 
my honored master, was at his years 
nearly as wild a spark. 

Sir Pet. You are wrong. Master Rowley. 
On their father's death you know I acted 
as a kind of guardian to them both, till 
their uncle Sir Oliver's Eastern bounty 

10 suspect, fear. 



680 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



gave them an early independence. Of 
course no person could have more oppor- 
tunities of judging of their hearts, and 
I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph 
is indeed a model for the young men of 
the age. He is a man of sentiment, and 
acts up to the sentiments he professes; 
but for the other, take my woi'd for 't, if 
he had any grain of virtue by descent, he 
has dissipated it with the rest of his in- 
heritance. Ah! my old friend, Sir 
Oliver, will be deeply mortified when he 
finds how part of his bounty has been 
misapplied. 

Row. I am soriy to find you so violent 
against the young man, because this may 
be the most critical period of his fortune. 
I came hither with news that will sur- 
prise you. 

Sir Pet. What! let me hear. 

Row. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this mo- 
ment in town. 

Sir Pet. How! — you astonish me. I 
thought you did not expect him this 
month ! 

Row. I did not, but his passage has been 
remarkably quick. 

Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my 
old friend. 'T is sixteen years since we 
met. We have had many a day together. 
But does he still enjoin us not to inform 
his nephews of his arrival"? 

Row. Most strictly. He means, before he 
makes it kno-wn, to make some trial of 
their dispositions, and we have already 
planned something for the purpose. 

Sir Pet. Ah, there needs no art to dis- 
cover their merits ; however, he shall have 
his way. But pray does he know I am 
married "? 

Row. Yes, and will soon wish you joy. 

Sir Pet. You may tell him 'tis too late. 
Ah, Oliver will laugh at me — Ave used to 
rail at matrimony together, but he has 
been steady to his text. Well, he must 
be at my house tho' — I'll instantly give 
orders for his reception. But, Master 
Rowley, don't drop a word that Lady 
Teazle and I ever disagree. 

Row. By no means. 

Sir Pet. For I should never be able to 
stand Noll's jokes ; so I 'd have him think 
that we are a very happy couple. 

Roto. I understand you; but then you 
must be very careful not to differ while 
he's in the house with you. 

Sir Pet. Egad, and so we must— that 's 

11 A disguised oath, — "by God's life!" 

13 Anotlier d 



impossible. Ah ! Master Rowley, when 
an old bachelor marries a young wife, he 
deserves — no, the crime carries the pun- 
ishment along with it. 

(Exeunt.) 

ACT II. 

Scene 1. At Sir Peter's. 
{Sir Peter and Lady Teazle.) 

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 
not bear it. 

Lady Teas. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you 
may scold or smile, according to your 
humor, but I ought to have my own way 
in everything, and what 's more I will 
too. What ! tho' I was educated in the 
country, I know very well that women of 
fashion in London are accountable to 
nobody after they are married. 

Sir Pet. A^ery well ! ma'am, very well ! so 
a husband is to have no influence, no au- 
thority "? ' 

Lady Teaz. Authorit}' ! no, to be sure — if 
you wanted authority over me, you should 
have adopted me and not married me : I 
am sure you were old enough. 

Sir Pet. Old enough — aye, there it is! 
Well — well — Lady Teazle, tho' my life 
may be made unhappy by your temper, 
I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance. 

Lady Teaz. My extravagance ! I 'm sure 
I 'm not more extravagant than a woman 
of fashion ought to be. 

Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you shall throw 
away no more sums on such unmeaning 
luxury. 'Slife,^^ to spend as much to 
furnish your dressing room with flowers 
in winter as would suffice to turn the 
■ Pantheon ^^ into a greenhouse, and give 
a fete champetre at Christmas. 

Lady Teaz. Lord ! Sir Peter, am I to 
blame because flowers are dear in cold 
weather? You should find fault with the 
climate, and not with me. For my part 
I 'm sure I wish it was spring all the 
year round, and that roses grew under 
one's feet! 

Sir Pet. Oons! ^^ madam, if you had been 
born to those fopperies, I should n't won- 
der at your talking thus ; but you forget 
what your situation was when I married 
you. 

Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very 
disagi'eeable one or I should never have 
married you. 

12 A large concert-hall in the West End. 
isguised oath. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



681 



Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then 
in somewhat a humbler style — the daugh- 
ter of a plain country squire. Recollect, 
Lady Teazle, when I saw you first — sit- 
ting at your tambour ^* in a pretty fig- 
ured linen gown — with a bunch of keys 
at your side, and your apartment hung 
round with fruits in worsted, of your 
own working. 

Lady Teas. O horrible ! horrible ! — don't 
put me in mind of it ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, and your daily 
occupation to inspect the dairy, superin- 
tend the poultry, make extracts from the 
family receipt-book, and comb your aunt 
Deborah's lap dog. 

Lady Teaz. Abominable ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, madam, and what were your 
evening amusements? To draw patterns 
for ruffles, which you had n't the mate- 
rials to make, play Pope Joan ^^ with the 
curate, to read a sermon to your aunt, or 
be stuck down to an old spinet to strum 
your father to sleep after a fox chase. 

Lady Teaz. Scandalous, Sir Peter — not a 
word of it time. 

Sir Pet. Yes, madam, these were the 
recreations I took you from ; and now — 
no one more extravagantly in the fash- 
ion — every foppery adopted — a head- 
di'ess to o'ertop Lady Pagoda with 
feathers pendant, horizontal, and per- 
pendicular. You forget. Lady Teazle, 
when a little wired gauze with a few 
beads made you a fly cap not much big- 
ger than a blue-bottle, and your hair 
was combed smooth over a roll. 

Lady Teaz. Shocking ! horrible roll ! ! 

Sir Pet. But now — you must have your 
coach — Vis-a-vis,'^^ and three powdered 
footmen before your chair,^^ and in the 
summer a pair of white cobs to draw you 
to Kensington Gardens ^^ — no recollec- 
tion when you were content to ride dou- 
ble, behind the butler, on a docked coach- 
horse ! 

Lady Teaz. Horrid ! — I swear I never did. 

Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situa- 
tion; and what have I not done for you? 
I have made you woman of fashion, of 
fortune, of rank — in short I have made 
you my wife. 

Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but 
one thing more you can make me to add 
to the obligation. 

Sir Pet. What's that, pray? 

Lady Teaz. Your widow. 



Sir Pet. Thank you, madam— but don't 
flatter yourself, for though your ill-con- 
duct may disturb my peace, it shall never 
break my heart, I promise you. How- 
ever I am equally obliged to you for the 
hint. 

Lady Teaz. Then, why will you endeavor 
to make yourself so disagreeable to me 
and thwart me in every little elegant ex- 



pense 



Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I pray, had you 
any of these elegant expenses when you 
married me? 

Lady Teaz. Lud, Sir Peter, would you 
have me be out of the fashion ? 

Sir Pet. The fashion indeed ! — what had 
you to do with the fashion before you 
married me? 

Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think 
you would like to have your wife thought 
a woman of taste. 

Sir Pet. Aye, there again — taste ! Zounds, 
madam, you had no taste when you mar- 
ried me. 

Lady Teaz. That's very true indeed. Sir 
Peter! after having married you I should 
never pretend to taste again, I allow. 

Sir Pet. So, so, then, madam, if these are 
your sentiments, pray how came I to be 
honored with your hand? 

Lady Teaz. Shall I tell you the truth? 

Sir Pet. If it 's not too great a favor. 

Lady Teaz. Why, the fact is, I was tired 
of all those agreeable recreations which 
you have so good-natui-edly described, 
and having a spirit to spend and enjoy 
a fortune, I determined to many the 
first rich man that would have me. 

Sir Pet. A very lionest confession, truly 
— but pray, madam, was there no one 
else you might have tried to ensnare but 
me? 

Lady Teaz. lud — I drew my net at sev- 
eral but you were the only one I could 
catch. 

Sir Pet. This is plain dealing indeed. 

Lady Teaz. But now. Sir Peter, if we have 
finished our daily jangle, I presume I 
may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer- 
well's? 

Sir Pet. Aye, there 's another precious 
circumstance — a charming set of ac- 
quaintance you have made there ! 

Lady Teaz. Nay, Sir Peter, they are peo- 
ple of rank and fortune, and remark- 
ably tenacious of reputation. 

Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of 



14 An embroidery- 
frame. 



15 A game of cards. 



16 7. e., a two-seated coach. 



IS A park at the West End. 



17 A sedan-chair.. 



682 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



reputation with a vengeance, for they 
don't choose anybody should have a char- 
acter but themselves ! Such a crew ! 
Ah ! many a wretch has rid on hurdles ^^ 
who has done less mischief than these 
vitterers of forged tales, coiners of scan- 
dal, and clippers of reputation. 2° 

Lady Teaz. "VAHiat ! would you restrain the 
freedom of speech"? 

Sir Pet. Aye, they have made you just as 
bad as any one of the society. 

Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a 
part with a tolerable grace. But I voav 
I bear no malice against the people I 
abuse; when I say an ill-natured thing, 
't is out of pure good humor, and I take 
it for granted they deal exactly in the 
same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, 
you know you promised to come to Lady 
Sneerwell's too. 

Sir Pet. Well, well, I '11 call in, just to 
look after my own character. 

Lady Teaz. Then, indeed, you must make 
haste after me, or you '11 be too late ; so 
good bye to ye. 

Sir Pet. So — I have gained much by my 
intended expostulation. Yet with what a 
charming air she contradicts everything 
I say — and how pleasingly she shows her 
contempt of my authority. Well, tho' I 
can't make her love me, there is certainly 
a great satisfaction in quari-elling with 
her; and I think she never appears to 
such advantage as when she is doing ev- 
erything in her power to plague me. 
{Exit.) 



Scene 2. At Lady Sneerwell's. 

{Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Crahtree, 
Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Surface.) 

Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear 
it. 

Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means. 

Sir Ben. plague on 't, uncle, 't is mere 
nonsense. 

Crah. No, no; 'fore gad, very clever for 
an extempore ! 

Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be ac- 
quainted with the circumstances. You 
must know that one day last week as 
Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust 
in [Hyde] Park,2i in a sort of duo- 
decimo -2 phaeton, she desired me to write 
some verses on her ponies; upon which T 



took out my pocketbook, and in one mo- 
ment produced — the following : — 

Sure never were seen two such beautiful 
ponies ; 

Other horses are clowns — and these maca- 
ronies,'^ 

Nay to give 'em this title, I 'm sure is n't 
wrong. 

Their legs are so slim, and their tails are 
so long. 

Crah. There, ladies — done in the smack of 

a whip and on horseback too. 
Surf. A veiy Phoebus mounted, indeed, 

Sir Benjamin. 
Sir Ben. Oh, dear sir — trifles — trifles. 

{Enter Lady Teazle and Maria.) 

Mrs. Can. I must have a copy. 

Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we 

shall see Sir Peter? 
Lady Teaz. I believe he '11 wait on your 

Ladyship presently. 
Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look 

grave. Come, you shall sit down to 

piquet with Mr. Surface. 
3Iar. I take very little pleasure in cards; 

however, I '11 do as you please. 
Lady Teaz. T am surprised Mr. Surface 

should sit down with her; I thought he 

would haA^e embraced this opportunity 

of speaking to me before Sir Peter 

came. 

{Aside.) 
Mrs. Can. Now, I '11 die but you are so 

scandalous I '11 forswear your society. 
Lady Tea^. What 's the matter, Mrs. Can- 
dour? 
Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend 

Miss Vermillion to be handsome. 
Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty 

woman. . . . 
Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am. 
BIrs. Can. She has a charming fresh color. 
Crab. Yes, when it is fresh put on. 
Lady Teaz. fie ! I '11 swear her color is 

natural — I have seen it come and go. 
Crab. I dare swear you have, ma'am : it 

goes of a night, and comes again in the 

morning. 
Sir Ben. True, uncle, it not only comes 

and goes, but what 's more, egad, her maid 

can fetch and cany it. 
Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! how T hate to hear 

you talk so! But surely, now her sister 

is or was very handsome. 



19 Light sledges on 
which great crim- 
inals used to be 
drawn to execu- 
tion. 



20 He alludes to the 
uttorers (issuers) 
and coiners of 
counterfeit mon- 
ey, and to those 



who clipped bits 
off Rold coins (a 
practice now pre- 
vented by milling 
the edge). 



21 A variation on 
"taking the air" : 
Hvde Park is in 
the West End. 

22 I , e., miniature. 



23 Fashionables, 
dandies ; cf . 

Ynnlee Doodle 
("And called it 
macaroni"). 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



683 



Crab. Who? Mrs. Stucco? Olud! she's 
six-and-hf ty if she 's an hour ! 

Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her ; 
fifty-two, or fifty-three is the utmost — 
and I don't think she looks more. 

Sir Ben. Ah ! there 's no judging by her 
looks, unless one was to see her face. 

Lady Sneer. Well — well — if she does take 
some pains to repair the ravages of time, 
you must allow she effects it with great 
ingenuity — and surely that 's better than 
the careless manner in which the widow 
Ocre chalks her wrinkles. 

Sir Ben. Nay, now, you are severe upon 
the widow ; come, come, it is n't that she 
paints so ill — but when she has finished 
her face she joins it on so badly to her 
neck, that she looks like a mended statue, 
in which the connoisseur sees at once 
that the head 's modern though the 
trunk 's antique. 

Crab. Ha! ha! ha! well said, nephew! 

Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make 
me laugh but I vow I hate you for it. 
What do you think of Miss Simper? 

Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth. 

Lady Teaz. Yes, and on that account, 
when she is neither speaking nor laugh- 
ing (which very seldom happens), she 
never absolutely shuts her mouth, but 
leaves it always on a-jar, as it were. 

Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured ? 

Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that 's bet- 
ter than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to 
conceal her losses in front — she draAvs 
her mouth till it resembles the aperture 
of a poor's-box, and all her words appear 
to slide out edgewise. 

Lady Sneer. Veiy well, Lady Teazle, I 
see you can be a little severe. 

Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is 
but justice, but here comes Sir Peter to 
spoil our pleasantry. 

{Enter Sir Peter.) 

Sir Pet. Ladies, your obedient — mercy on 
me, here is the whole set ! a character 's 
dead at every word, I suppose. 

Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, 
Sir Peter; they have been so censorious 
and Lady Teazle as bad as any one. 

Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to 
you, Mrs. Candour, I dare swear. 

Mrs. Can. 0, they will allow good quali- 
ties to nobody — not even good nature to 
our friend, Mrs. Pursy. 

Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who 
was at Mrs. Codrille's last nigrht? 



Lady Sneer. Nay, her bulk is her mis- 
fortune and when she takes such pains 
to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect 
on her. 
Mrs. Can. 'T is very true, indeed. 
Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives 
on acids and small whey, laces herself 
by pulleys, and often in the hottest noon 
of summer you may see her on a little 
squat pony, with her hair plaited up 
behind like a drummer's, and puffing 
round the Ring-* on a full trot. 

3Irs. Can. I thank you. Lady Teazle, for 

defending her. 
Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly ! 

Mrs. Can. But for Sir Benjamin, he is as 

censorious as Miss Sallow. 
Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to 
pretend to be censorious — an awkward 
gawky, without any one good point un- 
der Heaven ! 

Lady Sneer. Positively, you shall not be 
so very severe. Miss Sallyw is a rela- 
tion of mine by marriage, and, as for her 
person, great allowance is to be made; 
for, let me tell you, a woman labors un- 
der many disadvantages who tries to pass 
for a girl at six-and-thirty. 

Mrs. Can. Though, surely she is hand- 
some still — and for the weakness in her 
eyes, considering how much she reads by 
candle-light, it is not to be wondered at. 

Lady Sneer. True, and then as to her 
manner — upon my word, I think it is 
particularly graceful considering she 
never had the least education: for you 
know her mother was a Welsh milliner, 
and her father a sugar-baker at Bris- 
tow. 

Sir Ben. Ah! You are both of you too 
good-natured ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured! 
Her own relation ! mercy on me ! 
(Aside.) 

Mrs. Can. For my part I own I cannot 
bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of. 

Sir Pet. No, to be sure! 

Sir Ben. Ah, you are of a moral turn, 
Mrs. Candour, and can sit for an hour 
to hear Lady Stucco talk sentiments. 

Lady Sneer. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is 
very well with the dessert after dinner, 
for she 's just like the Spanish fmit one 
cracks for mottoes, — made up of paint 
and proverb. 

Mrs Can. Well, T never will join in ridi- 
culing a friend — and so T constantly tell 
my cousin Ogle — and you all know what 



24 A circular road in Hyde Park. 



684 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



pretensions she has to be critical in 
beauty. 

Lady Teaz. 0, to be sure, she has herself 
the oddest countenance that ever was seen 
— 't is a collection of features from all 
the different countries of the globe. 

Sir Ben. So she has indeed — an Irish 
front 

Crab. Caledonian locks 

Sir Ben. Dutch nose 

Crab. Austrian lips 

Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard 

Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise 

Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a 
table d'hote at Spa ^^ — where no two 
guests are of a nation. 

Crab. Or a congress at the close of a gen- 
eral war, wherein all the members even 
to her eyes appear to have a different in- 
terest, and her nose and chin are the 
only parties likely to join issue. 

Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! 

Sir Pet. ]\Iercy on my life ! a person they 
dine with twice a week ! 
(Aside.) 

Lady Sneer. Go — go — you are a couple of 
provoking toads. 

Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not 
carry the laugh off so — for give me leave 
to say, that Mrs. Ogle 

Sir Pet. Madam, madam — I beg your 
pardon — there 's no stopping these good 
gentlemen's tongues ; but when I tell you, 
Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are 
abusing is a pai'ticular friend of mine, I 
hope you '11 not take her part. 

Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! Avell said, Sir 
Peter; but you are a cruel creature — too 
phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too 
peevish -^ to allow wit in others. 

Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more 
nearly [allied] to good nature than your 
ladyship is aware of. 

Lady' Sneer. True, Sir Peter-— I believe 
they are so near akin that they can never 
be united. 

Sir Ben. O rather, madam, suppose them 
man and wife, because one seldom sees 
them together. 

Lady Teaz. P>ut Sir Peter is such an 
enemy to scandal T believe he would have 
it put down by Parliament. 
Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven ! madam, if they 
were to consider the sporting with repu- 
tation of as much importance as poach- 
ing on manors, and pass an act for the 

25 A watering-place 
in Belgium. 

26 spiteful. 



27 Law relating to 
business. 



preservation of fame, there are many 
would thank them for the bill. 

Lady Sneer. Lud ! Sir Peter, would 
you deprive us of our privileges'? 

Sir Pet. Aye, madam, and then no person 
should be penuitted to kill characters or 
run down reputations but qualified old 
maids and disappointed widows. 

Lady Sneer. Go, you monster — 

Mrs. Can. But sure you would not be 
quite so severe on those who only report , 
what they hear? 

Sir Pet. Yes, madam, I would have Law 
Merchant ^"^ for that too — and in all cases 
of slander currency, whenever the drawer 
of the lie was not to be found, the in- 
jured party should have a right to come 
on any of the indorsers.^^ 

Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there 
never was a scandalous tale without some 
foundation. 

Lady Sneer, Come, ladies, shall we sit 
down to cards in the next room? 

(Enter Servant, wJiispers Sir Peter.) 

Sir Pet. I '11 be with tliem directly. — 
(Exit Servant.) I'll get away unper- 
ceived. 

Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not leav- 
ing us 1 

Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me — 
I 'm called away by particular business 
— but I leave my character behind me. 
'(Exit.) 

Sir Ben. Well, certainly. Lady Teazle, 
that lord of yours is a strange being; I 
could tell you some stories of him would 
make you laugh heartily if he were n't 
your husband. 

Lady Teaz. 0, pray don't mind that — 
come, do let 's hear 'em. (Join the rest 
of the compani) going into the next 
room.) 

Surf. Maria, I see you have no satisfac- 
tion in this society. 

Mar. How is it possible I should? If to 
raise malicious smiles at the infirmities 
or misfortunes of those who have never 
injured us be the province of wit or 
humor, Heaven grant me a double por- 
tion of dullness. 

Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natui'ed 
tlian they are — they have no malice at 
heart. 

Mar. Then is their conduct still more con- 
temptible; for in my opinion, nothing 

28 Hp is quibbling: on a financial note or bill, for 
which the indorser is responsible after the drawer. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



685 



could excuse the intemperance of their 
tongues but a natural and ungovernable 
bitterness of mind. 

Surf. Undoubtedly, madam ; and it has 
always been a sentiment of mine that 
to propagate a malicious truth wantonly 
is more despicable than to falsify from 
revenge; but can you, Maria, feel thus 
for others and be unkind to me alone — 
nay, is' hope to be denied the tenderest 
passion "? 

Mar. Why will you distress me by renew- 
ing this subject ? 

Surf. Ah ! Maria ! you would not treat me 
thus and oppose your guardian's, Sir 
Peter's, wishes — but that I see that my 
profligate brother is still a favored rival. 

Mar. Ungenerously urged ; but whatever 
my sentiments of that unfortunate young 
man are, be assui-ed I shall not feel more 
bound to give him up because his dis- 
tresses have sunk him so low as to de- 
prive him of the regard even of a 
brother. 

Surf. Nay but, IMaiia, do not leave me 
with a frown — by all that 's honest, I 

swear Gad's life, here 's Lady Teazle 

— you must not — no, you phall — for 
though I have the greatest regard for 
Lady Teazle- 



Mar. Lady Teazle! 

Surf. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect 

{Enter Lady Teazle, and comes forivard.) 

Lady Teaz. What 's this, pray — do you 
take her for me? — Cliild, you are wanted 
in the next room. — What 's all this, 
pray — 

{Exit Maria.'] 

Surf. 0, the most unlucky circumstance 
in nature. Maria has somehow suspected 
the tender concern I have for your hap- 
piness, and threatened to acquaint Sir 
Peter witli her suspicions, and I was 
just endeavoring to reason with her when 
you came. 

Lady Teaz. Indeed, but you seemed to 
adopt — a very tender mode of reason- 
ing. Do you usually argue on your 
knees'? 

Surf. 0, she 's a child — and I thought a 

little bombast but, Lady Teazle, when 

are you to give me your judgment on my 
libraiy as you promised"? 

Lady Teaz. No — no, I begin to think it 
would be imprudent ; and you know I 
admit you as a lover no farther than 
fashion requires. 



Surf. True — a mere Platonic CieisbeOj^" 
what every London wife is entitle.! to. 

Lady Teaz. Certainly one must not be out 
of the fashion — however, L have so much 
of my country prejudices left — that — 
though Sir Peter's ill humor may vex me 
ever so, it never shall provoke me to 

Surf. The only revenge in your power — 
well, I applaud your moderation. 

Lady Teaz. Go — you are an insinuating 
hypocrite — but we shall be missed — let 
us join the company. 

Surf. True, but we had best not return 
together. 

Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay — for Mai'ia 
shan't come to hear any more of your 
reasoning, I promise you. 
(Exit.) 

Surf. A curious dilennna, truly, my poli- 
tics have run me into. I wanted at first 
only to ingratiate myself with Lady 
Teazle that she might not be my enemy 
with Maiia; and I have, I don't know 
how, become her serious lover, so that I 
stand a chance of committing a crime I 
never meditated — and probably of losing 
Maria by the pursuit ! — Sincerely I begin 
to wish I had never made such a point of 
gaining so very good a character, for it 
has led me into so many curst rogueries 
that I doubt I shall be exposed at last. 
{Exit.) 



Scene 3. At Sir Peter's. 
{Rowley and Sir Oliver.) 

Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! ha! and so my old 
friend is married, hey? — a young wife 
out of the countiy ! — ha ! ha ! that he 
should have stood bluff to old bachelor 
so long and sink into a husband at last! 

Itoio. But you must not rally him on the 
subject. Sir Olivei* — 't is a tender point, 
T assure you, though he has been mar- 
ried only seven months. 

Sir Oliv. Ah, then he has been just half 
a year on the stool of repentance — poor 
Peter! But you say he has entirely 
given up Charles — never sees him, hey? 

Bow. His prejudice against him is as- 
tonishing, and I am sure, greatly in- 
creased by a jealousy of him with Lady 
Teazle, which he has been industriously 
led into by a scandalous society in the 
neighborhood who have contributed not 
a little to Charles's ill name. Whereas 
the truth is, I believe, if the lady is par- 



29 (Italian) A trifling cavalier to a married woman. 



686 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



tial to either of them his brother is the 
favorite. 

Sir Oliv. Aye — I know — there are a set 
of malicious, prating, prudent gossips 
both male and female, who murder char- 
acters to kill time, and will rob a young- 
fellow of his good name before he has 
years to know the value of it . . . but I 
am not to be prejudiced against my 
nephew by such, I promise you! No, 
no! if Charles has done nothing false or 
mean, I shall compound ^° for his ex- 
travagance. 

Row. Then, my life on 't, j'ou will re- 
claim him. Ah, sir, it gives me new 
vigor to find that your heart is not 
turned against him, and that the son of 
my good old master has one friend, how- 
ever, left. 

Sir Oliv. What! shall I forget, Master 
Rowley, when I was at his house myself? 
— Egad, my brother and I were neither of 
us very prudent youths, and yet I be- 
lieve you have not seen many better men 
than your old master was. 

Boio. 'T is this reflection gives me assur- 
ance that Charles may yet be a credit to 
his family — but here comes Sir Peter 

Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does. Mercy on me 
— he 's greatly altered — and seems to have 
a settled mamed look — one may read 
husband in his face at this distance. 



(Enter Sir Peter.) 

Sir Pet. Ha! Sir Oliver, my old friend — 

welcome to England — a thousand times! 
Sir Oliv. Thank you — thank you — Sir 

Peter; and i' faith I am as glad to find 

you well, believe me. 
Sir Pet. Ah ! 't is a long time since we met 

— sixteen year, I doubt, Sir Oliver — and 

many a cross accident in the time. 
Sir Oiiv. Aye, I have had my share — but, 

what ! I find you are married — hey, my 

old boy — well — well it can't be helped — 

and so I wish you joy with all my heart. 
Sir Pet. Thank you— thanks, Sir" Oliver. 

— Yes, I have entered into the happy 

state, but we '11 not talk of that now. 
Sir Oliv. True, true, Sir Peter, old friends 

should n't begin on grievances at first 

meeting. No, no — 

Row. Take care, pray, sir 

Sir Oliv. Well — so one of my nephews, I 

find, is a wild rogue — hey? 
Sir Pet. Wild ! — oh ! my old friend — I 

grieve for your disappointment there. 

He 's a lost young man indeed ; however 

30 Settle, come to terms. 31 An almost meaningless exclamation; bless me! 



his brother will make you amends; Jo- 
sejjh is indeed what a youth should be — 
everybody in the world speaks well of 
him. 

Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it — he has 
too good a character to be an honest fel- 
low. Everybody si3eaks well of him! 
Psha ! then he has bowed as low to knaves 
and fools as to the honest dignity of vir- 
tue. 

Sir Pet. What ! Sir Oliver, do you blame 
him for not making enemies'? 

Sir Oliv. Yes — if he has merit enough to 
deserve them. 

Sir Pet. Well — well — you '11 be convinced 
when you know him ; 't is edification to 
hear him converse — he professes the no- 
blest sentiments. 

Sir Oliv. Ah, plague on his sentiments — 
if he salutes me with a scrap sentence of 
morality in his mouth, I shall be sick di- 
rectly — but, however, don't mistake me. 
Sir Peter, I don't mean to defend 
Charles's errors ; but before I form my 
judgment of either of them, I intend to 
make a trial of their hearts — and my 
friend Rowley and I have planned some- 
thing for the purpose. 

Row. And Sir Peter shall owm he has been 
for once mistaken. 

Sir Pet. My life on Joseph's honor 

Sir Oliv. AYell, come, give us a bottle of 
good wine, and we '11 drink the lads' 
healths and tell you our scheme. 

Sir Pet. Allans, then. 

Sir Oliv. But don't, Sir Peter, be so se- 
vere against your old fi'iend's son. 

Sir Pet. 'T is his vices and follies have 
made me his enemy. 

Row. Come — come — Sir Peter, consider 
how early he was left to his own guid- 
ance. 

Sir Oliv. Odds my life ^^ — I am not sorry 
that he has run out of the course a little; 
for my jDart, I hate to see dry pnidence 
clinging to the green juices of youtli — 
't is like ivy round a sapling and spoils 
the growth of the tree. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. At Sir Peter's. 

{Sir Peter, Sir Oliver, and Rowley.) 

Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see the fel- 
lows first and have our wine afterAvards. 
But how is this. Master Rowley? I don't 
see the jet ^" of your scheme. 

32 Gist, main point. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



687 



Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley whom I 
was speaking of is nearly related to them 
by their mother. He was once a mer- 
chant in Dublin, but has been ruined by 
a series of undeserved misfortunes, and 
now lately coming over to solicit the as- 
sistance of his friends here, has been 
flung into prison by some of his cred- 
itors, where he is now with two helpless 
boys. 

Sir Oliv. Aye, and a worthy fellow, too, 
I remember him. But what is this to 
lead to? 

Boiv. You shall hear. He has applied by 
letter both to Mr. Surface and Charles; 
from the former he has received nothing 
but evasive promises of future service, 
while Charles has done all that his ex- 
travagance has left him power to do, and 
he is at this time endeavoring to raise a 
sum of money, part of which, in the 
midst of his own distresses, I know he 
intends for the service of poor Stanley. 

Sir Oliv. Ah ! he is my brother's son. 

Sir Pet. Well, but how is Sir Oliver per- 
sonally to 

Bow. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and 
his brother that Stanley has obtained 
permission to apply in person to his 
friends, and as they have neither of them 
ever seen him, let Sir Oliver assume his 
character, and he Avill have a fair oppor- 
tunity of judging at least of the benevo- 
lence of their dispositions. 

Sir Pet. Pshaw ! this will prove nothing. 
I make no doubt Charles is coxcomb and 
thoughtless enough to give money to poor 
relations if he had it. 

Sir Oliv. Then he shall never Avant it. I 
have brought a few rupees home with 
me. Sir Peter, and I only want to be 
sure of bestowing them rightly. 

Eow. Then, sir, believe me you will find 
in the youngest brother one who in the 
midst of folly and dissipation has still, 
as our immortal bard expresses it, — 

"a tear for pity and a hand open as the 
day for melting charity." ^^ 

Sir Pet. Pish ! What signifies his having 
an open hand or purse either when he has 
nothing left to give'! But if you talk of 
humane sentiments, Joseph is the man. 
Well, well, make the trial, if you please. 
But where is the fellow whom you 
brought for Sir Oliver to examine, rela- 
tive to Charles's affairs'? 



Bow. Below, waiting his commands, and 
no one can give him better intelligence. 
This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who 
to do him justice, has done everything in 
his power to bring your nephew to a 
projaer sense of his extravagance. 

Sir Pet. Pray, let us have him in. 

Bow. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs. 
{Calls to Servant.) 

Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you sup- 
pose he will speak the truth ? 

Bow. Oh, I have convinced him that he 
has no chance of recovering certain sums 
advanced to Charles but through the 
bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is ar- 
rived; so that you may depend on his 
fidelity to his interest. I have also an- 
other evidence in my power, one Snake, 
whom I shall shortly produce to remove 
some of your prejudices. Sir Peter, rela- 
tive to Charles and Lady Teazle. 

Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that 
subject. 

Boiv. Here comes the honest Israelite. 

{Enter Moses.) 

—This is Sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have 
lately had great dealings with my nephew 
Charles. 

Mos. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I 
could for him, but he was ruined before 
he came to me for assistance. 

Sir Oliv. That was unlucky truly, for 
you have had no opportunity of showing 
your talents. 

Mos. None at all — I had n't the pleasure 
of knowing his distresses till he was some 
thousands worse than nothing, till it was 
impossible to add to them. 

Sir Oliv. Unfortunate indeed! but I sup- 
pose you have done all in your power for 
him, honest Moses? 

Mos. Yes, he knows that. This very 
evening I was to have brought him a gen- 
tleman from the city who does not know 
him and will I believe advance some 
money. 

Sir Pet. What ! one Charles has never had 
money from before? 

Mos. Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched 
Friars.3* 

Sir Pet. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought 
strikes me ! — Charles you say does n't 
know Mr. Premium? 

Mos. Not at all. 

Sir Pet. Now then, Sir Oliver, you may 



33 Quoted (not quite accurately) from Shakespeare's II. Henry IV., IV. iv. 
34 A street in the financial district of London. 



G88 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



have a better opportunity of satisfying 
yourself than by an old romancing tale 
of a poor relation; go with my friend 
Moses and represent Mr. Premium, and 
then I '11 answer for 't you '11 see your 
nephew in all his glory. 

Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than 
the other, and I may visit Joseph after- 
wards as old Stanley. 

Sir Pet. True, so you may. 

Row. Well, this is taking Charles rather 
at a disadvantage, to be sure ! However, 
Moses, you understand Sir Peter and 
will be faithful. 

3Ios. You may depend upon me — and this 
is near the time I was to have gone. 

Sir Oliv. I '11 accompany you as soon as 
you please, Moses. But hold — I have 
forgot one thing — how the plague shall I 
be able to pass for a Jew? 

Mos. There 's no need ; the principaP^ is 
Christian. 

Sir Oliv. Is he? I'm vei-y sorry to hear 
it — but then again, an't I rather too 
smartly dressed to look like a money- 
lender? 

Sir Pet. Not at all ; 't would not be out of 
character, if you went in your own car- 
riage, would it, Moses? 

Mos. Not in the least. 

Sir Oliv. Well— but— how must I talk? 
there 's certainly some cant of usury 
and mode of treating thai I ought to 
know. 

Sir. Pet. Oh, there 's not much to learn — 
the great point as I take it is to be ex- 
orbitant enough in your demands, hey, 
Moses? 

Mos. Yes that 's very great point. 

Sir Oliv. I '11 answer for 't I '11 not be 
wanting in that — I '11 ask him eight or 
ten per cent, on the loan — at least. 

Mos. You '11 be found out directly ; if you 
ask him no more than that, you '11 be dis- 
covered immediately. 

Sir Oliv. Hey! what the plasiie ! — how 
much then? 

Mos. That depends iipon the circum- 
stances; if he appears not veiy anxious 
for the supply, you should require only 
forty or fifty per cent. — but if you find 
him in great distress, and want the 
monies very bad, you may ask double. 

Sir Pet. A good, honest trade you 're 
learning, Sir Oliver — 

Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so — and not un- 
profitable. 



Mos. Then, you know, you have n't the 
monies yourself, but are forced to borrow 
them for him of a friend. 

Sir Oliver. 0, I borrow it of a friend, 
do I? 

Mos. And your friend is an unconscioned 
dog — but you can't help it. 

Sir Oliv. My friend 's an unconscionable 
dog, is he? 

Mos. Yes — and he himself has n't the 
monies by him — but is forced to sell stock 
— at a great loss. 

Sir Oliv. He is foi'ced to sell stock, is he — 
at a great loss, is he ? Well, that 's very 
kind of him. 

Sir Pet. V faith. Sir Oliver — Mr. Premium 
I mean — you '11 soon be master of the 
trade. But Moses would have him in- 
quire if the borrower is a minor. 

Mos. yes. 

Sir Pet. And in that case his conscience 
will direct him — 

Mos. To have the bond in another name, 
to be sure. 

Sir Oliv. Well — well, I shall be perfect. 

Sir Pet. But, hearkee, would n't you have 
him also run out a little against the an- 
nuity bill?^*^ That would be in char- 
acter I should think. 

Mos. Very much. 

Row. And lament that a young man now 
must be at years of discretion before he is 
suffered to ruin himself ! 

Mos. Aye, great pity ! 

Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allow- 
ing merit to an act whose only object is 
to snatch misfortune and imprudence 
from the rapacious relief of usury! and 
give the minor a chance of inheriting his 
estate w^ithout being undone by coming 
into possession. 

Sir Oliv. So — so — Moses shall give me 
further instructions as we go together. 

Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for 
your nephew lives hard by. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear: my tutor ap- 
pears so able that tho' Charles lived in 
the next street, it must be my own fault 
if I am not a complete rog-ue before I 
turn the corner. 

(Exeunt Sir Oliver and Moses.) 

Sir Pet. So, now I think Sir Oliver will 
be convinced — you shan't follow them, 
Rowley. You are partial and Avould 
have prepared Charles for t' otlier plot. 

Eoiv. No, upon my word. Sir Peter — 

Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, 



35 The person whose 
agent he is. 



3G A recent parliamentary bill, partly for the protection of minors against usu- 
rers. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



689 



and I '11 hear what lie has to say pres- 
ently. I see Maria, and want to speak 
with her. {Exit Rowley.) I should be 
glad to be convinced my suspicions of 
Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust; I 
have never yet opened my mind on this 
subject to my friend Joseph. ... I am 
determined. I will do it — he will give 
me his opinion sincerely. — 

(Enter Maria.) 

So, child, has Mr. Surface returned Avith 
you? 

Mar. No, sir, h» was engaged. 

Sir Pet. Weil, Maria, do you not reflect, 
the more you converse with that amiable 
young man, what return his partiality for 
you deserves'? 

Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent im- 
portunity on this subject distresses me 
extremely; you compel me to declare that 
I know no man who has ever paid me a 
particular attention whom I would not 
prefer to Mr. Surface. 

Sir Pet. Soh ! Here 's perverseness ; no, 
no, Maria, 't is Charles only whom you 
would prefer — 't is evident his vices and 
follies have won your heart. 

Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I 
have obeyed you in neither seeing nor 
corresponding with him — I have heard 
enough to convince me that he is un- 
worthy my regard. Yet I cannot think 
it culpable, if while my imderstanding 
severely condemns his vices, my heart 
suggests some pity for his distresses. 

Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as 
you please, but give your heart and hand 
to a wortliier object. 

Mar. Never to his brother! 

Sir Pet. Go — perverse and obstinate ! but 
take care, madam, you have never yet 
known what the authority of a guardian 
is — don't compel me to inform you of it. 

Mar. I can only say, you shall not have 
just reason. 'T is true, by my f athei-'s 
will I am for a short period bound to re- 
gard you as his substitute, but I must 
cease to think you so when you would 
compel me to be miserable. 
(Exit.) 

Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am, 
eveiything conspiring to fret me"? I had 
not been involved in matrimony a fort- 
night, before her father, a hale and 
hearty man, died on purpose, I believe, 
for the pleasure of plaguing me with the 
care of his daughter. . . . But here 
comes my helpmate ! She appears in 



great good humor; how happy I should 
be if I could teaze her into loving me 
tho' but a little ! 

{Enter Lady Teazle.) 

Lady Teaz. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you 
haven't been quarrelling with Maria 1 It 
isn't using me well to be ill-humored 
Avhen I am not by ! 

Sir Pet. Ah ! Lady Teazle, you might have 
the power to make me good-humored at 
all times. 

Lady Teaz. I am sure, I wish I had — for 
I want you to be in a charming sweet 
temjDer at this moment — do be good-hu- 
mored now — and let me have two hun- 
dred pounds, will you? 

Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds ! what, an't 
I to be in a good humor without paying 
for if? But speak to me thus — and 
i' faith there 's nothing I could refuse 
you. You shall have it — but seal me a 
bond for the repayment. 

Lady Teaz. no — there — my note of 
hand will do as well. 

Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach 
me with not giving you an independent 
settlement ; I shall shortly surprise you, 
and you '11 not call me ungenerous. But 
shall we always live thus — hey? 

Lady Teaz. If you please ; I 'm sure I 
don't care how soon we leave off quarrel- 
ling provided you '11 own you were tired 
first. 

Sir Pet. Well — then let our future contest 
be who shall be most obliging. 

Lady Teaz. I assure you. Sir Peter, good 
nature becomes you — you look now as 
you did before we were married — when 
you used to walk with me under the elms, 
and tell me stories of what a gallant you 
were in your youth — and chuck me under 
the chin, you would — and ask me if I 
thought ? could love an old fellow who 
would deny me nothing — didn't you? 

Sir Pet. Yes — yes — and you were as kind 
and attentive 

Lady Teaz. Aye, so I was — and would al- 
ways take your part, when my acquaint- 
ance used to abuse you and turn you into 
ridicule. 

Sir Pet. Indeed ! 

Lady Teaz. Aye — and when my cousin 
Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish, old 
bachelor and laughed at me for thinking 
of maiTying one who might be my father 
— I have always defended you — and said 
I did n't think you so ugly by any means, 



690 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



and that you 'd make a very good sort of 
a husband. 

Sir Pet. And you proi^hesied right, and 
we shall certainly now be the happiest 
couple 

Lady Teaz. And never differ again. 

Sir Pet. No, never — tho' at the same time 
indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must 
watch your temper very narrowly, for in 
all our little quarrels, my dear, if you 
recollect, my love, you always began 
first. 

Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon — my dear 
Sir Peter — indeed — you always gave the 
provocation. 

Sir Pet. NoAV — see, my love, take care — 
contradicting isn't the way to keep 
friends. 

Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my 
love ! 

Sir Pet. There now — you are going on : 
you don't perceive, my life, that you are 
just doing the very thing, my love, which 
you know always makes me angry. 

Lady Teaz. Nay — you know if you will be 
angiy without any reason — my dear — 

Sir Pet. There now you want to quarrel 
again. 

Lady Teaz. No, I am sure I don't, but if 
you will be so peevish 

Sir Pet. There, now who begins first 9 

Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure — I said 
nothing — but there's no bearing your 
temper. 

Sir Pet. No, no, my dear — the fault 's in 
your own temper. 

Lady Teaz. Aye, you are just what my 
cousin Sophy said you would be — 

Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy — is a forward 
impertinent gipsey — 

Lady Teaz. Go, you great bear- — how dare 
you abuse my relations'? 

Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of mar- 
riage be doubled on me, if ever I try to 
be friends with you any more ! 

Lady Teaz. So much the better. 

Sir Pet. No, no, madam, 't is evident you 
never eared a pin for me ; I was a mad- 
man to marry you. 

Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool 
to marry you — an old dangling bachelor, 
who was single at fifty, only because he 
never could meet with any one who would 
have him. 

Sir Pet. Aye, aye, madam, but you were 
pleased enough to listen to me; you 
never had such an offer before — 

Lady Teaz. No — did n't I refuse Sir Je- 



remy Terrier, who everybody said would 
have been a better match — for his estate 
is just as good as yours — and he has broke 
his neck since we have been married ! 

Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam ! 
You are an unfeeling, ungrateful — but 
there's an end of everything — I believe 
you capable of anything that 's bad ; yes, 
madam — I now believe the reports rela- 
tive to you and Charles, — madam — yes — 
madam — you and Charles are — not with- 
out grounds 

Lady Teaz. Take care. Sir Peter — you had 
better not insinuate any such thing! 
I '11 not be suspected without cause, I 
promise you 

Sir Pet. Very — well — madam — very well ! 
a separate maintenance, as soon as you 
please. Yes, madam, or a divorce — I '11 
make an example of myself for the bene- 
fit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, 
madam. 

Lady Teaz. Agreed, agreed — and now — 
my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind 
again, we may be the happiest couple — 
and never differ again, you know — ha! 
ha ! — Well, you are going to be in a pas- 
sion I see, and I shall only interrupt you 
— so, bye! bye! hey — young Jockey 
tried and countered. ^^ 
{Exit.) 

Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! She pre- 
tends to keep her temper; can't I make 
her angry neither ! ! I am the miser- 
able fellow! But I'll not bear her pre- 
suming to keep her temper — No, she may 
break my heart — but she shan't keep her 
temper. 

{Exit.) 



Scene 2. At Charles's House. 
{Enter Trip, Moses, and Sir Oliver.) 

Trip. Here, Master Moses — if you '11 stay 

a moment — I '11 try whether Mr. — what 's 

the gentleman's name? 
Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my 

name 

Mos. Mr. Premium. 

Trip. Premium — very well. 

{Exit Trip, taking snuff.) 
Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants — one 

would n't believe the master was ruined. 

But what — sure this was my brother's 

house — 
Mos. Yes, sir, Mr. Charles bought it of 

Mr. Joseph with the furniture, pictures, 



37 Apparently a cant phrase implying a taunt for failure. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



691 



etc. — just as the old gentleman left it. 
Sir Peter tliouiiht it a great piece of ex- 
travagance in him. 
Sir Oliv. In my mind the other's economy 
in selling it to him was more repre- 
hensible by half. 

{Enter Trip.) 

Trip. My master, gentlemen, says you 

must wait, he has company, and can't 

speak with you yet. 
Sir Oliv. If he knew who it was wanted 

to see him, perhaps he would n't have 

sent such a message. 
Trip. Yes, yes.; sir, he knows you are 

here — I did n't forget little Premium — 

no — no. 
Sir Oliv. Very well — and pray, sir, what 

may be your name? 
Trip. Trip, sir — my name is Trip, at your 

service. 
Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip — I presume 

your master is seldom without com- 
pany 

Trip. Very seldom, sir — the world says 

ill-natured things of him but 't is all 

malice — no man was ever better beloved ; 

sir, he seldom sits down to dinner without 

a dozen particular friends. 
Sir Oliv. He 's veiy happy indeed — you 

have a pleasant sort of place here, I 

guess "? 
Trip. Why, yes, here are three or four 

of us pass our time agreeably enough; 

but then our wages are sometimes a little 

in arrear^and not very great either — but 

fifty pounds a year and find our own 

bags ^^ and bouquets 

Sir Oliv. Bags and bouquets! — Halters 

and bastinadoes ! 

(Aside.) 

Trip. But a propos, Moses — have you 
been able to get me that little bill dis- 
coimted'? 

Sir Olive. Wants to raise money too ! — 
mercy on me ! has his distresses,^^ I war- 
rant, like a lord — and affects creditors 
and duns! 

{Aside.) 

Mos. 'T was not to be done, indeed 

Trip. Good lack — you surprise me — my 
friend Brush has indorsed it and I 
thought when he put his name at the 
back of a bill, 't was as good as cash. 

Mos. No, 't would n't do. 

Trip. A small sum — but twenty pound — 



harkee, Moses, do you think you could get 
it me by way of annuity 1 

Sir Oliv. An annuity! ha! ha! a footman 
raise money by annuity! Well done. 
Luxury, egad ! 

{Aside. ) 

Mos. Who would you get to join with you? 

Trip. You know my Lord Applice — you 
have seen him however 

Mos. Yes 

Trip. You must have obsen'ed what an 
appearance he makes — nobody dresses 
better, nobody throws off faster — very 
well, this gentleman will stand my se- 
curity. 

Mos. Well — ^but you must insure your 
place. 

Trip. with all my heart — I '11 insure my 
place, and my life too, if you i^lease. 

Sir Oliv. It 's more than I would your 
neck 

Mos. But is there nothing you could de- 
posit ? 

Trip. Why nothing capital of my master's 
wardrobe has dropped lately — but I 
could give you a mortgage on some of his 
winter clothes with equity of redemption 
before November or — you shall have the 
revei'sion of the French velvet, or a 
post obit ■**' on the blue and silver — these 
I should think, Moses, with a few pair 
of point ruffles as a collateral security — 
hey, my little fellow? 

Mos. Well, well^we '11 talk presently — we 
detain the gentlemen. 

Sir Oliv. 0, pray, don't let me interrupt 
Mr. Trip's negotiation. 

Trip. Harkee— I heard the bell — I be- 
lieve, gentlemen, I can now introduce you 
— don't forget the annuity, little Moses. 

Sir Oliv. If the man be a shadow of his 
master, this is the Temple of Dissipation 
indeed ! 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. Charles, Careless, Etc., Etc. 
{At Table with Wine.) 

Chas. 'Fore Heaven, 't is true ! — there is 
the great degeneracy of the age — many 
of our acquaintance have taste, spirit, 
and politeness — but plague on 't, they 
won't drink. 

Care. It is so indeed, Charles; they give 
in to all the substantial luxuries of the 



38 /. e.. provide the wigs. 

nets worn to hold 39 Legal seizures of 
the hack-hair of goods not paid 



for. 



The word 
is sometimes 

punned on in this 



play. 
40 A bond payable 
after the death of 



a specified per- 
son. 



692 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



table — and abstain from nothing but 
wine and wit. Oh, certainly society suf- 
fers by it intolerably, for now instead of 
the social spirit of raillery that used to 
mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy 
their coiiversation is become just like the 
Spa water they drink which has all the 
pertness and flatulence of champagne 
without its spirit or flavor. 

1st Gent. But what are they to do who 
love play better than wine? 

Care. True — there 's Harry diets himself 
for gaming, and is now under a hazard 
regimen. 

Chas. Then he '11 have the worst of it. 
What, you would n't train a horse for the 
course by keeping him from corn. For 
my pai't, egad, I am never so successful 
as when I 'm a little — merry ;-^let me 
throw on a bottle of champagne and I 
never lose — at least I never feel my 
losses, which is exactly the same thing. 

2nd Gent. Aye, that may be — but it is as 
impossible to follow wine and play as to 
unite love and politics. 

Chas. Pshaw! you may do both; Caesar 
made love and laws in a breath — and was 
liked by the Senate as well as the ladies. 
But no man can pretend to be a believer 
in love, who is an abjurer of wine — 'tis 
the test by which a lover knows his own 
heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen 
beauties, and she that floats atop is the 
maid that has bewitched you. 

Care. Now then, Charles — be honest and 
give us yours. 

Chas. Why, I have withheld her only in 
compassion to you — if I toast her you 
should give a round of her peers, which is 
impossible ! on earth ! 

Care. 0, then we'll find some canonized 
vestals or heathen goddesses that will do, 
I warrant 

Chas. Here, then — bumpers — you rogues 
— bumpers ! Maria — Maria — 

1st Gent. Maria who? 

Chas. Oh, damn the surname; 'tis too 
formal to be registered in Love's calen- 
dar — but now, Careless, beware — beware 
— we must have Beauty's superlative. 

1st Gent. Nay, never study, Careless — 
we '11 stand to the toast — tho' your mis- 
tress should want an eye — and you know 
you have a song will excuse you. 

Care. Egad, so I have — and T '11 give him 
the song instead of the lady. 

{Song. — And Chorus — ) 
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; 
Here's to the widow of fifty; 



Here 's to the flaunting, extravagant 
quean. 
And here 's to the housewife that 's 
thrifty. 

{Chorus.) 
Let the toast pass, — 
Drink to the lass, 
I '11 warrant she '11 prove an excuse for 
a glass. 

Here 's to the charmer whose dimples we 
prize ; 
Now to the maid who has none, sir; 
Here 's to the girl with a pair of blue 
eyes. 
And here 's to the nymph with but one, 
sir. 

{Chorus.) 
Let the toast pass, &e. 

Here 's to the maid with a bosom of 
snow: 
Now to her that 's as brown as a berry : 
Here 's to the wife with a face full of 
woe. 
And now to the damsel that 's meiTy. 

{Chorus.) 
Let the toast pass, &c. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim. 

Young or ancient, I care not a feather; 

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the 

brim. 
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the 
brim, 
And let us e'en toast them together, 

{Chorus.) 
Let the toast pass, &c. 

{Enter Trip, whispers Charles.) 

2d Gent. Bravo, Cai'eless. There 's toast 
and sentiment too. 

1st Gent. V faith, there 's infinite charity 
in that song. 

Chas. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a 
little. Careless, take the chair, will you? 

Care. Nay, prithee, Charles — what now — 
this is one of your peerless beauties, I 
suppose, has di-ojiped in by chance? 

Chas. No, faitli, to tell you' the truth, 't is 
a Jew and a broker who are come by ap- 
pointment. 

Care. damn it, let 's have the Jew in. 

1st Gent. Aye and the broker, too, by all 
means 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



693 



2d Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the 
broker. 

Chas. — Egad, with all my heart. Trip, bid 
the gentlemen walk in — tho' there 's one 
of them a stranger I can tell you 

Trij). What, sir, would you chose Mr. 
Premium to come up with 

1st Gent. Yes, yes, Mr. Premium, cer- 
tainly. 

Care. To be sure, Mr. Premium, by all 
means, Charles; let us give them some 
generous Burgundy, and perhaps they '11 
grow conscientious 

Chas. 0, hang 'em, no ; wine does but 
draw forth a. man's natural qualities; and 
to make them drink would only be to 
whet their knaveiy. 

{Enter Trip, Sir Oliver, and Moses.) 

Chas. So — honest Moses, walk in, walk in, 
pray, Mr. Premium — that 's the gentle- 
man's name, isn't it, Moses"? 

Mos. Yes, sir. 

Chas. Set chairs, Tri[p]. — Sit down, Mr. 
Premium. Glasses, Tri[p]. — Sit down, 
Moses. Come, Mr. Premium, I '11 give 
you a sentiment. Here 's success to 
usury! Moses, fill the gentleman a 
bumper. 

Mos. Success to usury ! 

Care. Right, Moses, usury is prudence and 
industry, and deserves to succeed. 

Sir Oliv. Then, here is — all the success it 
deserves ! 

(Drinks.) 

Chas. Mr. Premium, you and I are but 
strangers yet — but I hope we shall be 
better acquainted by and bye 

Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, hope we shall — more in- 
timately perhaps than you'll wish. 
(Aside.) 

Care. No, no, that won't do ! Mr. Pre- 
mium, you have demurred at the toast, 
and must drink it in a pint bumper. 

1st Gent. A pint bumper, at least. 

Mos. Oh, pray, sir, consider — Mr. Pre- 
mium 's a gentleman. 

Care. And therefore loves good wine. 

2d Gent. Give Moses a quart glass — this is 
mutiny, and a high contempt for the 
chair. 

Care. Here, now for 't ! I '11 see justice 
done, to the last drop of my bottle. 

Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen, I did not 
expect this usage. 

Chas. No, hang it, you shan't ; Mr. Pre- 
mium 's a stranger. 

Sir Oliv. Odd! I wish I was well out of 
their company. 



(Aside.) 

Care. Plague on 'em then! if they won't 
drink, we '11 not sit down with them. 
Come, Harry, the dice are in tlie next 
room. — Charles, you '11 join us when you 
have finished your business with the 
gentlemen ? 

Chas. I will! I will! — (Exeunt Sir Harry 
Bumper and Gentlemen; Careless fol- 
lowing. ) Careless. 

Care. (Returning.) Well! 

Chas. Perhaps I may want you. 

Care. Oh, you know I am alwaj^s ready: 
word, note, or bond, 't is all the same 
to me. 

(Exit.) 

Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentle- 
man of the strictest honor and secrecy; 
and always performs what he under- 
takes. Mr. Premium, this is 

Chas. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend 
Moses is a very honest fellow, but a 
little slow at expression: he'll be an 
hour giving us our titles. Mr. Pre- 
mium, the plain state of the matter is 
this : I am an extravagant young fel- 
low who wants to borrow money; you 
I take to be a prudent old fellow, wlio 
have got money to lend. I am block- 
head enough to give fifty per cent, 
sooner than not have it! and you, I pre- 
sume, are rogue enough to take a hun- 
dred if you can get it. Now, sir, you 
see we are acquainted at once, and may 
proceed to business without further cere- 
mony. 

Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my 
word. I see, sir, you are not a man of 
many compliments. 

Chas. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in busi- 
ness I always think best. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for 
it. However, you are mistaken in one 
thing; I have no money to lend, but I 
believe I could procure some of a friend; 
but then he 's an unconscionable dog. 
Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock 
to accommodate you. Must n't he, 
Moses ! 

Mos. Yes, indeed! You know I always 
speak the truth, and scorn to tell a lie ! 

Chas. Right. People that speak truth 
generally do. But these are trifles, Mr. 
Premium. What ! I know money is n't 
to be bought without paying for 't ! 

Sir Oliv. Well, but what security could 
you give? You have no land, I sup- 
pose? 

Chas. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but 



694 



THE ErGHTEENTH CENTURY 



what 's in the bough-pots out of the 
window ! 

Sir Oliv. Nor any stock, I presume? 

Chas. Nothing but live stock — and that 's 
only a few pointers and ponies. But 
pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted 
. at all with any of my connections? 

Sir Oliv. Why, to say the truth, I am. 

Chas. Then you must know that I have a 
devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, 
Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have 
the greatest expectations? 

Sir Oliv. That you have a wealthy uncle, 
I have heard; but how your expectations 
will turn out is more, I believe, than you 
can tell. 

Chas. Oh, no! there can be no doubt. 
They tell me I 'm a prodigious favorite, 
and that he talks of leaving me every- 
thing. 

Sir Oliv. Indeed! this is the first I've 
heard of it. 

Chas. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses 
knows 'tis true; don't you, Moses? 

Mos. Oh, yes ! I '11 swear to 't. 

Sir Oliv. Egad, they '11 persuade me 
presently I 'm at Bengal. 
(Aside.) 

Chas. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if 
it 's agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir 
Oliver's life: though at the same time 
the old fellow has been so liberal to me, 
that I give you my word, I should be 
very sorry to hear that anything had 
happened to him. 

Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I as- 
sure you. But the bond you mention 
happens to be just the worst security 
you could offer me — for I might live to 
a hundred and never see the principal. 

Chas. Oh, yes, you would! the moment 
Sir Oliver dies, you know, you would 
come on me for the money. 

Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the 
most unwelcome dun you ever had in 
your life. 

Chas. What ! I suppose you 're afraid 
that Sir Oliver is too good a life? 

Sir Oliv. No, indeed I am not; though I 
have heard he is as hale and healthy as 
any man of his years in Christendom. 

Chas. There again, now, you are misin- 
formed. No, no, the climate has hurt 
him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. 
Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I 'm told — and 
is so much altered lately that his near- 
est relations would not know him. 

Sir Oliv. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much al- 



tered lately that his nearest relations 
would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! 
egad — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chas. Ha ! ha ! — you 're glad to hear that, 
little Premium? 

Sir Oliv. No, no, I 'm not. 

Chas. Yes, yes, you are — ha! ha! ha! — 
you know that mends your chance. 

Sir Oliv. But I 'm told Sir Oliver is com- 
ing over; nay, some say he is actually 
arrived. 

Chas. Psha! sure I must know better 
than you whether he 's come or not. 
No, no, rely on 't he 's at this moment 
at Calcutta. Isn't he, Moses? 

Mos. Oh, yes, certainly. 

Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must 
know better than I, though I have it 
from pretty good authority. Have n't 
I, Moses? 

If OS, Yes, most undoubted! 

Sir Oliv. But, sir, as I understand you 
want a few hundreds immediately, is 
there nothing you could dispose of? 

Chas. How do you mean? 

Sir Oliv. For instance, now, I have heard 
that your father left behind him a great 
quantity of massy old plate. 

Chas. Lud ! that 's gone long ago. 
Moses can tell you how better than I 
can. 

Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Good lack! all the 
family race-cups and corporation- 
bowls!^^ — (Aloud.) Then it was also 
supposed that his library was one of 
the most valuable and compact. 

Chas. Yes, yes, so it was — vastly too 
much so for a private gentleman. For 
my part, I was always of a communi- 
cative disposition, so I thought it a 
shame to keep so much knowledge to 
myself. 

Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Mercy upon me! 
learning that had run in the family like 
an heirloom! — (Aloud.) Pray, what 
has become of the books? 

Chas. You must inquire of the auctioneer, 
Master Premium, for I don't believe 
even Moses can direct you. 

Mos. I know nothing of books. 

Sir Oliv. So, so, nothing of the family 
property left, I suppose? 

Chas. Not mucli, indeed; unless you have 
a mind to the family pictures. I have 
got a room full of ancestors above : and 
if you have a taste for old paintings, 
egad, you shall have 'em a bargain ! 

Sir Oliv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you 



41 Cups or bowls received as prizes or presented by a city. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



695 



would n't sell your forefathers, would 

you? 
Chas. Every man of them, to the best 

bidder. 
Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and 

aunts ? 
Chas. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and 

grandmothers, too. 
Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Now I give him up! 

— (Aloud.) What the plague, have you 
no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's 
life! do you take me for Shyloek in the 
play, that you would raise money of me 
on your own flesh and blood? 

Chas. Nay, my little broker, don't be 
angry: what need you care, if you have 
your money's worth? 

Sir- Oliv. Well, I'll be the purchaser: I 
think I can dispose of the family canvas. 

— (Aside.) Oh, I'll never forgive him 
this ! never ! 

(Re-enter Careless.) 

Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you? 

Chas. I can't come yet. I' faith, we are 
going to liave a sale above stairs; here 's 
little Premium will buy all my ancestors ! 

Care. Oh, burn your ancestors ! 

Chas. No, he may do that afterwards, if 
he pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you : 
egad, you shall be auctioneer — so come 
along with us. 

Care. 0, have with you, if that 's the 
case. I can handle a hammer as well as 
a dice box ! Going ! going ! 

Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates! 
(Aside.) 

Chas. Come, Moses, you shall be ap- 
praiser, if we want one. Gad's life, lit- 
tle Premium, you don't seem to like the 
business ? 

Sir Oliv. Oh, yes, I do vastly! Ha! ha! 
ha ! yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell 
one's family by auction — ha ! ha ! — 
(Aside.) Oh, the prodigal ! 

Chas. To be sure! when a man wants 
money, where the plague should he get 
asistance if he can't make free with his 
own relations? 

(Exeunt.) 

Sir Oliv. I'll never forgive him; never! 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. A Picture Room in Charles 
Surface's House. 

(Enter Charles, Sir Oliver, Moses, and 
Careless.) 



Chas. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; 
— here they are, the family of the Sur- 
faces, up to the Conquest. 

Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly 
collection. 

Chas. Ay, ay, these are done in the true 
spirit of portrait-painting; no volontiere 
grace ^- or expression. Not like the 
works of your modern Raphaels, who 
give you the strongest resemblance, yet 
contrive to make your portrait independ- 
ent of you; so that you may sink the 
original and not hurt the picture. No, 
no; the merit of these is the inveterate 
likeness — all stiff and awkward as the 
originals, and like nothing in human na- 
ture besides. 

Sir Oliv. Ah! we shall never see such 
flgures of men again. 

Chas. I hope not. Well, you see. Master 
Premium, what a domestic character I 
am; here I sit of an evening surrounded 
by my family. But come, get to your 
pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old 
gouty chair of my grandfather's will 
answer the purpose. 

Care. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, 
I have n't a hammer ; and what 's an 
auctioneer without his hammer? 

Chas. Egad, that's true. What parch- 
ment have we here? Oh, our genealogy 
in full. (Taking pedigree down.) 
Here, Careless, you shall have no com- 
mon bit of mahogany, here 's the family 
tree for you, you rogue! This shall be 
your hammer, and now you may knock 
down my ancestors with their own pedi- 
gree. 

Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue ! — an 
ex post facto parricide! 
(Aside.) 

Care. Yes, yes, here 's a list of your gen- 
eration indeed; — faith, Charles, this is 
the most convenient thing you could have 
found for the business, for 'twill not 
only serve as a hammer, but a catalogue 
into the bargain. Come, begin — A-go- 
ing, a-going, a-going! 

Chas. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my 
great uncle, Sir Richard Ravelin, a mar- 
velous good general in his day, I assure 
you. He served in all the Duke of Marl- 
borough's wars, and got that cut over his 
eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What 
say you, Mr. Premium? look at him — 
there 's a hero ! not cut out of his feathers, 
as your modern clipped captains are, 
but enveloped in wig and regimentals. 



42 Free artistic grace. 



696 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



as a general should be. What do you 
bid? 
Sir Oliv. {Aside to Moses.) Bid him 

speak. 

Mos. Mr. Premium would have you speak. 

Chas. Why, then, he shall have him for 

ten pounds^ and I 'm sure that 's not dear 

for a staff-ofi&cer. 

Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Heaven deliver me! 

his famous uncle Richard for ten 

. pounds! — (Aloud.) Very well, sir, I 

take him at that. 
Chas. Careless, knock down my uncle 
Richard. — Here, now, is a maiden sister 
of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by 
Kneller,*^ in his best manner, and 
esteemed a very formidable likeness. 
There she is, you see, a shepherdess feed- 
ing her flock. You shall have her for 
five pounds ten — the sheep are worth the 
money. 
Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Ah! poor Deborah! a 
woman who set such a value on herself! 
— (Aloud.) Five pounds ten — she's 
mine. 
Chas. Knock down my aunt Deborah! 
Here, now, are two that were a sort of 
cousins of theirs. — You see, Moses, these 
pictures were done some time ago, when 
beaux wore wigs^ and the ladies their 
own hair. 
Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear 
to have been a little lower in those days. 
Chas. Well, take that couple for the 

same. 
Mos. 'T is a good bargain. 
Chas. Careless! — This now, is a grand- 
father of my mother's, a learned judge, 
well known on the western circuit. — 
What do you rate him at, Moses"? 
Mos. Four guineas. 

CJias. Four guineas! Gad's life, you 
don't bid me the price of his wig. — Mr. 
Premium, you have more respect for the 
woolsack ; ** do let us knock his lordship 
down at fifteen. 
Sir Oliv. By all means. 
Care. Gone ! 

Chas. And there are two brothers of his, 
William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, 
both members of Parliament, and noted 
speakers; and, what's very extraordi- 
nary, I believe, this is the first time they 
were ever bought or sold.*^ 
Sir Oliv. That is very extraordinary, in- 
deed ! I '11 take them at your own price, 
for the honor of Parliament. 



Ca7-e. Well said, little Premium ! I '11 
knock them down at forty. 

Chas. Here 's a jolly fellow — I don't know 
what relation, but he was mayor of Nor- 
Avich : take him at eight pounds. 

Sir Oliv. No, no; six will do for the 
mayor. 

Chas. Come, make it guineas, and I '11 
throw you the two aldermen here into the 
bargain. 

Sir Oliv. They 're mine. 

Chas. Careless, knock down the mayor 
and aldermen. But, plague on 't ! we 
shall be all day retailing in this manner; 
do let us deal wholesale : what say you, 
little Premium? Give me three hundred 
pounds for the rest of the family in tlie 
lump. 

Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. 

Sir Oliv. Well, "w^ell, anything to accom- 
modate you ; tliey are mine. But there is 
one portrait which you have always 
passed over. 

Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow 
over the settee? 

Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that; thougli 
I don't think him so ill-lookmg a little 
fellow, by any means. 

Chas. What, that? Oh ; that 's my uncle 
Oliver. 'T was done before he went to 
India. 

Care. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then 
you '11 never be friends, Charles. That, 
now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue 
as ever I saw; an unforgiving eye, and 
a damned disinheriting countenance! an 
inveterate knave, depend on 't. Don't 
you think so, little Premium? 

Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not; I 
think it is as honest a looking face as 
any in the room^ dead or alive. But I 
suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest 
of the lumber? 

Chas. No, hang it ! I '11 not part with poor 
Noll. The old fellow has been very good 
to me, and, egad, I '11 keep his picture 
while I 've a room to put it in. 

Sir Oliv. (Aside.) The rogue's my 
nephew after all! — (Aloud.) But, sir, 
I have somehow taken a fancy to that 
picture. 

Chas. I'm sorry f or 't, for you certainly 
will not have it. Oons, have n't you got 
enough of them? 

Sir Oliv. (Aside.) I forgive him every- 
thing! — (Aloud.) But, sir, when I take 
a whim in my head, I don't value money. 



43 A very popular 44 /. e., for the le- which, the Lord m the 
portrait - painter gal profession Chancellor, sits Lords) 

(1646-1723). (the head of on the woolsack 



House of 



45 /. e., of 
bribed. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



697 



I '11 give you as much for that as for all 
the rest. 

Chas. Don't tease me, master broker; I 
tell you I '11 not part with it, and there 's 
an end of it. 

Sir Oliv. {Aside.) How like his father 
the dog is. — {Aloud.) Well, well, I have 
done. — {Aside.) I did not perceive it 
before, but I think I never saw si;ch a 
striking resemblance. — {Aloud.) Here is 
a draught for your sum. 

Chas. Why, 't is for eight hundred 
pounds! 

Sir Oliv. You will not let .Sir Oliver go? 

Chas. Zounds ! no ! I tell you, once more. 

Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, 
we '11 balance that another time. But 
give me your hand on the bargain; j'ou 
are an honest fellow, Charles — I beg par- 
don, sir, for being so free. — Come, 
Moses. 

Chas. Egad, this is a whimsical old fel- 
low ! — But hark'ee, Premium, you '11 pre- 
pare lodgings for these gentlemen. 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I '11 send for tliem in 
^ a day or two. 

Chas. But, hold; do now send a genteel 
conveyance for them, for, I assure you, 
they were most of them used to ride in 
their own carriages. 

Sir Oliv. I will, I will — for all but Oliver. 

Chas. Ay, all but the little nabob. 

Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that? 

Chas. Peremptorily. 

Sir Oliv. {Aside.) A dear extravagant 
rogue! — {Aloud.) Good day! Come, 
Moses. — {Aside.) Let me hear now who 
dares call him profligate ! 

{Exit with Moses.) 

Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of 
the sort I ever met with! 

Chas. Egad, he 's the prince of brokers, I 
think. I wonder how the devil Moses got 
acquainted with so honest a fellow. — 
Ha ! here 's Rowley. — Do, Careless, say 
I '11 join the company in a few moments. 

Care. I will — but don't let that old block- 
head persuade you to squander any of 
that money on old musty debts, or any 
such nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, 
are the most exorbitant fellows. 

Chas. Very true, and paying them is only 
encouraging them. 

Care. Nothing else. 

Chas. Ay, ay, never fear. — {Exit Care- 
less.) So! this was an odd old fellow, 
indeed. Let me see, two-tliirds of these 
five hundred and thirty odd pounds are 

46 A pun, explained in an earlier note. 



mine by right. Fore Heaven! I find 
one's ancestors are more valuable rela- 
tions than I took them for! — Ladies and 
gentlemen, your most obedient and very 
grateful servant. 
{Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.) 

{Enter Rowley.) 

Ha ! old Rowley ! egad, you are just come 
in time to take leave of your old ac- 
quaintance. 

Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. 
But I wonder you can have such spirits 
under so many distresses. 

Chas. Why, there 's the point ! my dis- 
tresses ■**' are so many, that I can't afford 
to part with my spirits; but I shall be 
rich and splenetic,'*'' all in good time. 
However, I suppose you are surprised 
that I am not more sorrowful at parting 
with so many near relations; to be sure, 
't is very affecting ; but you see they 
never move a muscle, so why should I? 

Row. There 's no making you serious a 
moment. 

Chas. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my 
honest Rowley, here, get me this changed 
directly, and take a hundred pounds of it 
immediately to old Stanley. 

Roiv. A hundred pounds! Consider 
only 

Chas. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor 
Stanley's wants are pressing, and, if you 
don't make haste, we shall have some one 
call that has a better right to the money. 

Row. Ah ! there 's the point ! I never will 
cease dunning you with the old prov- 
erb 

Chas. Be just before you're generous. — 
Why, so I would if I could; but Justice 
is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't 
get her to keep pace with Generosity, for 
the soul of me. • 

Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's 
reflection 

Chas. Ay, ay, it 's very true; but, hark'ee, 
Rowley, while I have, by Heaven I '11 
give; so, damn your economy! and now 
for hazard.'*® 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. The Parlor. 

{Enter Sir Oliver and Moses.) 

Mos. Well sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, 
you have seen Mr. Charles in high glory 
— 't is great pity he 's so extravagant. 

47 irritable. 48 I. e., the dice. 



698 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Sir Oliv. True — but be would not sell my 
picture. 

Mos. And loves wine and women so 
mueb — 

Sir Oliv. But be would n't sell my picture. 

Mos. And game so deep — 

Sir Oliv. But be would n't sell my picture. 
0, bere 's Rowley ! 

{Enter Rowley.) 

L'ow. So, Sir Oliver. I find you bave 
made a purcbase 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has 
parted witb bis ancestors, like old ta- 
pestry — sold judges and generals by the 
foot, and maiden aunts as cbeap as 
broken ebina. 

Row. And bere has he commissioned me 
to re-deliver you part of the purchase- 
money — I mean, though, in your neces- 
sitous character of old Stanley. 

Mos. Ah! there is the pity of all! He is 
so damned charitable. 

Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors 
in the hall, who, I 'm sure, won't be paid, 
and this hundred would satisfy 'em. 

Sir Oliv. Well— well— I '11 pay his debts 
and his benevolences too — I '11 take care 
of old Stanley, myself. But now I am 
no more a broker, and you shall introduce 
me to the elder brother as Stanley. 

Roiv. Not yet a while; Sir Peter, I know, 
means to call there about this time. 

{Enter Trip.) 

Trip. 0, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not 
showing you out. This Avay; Moses, a 
word. 

{Exit Trip with Moses.) 

Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you! 
Would you believe it, that puppy inter- 
cepted the Jew, on our coming, and 
wanted to raise money before be got to 
his master! • 

Row. Indeed ! 

Sir Oliv. Yes; they are now planning an 
annuity business. Ah, Master Rowley, 
in my day servants were content witb the 
follies of their masters when they were 
worn a little threadbare, but now they 
bave their vices like their birthday 
clothes, with the gloss on. 
{Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. A Library. 

{Surface and Servant.) 

Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle? 

Serv. No, sir. 

Surf. I am surprised she has n't sent 



if she is prevented from coming! Sir 
Peter certainly does not suspect me, yet 
I wish I may not lose the heiress, through 
the scrape I bave drawn myself in witb 
the wife. However, Charles's impru- 
dence and bad character are great points 
in my favor. 

Serv. Sir, I believe that must be Lady 
Teazle— 

Surf. Hold! see whether it is or not be- 
fore 3^ou go to the door; I have a par- 
ticular message for you if it should be 
my brother. 

Serv. 'T is her ladyship, sir. She always 
leaves her chair at the milliner's in the 
next street. 

Surf. Stay, stay, draw that screen before 
the window — that will do; my opposite 
neighbor is a maiden lady of so curious 
a temper! — {Servant draws the screen 
and exit.) I have a difficult hand to 
play in this affair; Lady Teazle has 
lately suspected my views on Maria, but 
she must by no means be let into that 
secret, at least till I have her more in 
my power. 

{Enter Lady Teazle.) 

Lady Teaz. What! sentiment in solilo- 
quy; have you been very impatient now? 
Lud! don't pretend to look grave — I 
vow I could n't come before. 

Surf. madam, punctuality is a species 
of constancy, a very unfashionable qual- 
ity in a lady. 

Lady Teaz. Upon my word you ought to 
pity me; do you know Sir Peter is 
grown so ill-tempered to me of late; and 
so jealous! of Charles, too; — that's the 
best of the story, is n't it '? 

Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends 
keep that up. 

{Aside.) 

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would 
let Maria marry him, and then perhaps 
be would be convinced, — don't yovi, Mr. 
Surface? 

Surf. Indeed I do not. {Aside.) cer- 
tainly I do, for then my dear Lady 
Teazle would also be convinced bow 
wrong her suspicions were of my having 
any design on the silly girl. 

Lady Teaz. Well, well, I 'm inclined to 
believe you; besides I really never could 
perceive why she should have so many 
admirers. 

Surf. for her fortune — nothing else. 

Lady Teaz. I believe so, for tho' she is 
certainly very pretty, yet she has no 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



699 



conversation in the world, and is so 
grave and reserved that I declare I think 
she'd have made an excellent wife for 
Sir Peter. 

Surf. So she would. 

Lady Teaz. Then — one never hears her 
speak ill of anj'body — which you know 
is mighty dull. 

Surf. Yet she does n't want understand- 
ing. 

Lady Teaz. No more she does — yet one 
is always disappointed when one hears 
her speak. For though her eyes have 
no kind of meaning in them, she very 
seldom talks nonsense. 

Surf. Nay, nay, surely — she has very fine 
eyes. 

Lady Teaz. Why, so she has — tho' some- 
times one fancies there 's a little sort of 
a squint. 

Surf. A squint — fie, Lady Teazle. 

Lady Teaz. Yes, yes, I vow now — come, 
there is a left-handed Cupid in one eye 
— that 's the trutli on 't. 

"Surf. Well, his aim is very direct how- 
ever, — but Lady Sneerwell has quite cor- 
rupted you. 

Lady Teaz. No, indeed, I have not opin- 
ion enough of her to be taught by her, 
and I know that she has lately raised 
many scandalous hints of me ; which 
you know one always hears from one 
common friend or other. 

Surf. Why, to say truth, I believe you 
are not more obliged to her than others 
of her acquaintance. 

Lady Teaz. But is n't it provoking to 
hear the most ill-natured things said to 
one, and there 's my friend Lady Sneer- 
well has circulated I don't know how 
many scandalous tales of me, and all 
without any foundation, too ; that 's 
what vexes me. 

Surf. Aye, madam, to be sure that is the 
provoking circumstance — without foun- 
dation — yes, yes — there 's the mortifica- 
tion indeed — for when a slanderous 
story is believed against one, there cer- 
tainly is no comfort like the conscious- 
ness of having deserved it. 

Lady Teaz. No, to be sure; then I'd for- 
give their malice — but to attack me, who 
am really so innocent and who never say 
an ill-natured thing of anybody — that is, 
of any friend — ! and then Sir Peter too 
— to have him so peevish — and so suspi- 
cious — when I know the integrity of my 
own heart — indeed 't is monstrous. 

Surf. But, my dear Lady Teazle, 'tis 



your own fault if you suffer it — when a 
husband entertains a groundless suspi- 
cion of his wife and withdraws his con- 
fidence from her, the original compact 
is broke and she owes it to the honor of 
her sex to endeavor to outwit him. 

Lady Teaz. Indeed! So that if he sus- 
pects me without cause, it follows that 
the best way of curing his jealousy is to 
give him reason for 't. 

Surf. Undoubtedly, for your husband 
should never be deceived in you; and in 
that case it becomes you to be frail in 
compliment to his discernment. 

Lady Teaz. To be sure what you say is 
very reasonable, and when the con- 
sciousness of my own innocence 

Surf. Ah, my dear — madam, there is the 
great mistake — 't is this very conscious 
innocence that is of the greatest preju- 
dice to you. Wliat is it makes you negli- 
gent of forms and careless of the world's 
opinion? — why, the consciousness of 
your innocence. What makes you 
thoughtless in your conduct and apt to 
run into a thousand little imprudences? 
— why, the consciousness of your inno- 
cence. What makes you impatient of Sir 
Peter's temper, and outrageous at his 
suspicions? — why, the consciousness of 
your own innocence. 

Lady Teaz. 'T is very true. 

Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you 
but once make a trifling faux pas, you 
can't conceive how cautious you would 
grow, and how ready to humor and agree 
with your husband. 

Lady Teaz. Do you think so? 

Surf. 0, I 'm sure on 't ; and then you 'd 
find all scandal would cease at once, for 
in short your character at present is like 
a person in a plethoi-a, absolutely dying 
of too much health. 

Lady Teaz. So — so — then I perceive your 
prescription is that I must sin in my 
own defence, and part with my virtue to 
preserve my reputation. 

Surf. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am. 

Lady Teaz. Well, certainly this is the 
oddest doctrine, and the newest receipt 
for avoiding calumny. 

Surf. An infallible one, believe me — pru- 
dence like experience must be paid for. 

Lady Teaz. Why, if my understanding 
were once convinced 

Surf. Oh, certainly madam, your under- 
standing should be convinced — yes — yes 
— Heaven forbid I should persuade you 
to do anything you thought wrong — no — 



700 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



no — I have too much honor to desire it. 
Lady Teaz. Don't — you think we may as 

well leave honor out of the argument? 

{Rises.) 

Surf. Ah — the ill effects of your country 

education I see still remain with you. 
Lady Teaz. I doubt they do indeed — and 

I will fairly own to you, that if I could 

be persuaded to do wrong it would be by 

Sir Peter's ill-usage, sooner than your 

honorable logic, after all. 
Surf. Then by this hand, which he is 

unworthy of 

{Enter Servant.) 

'Sdeath, you blockhead, what do you 
want? 

Serv. I beg your pardon, sir, but I 
thought you would n't choose Sir Peter 
to come up without announcing him? 

Surf. Sir Peter — Oons — the devil ! 

Lady Teaz. Sir Peter ! O Lud ! I 'm 
ruined ! I 'm ruined ! 

Serv. Sir, 't was n't I let him in. 

Lady Teaz. 0, I 'm undone i what will be- 
come of me now, Mr. Logic ? — Oh ! 
mercy, he 's on the stairs — I '11 get be- 
hind here — and if ever I m so impru- 
dent again 

{Goes behind the screen.) 

Surf. Give me that— book! 

{Sits down — Servant pretends to adjust 
his hair.) 

{Enter Sir Peter.) 

Sir Pet. Aye — ever improving himself! — 
Mr, Surface — 

Surf. Oh ! my dear Sir Peter — I beg your 
pardon — {Gaping and throws away the 
book.) I have been dozing over a stupid 
book! well — I am much obliged to you 
for this call. You have n't been here, I 
believe, since I fitted up this room. 
Books you know are the only things I 
am a coxcomb in. 

Sir Pet. ■ 'T is very neat indeed ; well, well, 
that 's proper — and you make even your 
screen a source of knowledge — hung I 
perceive with maps — 

Surf. yes — I find great use in that 
screen. 

Sir Pet. I dare say you must ; certainly, 
when you want to find out anything in a 
hurry. 

Surf. Aye or to hide anything in a hurry 
either. 

Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private busi- 
ness — if we were alone — 

Surf. You need n't stay. 



Serv. No, sir. 

{Exit Servant.) 

Surf. Here 's a chair, Sir Peter, I beg 

Sir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is 
a subject, my dear friend, on which I 
wish to unburthen my mind to you — a 
point of the greatest moment to my 
peace; in short, my good friend — Lady 
Teazle's conduct of late has made me 
very unhappy. 

Surf. Indeed, I 'm very sorry to hear it. 

Sir Pet. Yes, 't is but too plain she has 
not the least regard for me, but what 's 
worse, I have pretty good authority to 
suspect that she must have formed an 
attachment to another. 

Surf. Indeed! you astonish me. 

Sir Pet. Yes — and between ourselves — I 
think I have discovered the person. 

Surf. How — you alarm me exceedingly ! 

Sir Pet. Ah ! my dear friend, I knew you 
would sympathize with me. 

Surf. Yes — believe me. Sir Peter — such a 
discovery would hurt me just as much as 
it would you — 

Sir Pet. I am convinced of it; ah, it is a 
happiness to have a friend whom one 
can trust even with one's family secrets. 
But have you no guess who I mean? 

Surf. I haven't the most distant idea; it 
can't be Sir Benjamin Backbite. 

Sir Pet. 0, no. What say you to 
Charles?. 

Surf. My brother — impossible! — no. 
Sir Peter, you must n't credit the scan- 
dalous insinuations you hear — no, no; — 
Charles to be sure has been charged with 
many things, but I can never think he 
would meditate so gross an injury. 

Sir Pet. Ah! my dear friend, the good- 
ness of your own heart misleads you — 
you judge of others by yourself. 

Surf. Certainly, Sir Peter, the heart that 
is conscious of its own integrity is ever 
slowest to credit another's treachery. 

Sir Pet. True — but your brother has no 
sentiment — you never hear him talk so. 

Surf. Well, there certainly is no know- 
ing what men are capable of — no — there 
is no knowing — yet I can't but think 
Lady Teazle herself has too much prin- 
ciple. 

Sir Pet. Aye, but what 's principle 
against the flattery of a handsome, lively 
young fellow? 

Surf. That 's very true. 

Sir Pet. And then you know the differ- 
ence of our ages makes it very improb- 
able that she should have any great af- 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



701 



fection for me; and if she were to be 
frail and I were to make it public — why, 
the town would only laugh at the fool- 
ish old bachelor, who had married a girl. 

Surf. That 's true ; to be sure people 
would laugh. 

Sir Pet. Laugh — aye, and make ballads 
and paragraphs and the devil knows 
what of me. 

Surf. No, you must never make it j)ublic. 

Sir Pet. But then again that the nei^hew 
of my old friend, Sir Oliver, should be 
the person to attempt such an injur}' — 
hurts me more nearly. 

Surf. LTndoubtedly ; when ingratitude 
barbs the dart of injuiy, the wound has 
double danger in it. 

Sir Pet. Aye, I that was in a manner left 
his guardian — in [whose] house he had 
been so often entertained — who never in 
my life denied him my advice — 

Surf. 0, 't is not to be credited. There 
may be a man capable of such baseness, 
to be sure — but for my part till you can 
give me positive proofs you must excuse 
me withholding my belief. However, if 
this should be proved on him, he is no 
longer a brotlier of mine, I disclaim kin- 
dred with him — for the man who can 
break thro' the laws of hospitality and 
attempt the wife of his friend deserves 
to be branded as the pest of society. 

Sir Pet. What a difference there is be- 
tween you ! what noble sentiments ! 

Surf. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's 
honor. 

Sir Pet. I 'm sure I wish to think well of 
her and to remove all ground of quarrel 
between us. She has lately reiDroached 
me more than once with having made no 
settlement on her, and, in our last quar- 
rel, she almost hinted that she should not 
break her heart if I was dead. Now as 
we seem to differ in our ideas of expense, 
I have resolved she shall be her own 
mistress in that respect for the future; 
and if I were to die, she shall find that I 
have not been inattentive to her interests 
while living. Here, my friend, are the 
draughts of two deeds which I wish to 
have your opinion on: by one she will 
enjoy eight hundred a year independent 
while I live, and by the other the bulk 
of my fortune after my death. 

Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed 
truly generous ! I wish it may not cor- 
rupt my pupil. 

{Aside.) 

Sir Pet. Yes, I am determined she shall 



have no cause to complain, tho' I would 
not have her acquainted with the latter 
instance of my affection yet awhile. 

Surf. Nor I — if I could help it. 

Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you 
please, we will talk over the situation of 
your hopes with Maria. 

Surf. No, no, Sir Peter, — another time if 
you please — 

{Softly.) 

Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the 
little progress you seem to make in her 
affection. 

Surf. I beg you will not mention it. 
What are my disappointments when 
your happiness is in debate. {Softly.) 
'Sdeath, I shall be ruined every way. 

Sir Pet. And tho' you are so averse to 
my acquainting Lady Teazle with your 
passion, I am sure she 's not your enemy 
in the affair. 

Surf. Pray, Sir Peter, now oblige me. I 
am really too much affected by the sub- 
ject we have been speaking of to bestow 
a thought on my own concerns. The 
man who is entrusted with his friend's 
distresses can never 

{Enter Servant.) 

Well, sir? 

Serv. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a 
gentleman in the street, and says he 
knows you 're within. 

Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I 'm not within, 
— I 'm out for the day. 

Sir Pet. Stay — hold — a thought has 
struck me; you shall be at home. 

Surf. Well — well — let him up. — {Exit 
Serv.) He'll interrupt Sir Peter, how- 
ever. 

{Aside.) 

Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me, 
I intreat you; before Charles comes let 
me conceal myself somewhere; then do 
you tax him on the point we have been 
talking on, and his answers may satisfy 
me at once. 

Surf. 0, fie, Sir Peter, would you have 
me join in so mean a trick? to trepan 
my brother too? 

Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure 
he is innocent; — if so, you do him the 
greatest service in giving him an op- 
portunity to clear himself, and you will 
set my heart at rest. Come, you shall 
not refuse me — here behind this screen 
will be — hey! what the devil — there 
seems to be one listener here already; — 
I 'U swear I saw a petticoat. — 



702 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Surf. Ha! ha! ha! Well, this is ridicu- 
lous enoueh ! I '11 tell you, Sir Peter- — 
though I hold a man of intrigue 'to be a 
most despicable character, yet you know 
it does n't follow that a man is to be an 
absolute Joseph*^ either; — harkee, 'tis 
a little French milliner — a silly rogue 
that plagues me — and having some char- 
acter, on your coming she ran behind 
the screen. 

Sir Pet. Ah, a rogue — but 'egad she has 
overheard all I have been saying of my 
wife. 

Surf. 't will never go any farther, you 
may depend on 't. 

Sir Pet. No! — then i' faith, let her hear 
it out. — Here 's a closet will do as well. 

Surf. Well, go in there. 

Sir Pet. Sly rogue — sly rogue. 

Surf. Gad 's my life, what an escape ! and 
a curious situation I 'm in ! — to part 
man and wife in this manner. 

Lady Teaz. {Peeps out.) Couldn't I 
steal off? 

Surf. Keep close, my angel! 

Sir Pet. {Peeping out.) Joseph, tax him 
home. 

Surf. Back — my dear friend. 

Lady Teaz. {Peeping out.) Couldn't 
you lock Sir Peter in ? — 

Surf. Be still — my life! 

Sir Pet. {Peeping.) You're sure the lit- 
tle milliner w^on't blab? 

Surf. In! in! my good Sir Peter — Tore 
Gad, I wish I had a key to the door. 

{Enter Charles.) 

Chas. Hollo! brother — what has been the 
matter? your fellow wouldn't let me up 
at first — What! have you had a Jew or 
a wench with you? 

Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you. 

Clias. But — what has made Sir Peter steal 
off? I thought he had been with you — 

Surf. He was, brother, but hearing you 
were coming he did n't choose to stay. 

Chas. What! was the old gentleman 
afraid I wanted to borrow money of 
him? 

Surf. No, sir, but I am sorry to find, 
Charles, you have lately given that 
woi'thy man grounds for great uneasi- 
ness. 

Chas. Yes, they tell me I do that to a 
great many worthy men; — but how so, 
pray? 

Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he 



thinks you are endeavoring to gain Lady 
Teazle's affections from him. 

Chas. Who, I?— Lud! not I, upon my 
Avord. — Ha! ha! ha! so the old fellow 
has found out that he has got a young 
wife, has he? or what's worse she has 
discovered that she has an old husband? 

Surf. This is no subject to jest on, 
brother. He who can laugh 

Chas. True, true, as you Avere going to 
say — then seriously I never had the least 
idea of what you charge me with, upon 
my honor. 

Surf. AVell, it will give Sir Peter great 
satisfaction to hear this. 

Chas. {Aloud.) To be sure, I once 
thought the lady seemed to have taken 
a fancy — but upon my soul I never gave 
her the least encouragement. — Besides 
you know my attachment to Maria — 

Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady 
Teazle had betrayed the fondest parti- 
ality for you 

Chas. Why — look'ee, Joseph — I hope I 
shall never deliberately do a dishonor- 
able action ; but if a pretty woman was 
purposely to throw herself in my way — 
and that pretty woman married to a 
man old enough to be her father 

Surf. Well? 

Chas. Why I believe I should be obliged 
to borrow a little of your morality, 
that 's all. But, brother, do you know 
now that you surprise me exceeding [ly] 
by naming me with Lady Teazle — for 
faith I always understood you were her 
favorite — 

Surf. for shame! Charles. This retort 
is foolish. 

Chas. Nay, I swear I have seen you ex- 
change such significant glances 

Surf. Nay — nay — sir — this is no jest — 

Chas. Egad, I 'm serious. Don't you re- 
member one day, when I called 
here ? 

Surf. Nay — prithee — Charles — 

Chas. And found you together 

Surf. Zounds, sir, I insist 

Chas. And another time when your serv- 
ant 

Surf. Brother, brother, a word with you 
— Gad, I must stop him — 
{Aside.) 

Chas. Informed me that 

Surf. Hush! — I beg your pardon, but Sir 
Peter has overheard all we have been 
saying; I knew you would clear your- 
self, or I should n't have consented — 



49 7. e., a model of virture (Genesis, xxxix). 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



703 



Chas. How? Sir Peter?— Where is he? 
Surf. Softly, there! 

[Points to the closet.) 
Chas. In the closet! 'fore Heaven, I '11 

have him out ! — Sir Peter, come forth ! 

Surf. No — no 

Chas. I say. Sir Peter — come into court. 

(Pulls in Sir Peter.) What — my old 

guardian — what! turn inquisitor and 

take evidence incog.! — 
Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles; I 

believe I have suspected you wrongfully; 

but you must n't be angry with Joseph — 

't was my plan — • 
Chas. Indeed! 
Sir Pet. But I acquit you; I promise you 

I don't tliink near so ill of you as I did. 

What I liave heard has given me great 

satisfaction. 
Chas. Egad, then 't was lucky you did n't 

hear any more, was n't it, Joseph ? 
Sir Pet. Ah! you would have retorted on 

him. 
Chas. Aye — aye — that was a joke. 
Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honor too 

well. 
Chas. Yet you might as well have sus- 
pected him as me in this matter, for all 

that, mightn't he, Joseph? 
Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you. 
Surf. Would they were both out of the 

room! 

(Enter Servant, whispers Surface.) 

Sir Pet. And in future perhaps we may 
not be such strangers. 

Surf. Gentlemen — I beg pardon — I must 
wait on you downstairs, — here is a per- 
son come on particular business 

Chas. Well, you can see him in another 
room ; Sir Peter and I have n't met a 
long time and I have something to say 
to him. 

Surf. They must not be left together. — 
I '11 send this man away and return di- 
rectly — 

(Surface goes out.) 

Sir Pet. Ah, Charles, if you associated 
more with your brother, one might in- 
deed hope for your reformation. He is 
a man of sentiment. Well! there is 
nothing in the world so noble as a man 
of sentiment ! 

Chas. Pshaw! he is too moral by half, 
and so apprehensive of his good name, 
as he calls it, that I suppose he would as 
soon let a priest in his house as a girl. 

Sir Pet. No, no, come, come, you wrong 
him. No, no, Joseph is no rake but he 



coming — you 



is no such saint in that respect either. — 
I have a great mind to tell him — we 
should have such a laugh ! (Aside. ) 

Clias. Oh, hang him! He's a very an- 
chorite — a young hermit. 

Sir Pet. Harkee, you must not abuse him, 
he may chance to hear of it again, I 
promise you. 

Chas. Why, you won't tell him? 

Sir Pet. No— but— this way.— Egad, I'll 
tell him. — Harkee, have you a mind to 
have a good laugh against Joseph? 

Chas. I should like it of all things. 

Sir Pet. Then, i'faith, we will— I '11 be 
quit with him for discovering me. — He 
had a girl with him when I called. 
(Whispers.) 

Chas. What! Joseph! you jest. 

Sir Pet. Hush! — a little French milliner 
— and the best of the jest is — she 's in 
the room now. • 

Chas. The devil she is! 

Sir Pet. Hush! I tell you. 
(Points.) 

Chas. Behind the screen! Odds life, let 's 
unveil her! 

Sir Pet. No — no ! he 's 
shan't indeed! 

Chas. Oh, egad, we '11 have a peep at the 
.little milliner! 

Sir Pet. Not for the world — Joseph will 
never forgive me. 

Chas. I '11 stand by you 

Sir Pet. Odds life ! Here he 's coming — 

(Surface enters just as Charles throws 

down the screen.) 

(Re-enter Joseph Surface.) 

Chas. Lady Teazle ! by all that 's wonder- 
ful! 

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle ! by all that 's hor- 
rible ! 

Chas. Sir Peter, this is one of the smart- 
est French milliners I ever saw! — Egad, 
you seem all to have been diverting 
yourselves here at hide and seek — and I 
don't see who is out of the secret ! — Shall 
I beg your ladyship to inform me? — Not 
a word! — Brother! — will you please to 
explain this matter? What! is Honesty 
dumb too? — Sir Peter, though I found 
you in the dark — perhaps you are not so 
now — all mute? Well tho' I can make 
nothing of the affair, I make no doubt 
but you perfectly understand one an- 
other, — so I '11 leave you to yourselves. — 
(Going.) Brother, I'm sorry to find 
you have given that worthy man grounds 
for so much uneasiness ! — Sir Peter — 



704 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



there 's nothing in the world so noble as 
a man of sentiment ! — 
{Stand for some time looking at one an- 
other. Exit Charles.) 
Surf. Sir Peter — notwithstanding I con- 
fess that appearances are against me, if 
you will afford me your patience, I make 
no doubt but I sliall explain everything 
to your satisfaction. 
Sir Pet. If you please — sir — 
Surf. The fact is, sir — that Lady Teazle 
knowing my pretensions to your ward 
Maria — I say, sir, Lady Teazle — being 
apprehensive of the jealousy of your 
temper — and knowing my friendship to 
the family, — she, sir — I say called here 
— in order that I might explain those 
pretensions — but on your coming being 
apprehensive — as I said, of your jeal- 
ousy — she withdrew — and this, you may 
depend on 't, is the whole truth of the 
matter. 
Sir Pet. A very clear account, [upon] my 
word; and I dare swear the lady will 
vouch for every article of it. 
Lady Teaz. For not one word of it, Sir 

Peter. 
Sir Pet. How! don't you think it worth 

while to agree in the lie? 
Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of 
truth in what that gentleman has told 
you. 
Sir Pet. 1 believe you upon my soul, 

ma'am. 
Surf. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray 
me! 

(Aside.) 
Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your 

leave I will speak for myself. 
Sir Pet. Aye, let her alone, sir — you '11 
find she '11 make out a better story than 
you without prompting. 
Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter. I came 
hither on no matter relating to your 
ward and even ignorant of this gentle- 
man's pretensions to her; but I came — 
seduced by his insidious arguments and 
pretended passion — at least to listen to 
his dishonorable love if not to sacrifice 
your honor to his baseness. 
Sir Pet. Now, I believe, the truth is com- 
ing, indeed. 
Surf. The woman 's mad — 
Lady Teaz. No, sir, she has recovered her 
senses. Your own arts have furnished 
her with the means. Sir Peter — I do 
not expect you to credit me — but the 
tenderness you expressed for me, when 



I am sure you could not think I was a 
witness to it, has penetrated so to my 
heart that had I left the place without 
the shame of this discovery, my future 
life should have spoken the sincerity of 
my gratitude; — as for that smooth- 
tongued hypocrite, who would have se- 
duced the wife of his too credulous 
friend while he pretended honorable ad- 
dresses to his ward, I behold him now in 
a light so truly despicable that I shall 
never again respect myself for having 
listened to him. 

{Exit.) 

Surf. Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter 
— Heaven knows — 

Sir Pet. That you are a villain! — and so 
I leave you to your conscience. 

Surf. You are too rash. Sir Peter — you 
shall hear me. — The man who shuts out 
conviction by refusing to 

{Exeunt, Surface following and speaking.) 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. The Library. 
{Enter Surface, Servant.) 

Surf. Mr. Stanley! and why should you 
think I would see him? — you must know 
he came to ask something ! 

Serv. Sir, I should n't have let him in 
but that Mr. Rowley came to the door 
with him. 

Surf. Pshaw! — Blockhead to suppose 
that I should now be in a temper to re- 
ceive visits from poor relations ! — well, 
why don't you show the fellow up? 

Serv. I will, sir! why, sir, it was not 
my fault that Sir Peter discovered my 
lady 

Surf. Go, fool! {Exit Serv.) Sure 
Fortune never play a man of my policy 
such a trick before — my character with 
Sir Peter! — my hopes with Maria! — ■ 
destroyed in a moment ! I 'm in a rare 
humor to listen to other people's dis- 
tresses! I shan't be able to bestow even 
a benevolent sentiment on Stanley. — So! 
here he comes and Rowley with him — I 
must try to recover myself, and put a 
little charity into my face however. 
{Exit.) 

{Enter Sir Oliver and Rowley.) 
Sir Oliv. What! does he avoid us? that 
was he, was it not? 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



705 



Row. It was, sir, but I doubt you are 
come a little too abruptly — his nerves 
are so weak that the sight of a poor re- 
lation may be too much for him — I 
should have gone first to break you to 
him. 

Sir Oliv. A plague of his nerves! yet this 
is he whom Sir Peter extols as a man of 
the most benevolent way of thinking ! 

Bow. As to his waj' of thinking — I can't 
pretend to decide, for> to do him justice, 
he appears to have as much speculative 
benevolence as any private gentleman 
in the kingdom ; though he is seldom so 
sensual as to indulge himself in the ex- 
ercise of it. 

Sir Oliv. Yet he has a string of charitable 
sentiments, I suppose, at his fingers' 
ends! 

Row. Or rather at his tongue's end, Sir 
Oliver; for I believe there is no senti- 
ment he has more faith in than that 
"charity begins at home." 

Sir Oliv. And his I presume is of that 
domestic sort which never stirs abroad 
at all. 

Row. I doubt you 'U find it so — but he 's 
coming — I must n't seem to interrupt 
you ; and you know immediately, as you 
leave him, I come in to announce your 
arrival in your real cliaracter. 

Sir Oliv. True, and afterwards you '11 
meet me at Sir Peter's — 

Row. Without losing a moment. 
{Exit.) 

Sir Oliv. So — I see he has premeditated 
a denial by the complaisance of his fea- 
tures. 

{Enter Surface.) 

Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand par- 
dons for keeping you a moment waiting 
— Mr. Stanley — I presume — 

Sir Oliv. At your service. 

Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honor 
to sit down — I entreat you, sir. 

Sir Oliv. Dear sir, there 's no occasion — 
too civil by half! 

Surf. I have not the pleasure of know- 
ing you, Mr. Stanley, but I am extremely 
happy to see you look so well; you were 
nearly related to my mother, I think, Mr. 
Stanley. 

Sir Oliv. I was, sir, so nearly that my 
present poverty, I fear, may do discredit 
to her wealthy children, else I should not 
have presumed to trouble you. 

Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology; 



he that is in distress, tho' a stranger, has 
a right to claim kindred with the 
wealthy. I am sure I wish I was of that 
class, and had it in my power to offer 
you even a small relief. 

Sir Oliv. If your uncle. Sir Oliver, were 
here, I should have a friend 

Surf. I wish he was, sir, with all my 
heart — you should not want an advocate 
with him, believe me, sir. 

Sir Oliv. I should not need one — my dis- 
tresses would recommend me. But I 
imagined his bounty had enabled you to 
become the agent of his charity. 

Surf. My dear sir, you are strangely mis- 
informed. Sir Oliver is a worthy man, 
a worthy man — a very worthy sort of 
man; but avarice, Mr. Stanley, is the 
vice of age — I will tell you, my good 
sir, in confidence : — what he has done 
for me has been a mere — nothing; tho' 
people, I know, have thought otherwise, 
and for my part I never chose to con- 
tradict the report. 

Sir Oliv. What! — has he never trans- 
mitted you bullion — rupees — pagodas "Z^*^ 

Surf. dear sir, nothing of the kind! 
no, no— a few presents noAV and then — 
china, shawls, congo tea, avadavats, and 
Indian crackers,^^ little more, believe me. 

Sir Oliv. Here 's gratitude for twelve 
tliousand pounds! — avadavats and In- 
dian crackers ! 

Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, 
I doubt not, of the extravagance of my 
brother. Sir, there are very few would 
credit what I have done for that unfor- 
tunate young man. 

Sir Oliv. Not I for one! 

Surf. The sums I have lent him! Indeed, 
I have been exceedingly to blame — it was 
an amiable weakness ! however, I don't 
pretend to defend it; and now I feel it 
doubly culpable, since it has deprived 
me of the power of serving you, Mr. 
Stanley, as my heart directs. 

Sir Oliv. Dissembler! — Then, sir, you 
cannot assist me? 

Surf. At present it grieves me to say I 
cannot — but whenever I have the ability, 
you may depend upon hearing from me. 

Sir Oliv. I am extremely sorry 

Surf. Not more tlian I am, believe me ; to 
pity without the power to relieve is still 
more painful than to ask and be de- 
nied. 

Sir Oliv. Kind sir, your most obedient, 
humble servant. 



50 East Indian coins (worth 7— 8s.). 

51 The last three mean respectively a blac-k tea from China, small Indian songbirds, and fancy 
fire-crackers. 



706 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. 

Stanley; William, be ready to open the 

door. 

Sir Oliv. 0, dear sir, no ceremony 

Surf. Your very obedient 

Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious- 



Surf. You may depend on hearing from 

me whenever I can be of service 

Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good- 



Surf. In the mean time I wish you health 
and spirits 

Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and per- 
petual humble servant 

Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely 

Sir Oliv. Charles! — you are my heir. 
(Exit.) 
(Surface, solus.) 

Soh! — This is one bad effect of a good 
character — it invites applications from 
the unfortunate and there needs no small 
degree of address to gain the reputation 
of benevolence without incurring the ex- 
pense. The silver ore of pure charity 
is an expensive article in tiie catalogue 
of a man's good qualities, whereas tlie 
sentimental French plate I vise instead 
of it makes just as good a show, and 
pays no tax. 

(Enter Bowlcy.) 

Row. Mr. Surface, your servant. I was 
apprehensive of interrupting you, 
though my business demands immediate 
attention, as this note will inform you. 

Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley. 
How — Oliver — Surface ! — My uncle ar- 
rived! 

Row. He is indeed — we have just parted 
— quite well — after a speedy voyage — 
and impatient to embrace his worthy 
nephew. 

Surf. I am astonished! — William! stop 
Mr. Stanley, if he 's not gone. 

Row. — he's out of reach, I believe. 

Surf. Why did n't you let me know this 
when you came in together? 

Row. I thought you had particular — 
business ; but I must be gone to inform 
your brother, and appoint him here to 
meet his uncle. He will be with you in 
a quarter of an hour. 

Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely 
overjoyed at his coming! — Never to be 
sure was anything so damned unlucky ! 

Row. You will be delighted to see how 
well he looks. 

Surf. O, I 'm rejoiced to hear it — just at 
this time- 



Row. I '11 tell him how impatiently you 
expect him. 

Surf. Do — do — pray — give my best duty 
and affection — indeed, I cannot express 
tlie sensations I feel at the thought of 
seeing him ! — certainly his coming just 
at this time is the cruellest piece of ill 

fortune 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. At Sir Peter's House. 
(Enter Mrs. Candour and Servant.) 

Serv. Indeed, ma'am, my Lady will see 
nobody at present. 

Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her 
friend, Mrs. Candour? 

Serv. Yes, ma'am, but she begs you will 
excuse her. 

3Irs. Can. Do go again — I shall be glad 
to see her if it be only for a moment, for 
I am sure she must Iw in great distress. 
(Exit Maid.) — Dear heart, how provok- 
ing ! — I 'm not mistress of half the cir- 
cumstances ! — We shall have the whole 
affair in the newspapers with the names 
of the parties at length before I have 
dropt the story at a dozen houses. 

(Enter Sir Benjamin.) 

Sir Benjamin, you have heard, I sup- 
pose 

Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Sur- 
face 



Mrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery 

Sir Ben. the strangest piece of busi- 
ness to be sure 

Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised 

in my life ! — I am so sorry for all parties 

— indeed. 
Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at 

all; he was so extravagant — partial to 

Mr. Surface 

Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface ! — why, 't was 

with Charles Lady Teazle was detected. 
Sir Ben. No such thing! Mr. Surface is 

the gallant. 
Mrs. Can. No, no, Charles is tlie man; 

't was Mr. Surface brought Sir Peter on 

purpose to discover them. 

Sir Ben. I tell you I have it from one 

3Irs. Can. And I have it from one 

Sir Ben. Who had it from one who had 

it 

Mrs. Can. From one immediately — but 

here comes Lady Sneerwell — perhaps 

she knows the whole affair. 

(Enter Lady Sneerwell.) 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



707 



Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, 
here 's a sad affair of our friend Teazle. 

Mrs. Can. Aye, my dear friend, who 
could have thought it? 

Lady Sneer. Wellj there is no trusting to 
appearances; though, indeed, she was al- 
ways too lively for me. 

Mrs. Can. To he sure, her manners were 
a little too free — but she was very 
young 

Lady Sneer. And had indeed some good 
qualities. 

Mrs. Can. So she had indeed — but have 
you heard the particulars? 

Lady Sneer. No, but everybody says that 
Mr. Surface 1 

Sir Ben. Aye, there I told you — Mr. Sur- 
face was the man. 

Mrs. Can. No, no, indeed the assignation 
was with Charles 

Lady Sneer. With Charles ! — You alarm 
me, Mrs. Candour! 

Mrs. Can. Yes, yes, he was the lover; 
Mr. Surface — do him justice — was only 
the informer. 

Sir Ben. Well, I '11 not dispute with you, 
Mrs. Candour — but be it which it may, 
I hope that Sir Peter's wound will 
not 

Mrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound! mercy! 
I did n't hear a word of their fight- 
ing 

Lady Sneer. Nor I a syllable! 

Sir Ben. No ! what, no mention of the 
duel? 

Mrs. Can. Not a word — 

Sir Ben. 0, Lord, yes, yes, they fought 
before they left the room. 

Lady Sneer. Pray, let us hear. 

Mrs. Can. Aye — do oblige us with the 
duel 

Sir Ben. "Sir," says Sir Peter, immedi- 
ately after the discovery, "you are a 
most ungrateful fellow." 

Mrs. Can. Aye to Charles 

Sir Ben. No, no — to Mr. Surface — "a 
most ungrateful fellow; and old as I am, 
sir," says he, "I insist on immediate 
satisfaction." 

Mrs. Can. Aye, that must have been to 
Charles, for 't is very unlikely Mr. 
Surface should go to fight in his own 
house. 

Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all — ■ 
"giving me immediate satisfaction" — on 
this, madam — Lady Teazle seeing Sir 
Peter in such danger — ran out of the 



room in strong hysterics — and Charles 
after her calling out for hartshorn and 
water! Then, madam, they began to 
fight with swords 

{Enter Crahtree.) 

Crab. With pistols, nephew, I have it 
from undoubted autliority. 

Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all 
true 

Crab. Too true indeed, ma'am, and Sir 
Peter dangerously wounded 

Sir Ben. By a thrust in second ^- — quite 
through his left side. 

Crab. By a bullet lodged in the 
thorax 

Mrs. Can. Mercy on me! Poor Sir 
Peter 

Crab. Yes, ma'am, tho' Charles would 
have avoided the matter if he could 

Mrs. Can. I knew Charles was the per- 
son 

Sir Ben. my uncle, I see, knows noth- 
ing of the matter 

Crab. But Sir Peter taxed him with the 
basest ingratitude 

Sir Ben. That I told you, you know 

Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak — and in- 
sisted on immediate 

Sir Ben. Just as I said 

Crab. Odd's life! Nephew, allow others 
to know something too — A pair of pis- 
tols lay on the bureau — for Mr. Surface, 
it seems, had come home the night be- 
fore late from Salt-Hill where he had 
been to see the Montem ^^ with a friend, 
who has a son at Eton — so unluckily the 
pistols were left charged • 

Sir Ben. I heard nothing of this 

Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take 
one and they fired — it seems pretty 
nearly together — Charles's shot took 
place as I tell you, and Sir Peter's 
missed — but what is very extraordinary 
the ball struck against a little bronze 
Pliny that stood over the fire place — 
grazed out of the window at a right 
angle — and wounded the postman, who 
was ji;st coming to the door with a 
double letter from Northamptonshire. 

Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more cir- 
cumstantial, I must confess, — but I be- 
lieve mine is the true one for all that. 

Lady Sneer. I am more interested in this 
affair than they imagine — and must have 
better information. — 
{Exit.) 



: A position 
fencing. 



53 A festival for- 
merly held at 



Eton College, in 
which the schol- 



ars marched to a 
mound {ad mon- 



tem), called Salt 
Hill, near Slough. 



708 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



Sir Ben. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is 

very easily accounted for. 
Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say — 

but that 's neither here nor there. 
Mrs. Can. But pray, where is Sir Peter 

at present? 
Crab. Oh! they brought him home and 

he is now in the house, tho' the servants 

are ordered to deny it. 
Mrs. Can. I believe so — and Lady Teazle, 

I suppose, attending him. 
Crab. Yes, yes, and I saw one of the 

faculty °* enter just before me. 
Sir Ben. Hey, wlio comes here? 
Crab. Oh, this is he, the physician, de- 
pend on 't. 
Mrs. Can. certainly, it must be the 

physician, and now we shall know 

{Enter Sir Oliver.) 

Crab. Well, Doctor, what hopes'? 
Mrs. Can. Aye, Doctor, how 's your pa- 
tient? 
Sir Ben. Now, Doctor, is n't it a wound 

with a small sword 

Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax — for 

a hundred ! 
Sir Oliv. Doctor! — a wound with a small 

sword! and a bullet in the thorax! — 

Oons! are you mad, good people? 
Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a 

doctor. 
Sir Oliv. Truly, sir, I am to thank you 

for my degree if I am. 
Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter's, then, 

I presume ; but, sir, you must have heard 

of his accident. 
Sir Oliv. Not a word! 
Crab. Not of his being dangerously 

wounded? 
Sir Oliv. The devil he is! 

Sir Ben. Run thro' the body 

Crab. Shot in the breast 



Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface 

Crab. Aye, the younger. 

Sir Oliv. Hey! wliat the plague! you 
seem to differ strangely in your ac- 
counts; however, you agree that Sir 
Peter is dangerously wounded. 

Sir Ben. Oh yes, we agree in that. 

Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no 
doubt in that. 

Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a 
person in that situation, he is the most 
imprudent man alive, for here he comes 
walking as if nothing at all was the 
matter. 



{Enter Sir Peter.) 



Odd's heart. Sir Peter! you are come in 
good tune I promise you, for we had 
just given you over! 

Sir Ben. 'Egad, uncle, this is the most 
sudden recovery! 

Sir Oliv. Why, man, what do you do out 
of bed with a small sword through your 
body, and a bullet lodged in your 
thorax ? 

Sir Pet. A small sword and a bullet — 

Sir Oliv. Aye, these gentlemen would 
have killed you without law or physic, 
and wanted to dub me a doctor to make 
me an accomplice. 

Sir Pet. Why! what is all this? 

Sir Ben. We rejoice. Sir Peter, that the 
story of the duel is not true — and are 
sincerely sorry for your other misfor- 
tune. 

Sir Pet. So, so, — all over the town al- 
ready ! 

{Aside.) 

Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were cer- 
tainly vastly to blame to marry at all at 
your years. 

Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of 
yours ? 

Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as Sir Peter 
made so good a husband, he 's very much 
to be pitied. 

Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am, I 
desire none of it. ' 

Sir Ben. However, Sir Peter, you must 
not mind the laughing and jests you will 
meet with on the occasion. 

Sir Pet. Sir, I desire to be master in my 
own house. 

Crab. 'T is no uncommon case, that 's one 
comfort. 

Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself, 
without ceremony, — I insist on your 
leaving my house directly ! 

Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going and 
depend on 't, we '11 make the best report 
of you we can. 

Sir Pet. Leave my house! 

Crab. And tell how hardly you have been 
treated. 

Sir Pet. Leave my house — 

Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it. 

Sir Pet. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh 
that their own venom would choke them ! 

Sir Oliver. They are very provoking in- 
deed. Sir Peter. 

{Enter Rowley.) 

Row. I heard high words: what has ruf- 
fled you. Sir Peter. 



54 /. e., of the medical profession. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



709 



Sir Pet. Pshaw! what signifies asking — 
do I ever pass a day without my vexa- 
tions? 
Sir Oliv. Well, I 'm not inquisitive — I 
come only to tell you that I have seen 
both my nephews in the manner we pro- 
posed. 

Sir Pet. A precious couple they are ! 
Bow. Yes, and Sir Oliver is convinced 
that your judgment was riglit, Sir Peter. 

Sir Oliv. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed 
the man after all. 

Eow. Aye, as Sir Peter says, he 's a man 
of sentiment. 

Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments 
he professes. 

Eoiv. It certainly is edification to hear 
him talk. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, he 's a model for the young 
men of his age ! But how 's this. Sir 
Peter? you don't join us in your friend 
Joseph's praise as I expected. 

Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned 
wicked world, and the fewer we praise 
the better. 

Roto. What, do you say so. Sir Peter, who 
were never mistaken in your life? 

Sir Pet. Pshaw ! Plague on you both — I 
see by your sneering you have heard the 
whole affair — I shall go mad among you ! 

Row. Then to fret you no longer, Sir 
Peter, we are indeed acquainted Avith it 
all. I met Lady Teazle coming from 
Mr. Surface's so humbled that she 
deigned to request me to be her advocate 
with you. 

Sir Pet. And does Sir Oliver know all too ? 

Sir Oliv. Every circumstance! 

Sir Pet. What of the closet and the 
screen — hey ? 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes — and the little French 
milliner. Oh, I have been vastly di- 
verted with the sk)ry ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. 'T was very pleasant ! 

Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my 
life, I assure you ; ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. O vastly diverting ! Ha ! ha ! 

Row. To be sure, Joseph with his senti- 
ments I ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, his sentiments! ha! ha! a 
hypocritical villain ! 

Sir Oliv. Aye, and that rogue Charles — 
to pull Sir Peter out of the closet, 
ha! ha! 

Sir Pet. Ha ! ha ! 't was devilish enter- 
taining, to be sure. 

Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter, I 
should like to have seen your face when 
the screen was thrown down — ha! ha! 



Sir Pet. Yes, my face when the screen 
was tlirown down: ha! ha! ha! 0, I 
must never show my head again ! 

Sir Oliv. But come, come, it isn't fair to 
laugh at you neither, my old friend, tho' 
upon my soul I can't help it — 

Sir Pet. pray, don't restrain your 
mirth on my account: it does not hurt 
me at all — I laugh at the whole affair 
myself. — Yes — yes — I think being a 
standing jest for all one's acquaintance 
a very happy situation — yes — and 
then of a morning to read the para- 
graphs about Mr. S , Lady T , 

and Sir P , will be so entertaining! 

— I sliall certainly leave town tomorrow 
and never look mankind in the face 
again ! 

Eow. Without affectation, Sir Peter, you 
may despise the ridicule of fools. But 
I see Lady Teazle going towards the 
next room — I am sure you must desire 
a reconciliation as earnestly as she does. 

Sir Oliv. Perliaps my being here prevents 
her coming to you; well, I'll leave hon- 
est Rowley to mediate between you; but 
he must bring you all presently to Mr. 
Surface's — where I am now returning — 
if not to reclaim a libertine, at least to 
expose hypocrisy. 

Sir Pet. Ah ! I '11 be present at your dis- 
covering yourself there with all my 
heart ; though 't is a vile unlucky place 
for discoveries. 

Sir Oliv. However, it is very convenient 
to the carrying on of my plot that you 
all live so near one another! 
{Exit Sir Oliver.) 

Row. We '11 follow— 

Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, 
Rowley — 

Row. No, but she has left the door of 
that room open, you perceive. — See, she 
is in tears! 

Sir Pet. She seems indeed to wish I 
should go to her. How dejected she ap- 



pears 



Row. And will you refrain from comfort- 
ing her? 

Sir Pet. Certainly, a little mortification 
appears very becoming in a wife. 
Don't you think it will do her good to let 
her pine a little? 

Row. O, this is ungenerous in you. 

Sir Pet. Well, I know not what to tliink. 
You remember, Rowley, the letter I 
found of hers — evidently intended for 
Charles? 

Row. A mere forgery. Sir Peter, laid in 



710 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



your way on purpose. This is one of 

the points which I intend Snake shall 

give you conviction on. 
Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of 

that. She looks this way what a re- 
markably elegant turn of the bead she 

has ! Rowley, I '11 go to ber. 
Row. Certainly — 
Sir Pet. Tho' when it is known tbat we 

are reconciled, people will laugh at me 

ten times more! 
Row. Let them laugh — and retort their 

malice only by showing them you are 

happy in spite of it. 
Sir Pet. V faith, so I will — and if I 'm not 

mistaken, we may yet be the happiest 

couple in the country. 
Row. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays 

aside suspicion 

Sir Pet. Hold, Master Rowley, if you 

have any regard for me, never let me 

hear you utter anything like a sentiment. 

I have had enough of them to serve me 

the rest of my life. 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene the Last. The Library. 
(Surface and Lady Sneerwell.) 

Lady Sneer. Impossible ! will not Sir 
Peter immediately be reconciled to 
Charles? and of consequence no longer 
oppose his union with Maria? The 
thought is distraction to me ! 

Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy? 

Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning either. 
I was a fool, an idiot, to league with 
such a blunderer! 

Surf. Surely, Lady Sneerwell, I am the 
greatest sufferer — yet you see I bear the 
accident with calmness. 

Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment 
hasn't reached your heart; your interest 
only attached you to Maria ; had you 
felt for her what I have for that un- 
grateful libertine, neither your temper 
nor hypocrisy could prevent your show- 
ing the sharpness of your vexation. 

Surf. But why should your reproaches 
fall on me for this disappointment? 

Lady Sneer. Are not j'ou the cause of it? 
what had you to bate in your pursuit of 
Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the 
way? — had you not a sufficient field for 
your roguery in blinding Sir Peter and 
supplanting your brother? I hate such 
an avarice of crimes ; 't is an unfair 
monopoly and never prospers. 

Surf. Well, I admit I have been to blame. 



I confess I deviated from the direct road 
of wrong, but I don't think we 're so 
totally defeated neither. 

Lady Sneer. No ! 

Surf. You tell me you have made a trial 
of Snake since we met, and that you 
still believe him faithful to us. 

Lady Sneer. I do believe so. 

Surf. And that he has undertaken, should 
it be necessary, to swear and prove that 
Charles is at this time contracted by 
vows and honor to your ladyshijj, which 
some of his former letters to you will 
serve to support. 

Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have 
assisted — 

Surf. Come, come, it is not too late yet; 
but hark ! tliis is probably my uncle, Sir 
Oliver ; retire to that room — we '11 con- 
sult further when he 's gone. 

Lady Sneer. Well, but if he should find 
you out to[o] — 

Surf. 0, I have no fear of that — Sir 
Peter will hold his tongue for his own 
credit sake — and you may depend on 't, 
I shall soon discover Sir Oliver's weak 
side ^r — 

Lady Sneer. I have no diffidence of your 
abilities — only be constant to one ro- 
guery at a time. 

(Exit.) 

Surf. I will, I will. So 't is confounded 
hard after such bad fortune, to be baited 
by one's confederate in evil. Well, at 
all events my character is so much better 
than Charles's, that I certainly — hey — 
what ! — this is not Sir Oliver — but old 
Stanley again ! — Plague on 't, that he 
should return to tease me just now; — I 
shall have Sir Oliver come and find him 
here — and — 

(Enter Sir Oliver.) 

Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you 
come back to plague me at this time? 
you must not stay now, upon my word ! 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is 
expected here, and tho' he has been so 
penurious to you, I '11 try what he '11 do 
for me. 

Surf. Sir ! 't is impossible for you to stay 

now; so I must beg come any other 

time and I promise you, you shall be as- 
sisted. 

Sir Oliv. No — Sir Oliver and I must be 
acquainted — 

Surf. Zounds, sir, then I insist on your 
quitting the room directly — 

Sir Oliver. Nay, sir 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



711 



Surf. Sir, I insist on 't. Here, William, 
show this gentleman out. Since you 
compel me, sir — not one moment — this is 
such insolence. 

{Going to push him out.) 

{Enter Charles.) 

Chas. Heyday! what's the matter now? 
what the devil, have you got hold of my 
little broker here ! Zounds, brother, 
don't hurt little Premium. What 's the 
matter, my little fellow? 

Siirf. So ! He has been with you, too, 
has he? 

Chas. To be sure he has! Why, 'tis as 

honest a little But sure, Joseph, 

you have not been borrowing money, too, 
have you? 

Surf. Borrowing — no ! — But, brother, 
you know sure we expect Sir Oliver 
every 

Chas. O Gad, that 's true — Noll must n't 
find tlje little broker here, to be sure — 

Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists 

Chas. Stanley ! why his name 's Pre- 
mium — 

Surf. No, no, Stanley. 

Chas. No, no. Premium. 

Surf. 

Chas 



Well, no matter which — but- 



necessities of the former could not ex- 
tort a shilling from that benevolent gen- 
tleman; and with the other I stood a 
chance of faring worse than my an- 
cestors, and being knocked down without 
being paid for. 

Surf. Charles! 

Chas. Joseph ! 

Surf. 'T is complete ! 

Chas. Very ! 

Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Row- 
ley, too — look on that elder nephew of 
mine. You know what he has 'already 
received from my bounty and you know 
also how gladly I would have looked on 
half my fortune as held in trust for him. 
Judge then my disappointment in dis- 
covering him to be destitute of truth, 
charity, and gratitude. 

Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more sur- 
prised at this declaration, if I had not 
myself found him to be selfish, treacher- 
ous, and hypocritical. 

Lady Teaz. And if the gentleman pleads 
not guilty to these, pray let him call me 
to his character. 

Sir Pet. Then I believe we need add no 
more. If he knows himself, he will con- 
sider it as the most perfect punishment 
that he is known to the world. 

Chas. If they talk this way to Honesty, 
what will they say to me by and bye? 

Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother 
there 

Chas. Aye, now comes my turn — the 
damned family pictures will ruin me. 

Surf. Sir Oliver, uncle, will you honor 
me with a hearing? 

Chas. I wish Joseph now would make 
one of his long speeches and I might 
recollect myself a little. 

Sir Oliv. And I suppose you would un- 
dertake to vindicate yourself entirely — ■ 

Surf. I trust I could — 

Sir Oliv. Nay, if you desert your roguery 
in its distress and try to be justified, you 
have even less principle than I thought 
you had. — {To Charles Surface.) Well, 
sir, and you could justify yourself too, 
I suppose? 

Chas. Not that I know of. Sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliv. What! little Premium has been 
let too much into the secret, I presume. 

Chas. True, sir, but they were family 
secrets, and should not be mentioned 
again, you know. 

Bow. Come, Sir Oliver, I know you can- 
not speak of Charles's follies with anger. 

1 An allusion to the practice of receiving at a coflPee-house letters addressed with an assumed name or 
initials. 



Aye, aye, Stanley or Premium, 't is 
the same thing as you say — for I sup- 
pose he goes by half a hundred names, 
besides A. B's ^^ at the coffee-house. 
{Knock.) 

Surf. 'Sdeath, here 's Sir Oliver at the 
door. Now, I beg, Mr. Stanley 

Chas. Aye, aye, and I beg, Mr. Pre- 
mium 

Sir Oliv. Gentlemen 



Surf. Sir, by Heaven, you shall go — 

Chas. Aye, out with him certainly 

Sir Oliv. This violence 

Surf. 'T is your own fault. 
Chas. Out with him, to be siire. 

{Both forcing Sir Oliver out.) 

{Enter Sir Peter Teazle, Lady Teazle, 
Maria, and Bowley.) 

Sir Pet. My old friend. Sir Oliver ! — hey ! 

what in the name of wonder! — Here ax'e 

dutiful nephews! — assault their uncle at 

his first visit! 
Lady Teaz. Indeed, Sir Oliver, 't was well 

we came in to rescue you. 
Bow. Truly it was, for I perceive. Sir 

Oliver, the character of old Stanley was 

no protection to you. 
Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium, either. The 



712 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY 



Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can — nor 
with gravity, either. Sir Peter, do you 
know the rogue bargained with me for 
all his ancestors — sold me judges and 
generals by the foot, and maiden aunts 
as cheap as broken china ! 

Chas. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make 
a little free with the family canvas, 
that 's the truth on 't : — my ancestors 
may certainly rise in judgment against 
me, there 's no denying it ; — but believe 
me sincere when I tell you, and upon my 
soul I would not say so if I was not, 
that if I do not appear mortified at the 
exposure of my follies, it is because I 
feel at this moment the warmest satis- 
faction in seeing you, my liberal bene- 
factor. 

Sir Oliv. Charles — I believe you — give 
me your hand again; the ill-looking little 
fellow over the couch has made your 
peace. 

Chas. Then, sir, my gratitude to the 
original is still increased. 

Lady Teaz. {Advancing.) Yet I believe. 
Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is 
still more anxious to be reconciled to. 

Sir Oliv. 0, I have heard of his attach- 
ment there — and with the young lady's 
pardon, if I construe right that blush 

Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your senti- 
ments; you know, we are going to be 
reconciled to Charles. 

Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I 
shall rejoice to hear that he is happy. 
For me, whatever claim I had to his af- 
fection I willing [ly] resign to one who 
has a better title. 

Chas. How, Maria! 

Sir Pet. Heyday, what's the mystery 
now? while he appeared an incorrigible 
rake, you would give your hand to no 
one else, and now that he 's likely to re- 
form I '11 warrant you won't have him ! 

Mar. His own heart, and Lady Sneerwell, 
know the cause. 

Chas. Lady Sneerwell ! 

Surf. Brother, it is with great concern — 
I am obliged to speak on this point, but 
my regard to justice obliges me — and 
Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer 
be concealed — 

[Goes to the door.) 

{Enter Lady Sneerwell.) 

Sir Pet. Soh ! another French milliner, 
egad! He has one in every room in the 
house, I suppose — 



Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles! Well 
may you be surprised and feel for the 
indelicate situation which your perfidy 
has forced me into. 

CJias. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of 
yours? for as I have life, I don't under- 
stand it. 

Surf. I believe, sir, there is but the evi- 
dence of one person more necessary to 
make it extremely clear. 

Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is 
Mr. Snake. Rowley, you were perfectly 
right to bring him with us, and pray let 
liim appear. 

Row. Walk in, Mr. Snake — 

{Enter Snake.) 

I thought his testimony might be wanted ; 
however, it happens unluckily that he 
comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and 
not to support her. 

Lady Sneer. A villain ! — Treacherous to 
me at last! Speak, fellow, have you too 
conspired against me? 

Snake. I beg your ladyshiij ten thousand 
pardons, — you paid me extremely lib- 
erally for the lie in question — but I un- 
fortunately have been offered double to 
speak the truth. 

Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and 
disappointment on j'ou all ! 

Lady Teaz. Hold, Lady Sneerwell, before 
you go, let me thank you for the trouble 
you and that gentleman have taken in 
writing letters from me to Charles and 
answering them yourself; and let me 
also request you to make my respects to 
the Scandalous College, of which you 
are President, and inform them that 
Lady Teazle, Licentiate,^*' begs leave to 
return the diploma they granted her — 
as she leaves off practice and kills char- 
acters no longer. 

Lady Sneer. Provoking — insolent! — may 
your husband live these fifty years! 
{Exit.) 

Sir Pet. Oons, what a fury! 

Lady Teaz. A malicious creature indeed ! 

Sir Pet. Hey — not for the last wish? — 

Lady Teaz. 0, no — 

Sir Oliv. Well, sir, and what have you to 
say now? 

Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find 
that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of 
suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to 
impose on us all, that I know not what 

to say. However, lest her revengeful 

spirit should prompt her to injure my 



56 graduate. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



713 



brother, I had certainly better follow her 
directly. 

(Exit.) 

Sir Pet. Moral to the last drop ! 

Sir Oliv. Aye, and marry her, Joseph, if 
you can. — Oil and vinegar, egad : — you '11 
do very well together. 

Row. I believe we have no more occasion 
for Mr. Snake at present. 

Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for 
all for whatever uneasiness I have been 
the humble instrument of causing to the 
parties present. 

Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atone- 
ment by a good deed at last. 

Snake. But 1 must request of the com- 
pany that it shall never be Icnowu. 

Sir Pet. Hey ! — what the plague — are you 
ashamed of having done a right thing 
once in your life? 

Snake. Ah, sir, consider I live by the 
badness of my character! — I have noth- 
ing but my infamy to depend on ! — and, 
if it were once known that I had been 
betrayed into an honest action, I sliould 
lose every friend I have in the world. 

Sir Oliv. Well, well, we '11 not traduce 
you by saying anything to your praise, 
never fear. 

{Exit Snake.) 

Sir Pet. There 's a precious rogue. — Yet 
that fellow is a writer and a critic. 

Lady Teaz. See, Sir Oliver, there needs 
no persuasion now to reconcile your 
nephew and Maria. 

Sir Oliv. Aye, aye, that 's as it should 
be, and egad, we '11 have the wedding to- 
morrow morning. 

Chas. Thank you, dear uncle! 

Sir Pet. What ! you rogue, don't you ask 
the girl's consent first"? 

Chas. Oh, I have done that a long time- 
above a minute ago — and she has looked 
yes— 

Mar. For shame, Charles ! I protest, Sir 
Peter, there has not been a word 

Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better 
— may your love for each other never 
know abatement. 

Sir Pet. And may you live as happily to- 
gether as Lady Teazle and I — intend to 
do. 

Chas. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure 
you congratulate me and I suspect too 
that I owe you much. 

Sir Oliv. You do, indeed, Charles. 

Row. If my efforts to serve you had not 
succeeded, you would have been in my 



debt for the attempt ; — but deserve to be 
happy — and you over-repay me. 

Sir Pet. Aye, honest Rowley always said 
you would reform. 

Chas. Why, as to reforming, Sir Peter, 
I '11 make no promises — and that I take 
to be a proof that I intend to set about 
it. — But here shall be my monitor, my 
gentle guide. — Ah ! can I leave the virtu- 
ous path those eyes illumine? 

Tho' thou, dear maid, should'st waive thy 

beauty's sway, 
— Thou still must rule — because I will 

obey: 
An humbled fugitive from folly view. 
No sanctuary near but love and you: 
You can indeed each anxious fear re- 
move, 
For even scandal dies if you approve. 
{To the audience.) 

EPILOGUE. 

By Mr. Caiman. 

Spoken by Lady Teazle. 

I, who was late so volatile and gay. 

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one 

way. 
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my 

vows, 
To one dull rusty weathercock — my spouse ! 
So wills our virtuous bard — the motley 

Bayes 
Of crying epilogues and laughing plays! 
Old bachelors, Avho marry smart young 

wives, 
Learn from our play to regulate your lives: 
Each bring his dear to town, all faults 

upon her — 
London will prove the very source of 

honor. 
Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, 
When principles relax, to brace the nerves : 
Such is my case ; and yet I must deplore 
That the gay dream of dissipation 's o'er. 
And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife. 
Born with the genius for the highest life. 
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom. 
Like me condemned to such a dismal doom? 
Save money — when I just knew how to 

waste it! 
Leave London — just as I began to taste it! 
Must I then watch the early crowing cock, 
The melancholy ticking of a clock; 
In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded, 
With dogs, eats, rats, and squalling brats 

surrounded ? 



714 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 



With humble curate can I now retire, 
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the 

squire,) 
And at backgammon mortify my soul, 
That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole"?^^ 
Seven 's the main ! Dear sound that must 

expire, 
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; 
The transient hour of fashion too soon 

spent, 
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell con- 
tent ! 
Farewell the plumed head, the cushioned 

tete. 
That takes the cushion from its proper 

seat! 
That spirit-stirring drum! — card drums I 

mean, 
Spadille — odd trick — pam — basto — king 

and queen ! 
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen 

throat, 



The welcome visitors' approach denote; 
Farewell all quality of high renown. 
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 

town ! 
Farewell ! your revels I partake no more, 
And Lady Teazle's occupation 's o'er ! 
All this I told our bard; he smiled, and 

said 't was clear, 
I ought to play deep tragedy next year. 
Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his 

play, 

And in these solemn periods stalk'd 

away : — 
"Blessed were the fair like you; her faults 

who stopped, 
And closed her follies when the curtain. 

dropped ! 
No more in vice or error to engage. 
Or play the fool at large on life's great 

stage." 



D7 Here and below are various terms used iu card-games; much of the passage parodies Othello's fare- 
well to war. 



V. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

THE CENCI 



Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), though 
the son of a conservative country gentleman, 
was at odds with English society most of his 
life; dividing his allegiance hetween poetry 
and tlie cause of liberty as he conceived it. 
His publication in 1811 of a pamphlet. The 
Necessity of A theism { for which he was ex- 
pelled from the University of Oxford), his 
irregular views and conduct as to marriage, 
his attempt in 1812 to rouse the Irish, his 
sympathy later for the Greek revolutionists, 
and much of his poetry, all show his liberal- 
ism. In 1813-4 he was intimate with such 
English radicals as Leigh Hunt and William 
Godwin, and after the suicide of his first 
wife he married Godwin's daughter. He was 
a somewhat unpractical enthusiast, who held 
ardent views, and acted on them, concerning 
many practical subjects. Tlie latter part of 
his life especially he devoted to poetry, living 
in Italy from 1818 to 1822, when he was 
drowned. 

In 1818, at the age of twenty-six, Shelley 
came upon a professedly historical manu- 
script account of the crimes and calamities 
of the Roman count Cenci and his family in 
the year 1598. Persecuted innocence, pa- 
tience under affliction, like that of Beatrice in 
this story, always more than anj'thing else 
moved his sympathy. Struck by the suit- 
ability of the story for drama, and more 
trusting his wife's abilities in that direction 
than his own, he urged her to write a play on 
it; but ended in writing it himself the fol- 
lowing year. The fact that he turned from 
the vastness and abstractness of Prometheus 
Unbound, only semi-dramatic, to this intense, 
concrete and actable play is an example 
of versatility unusual in Shelley. While in 
general he took but little interest in the 
theater, he was most desirous and made every 
effort that The Cenci should be performed at 
Covent Garden in 1820, but the strange pain- 
fulness of the subject prevented, and the play 
has been performed but once, so far as is 
known, in London, 1886, under the auspices 
of the Shelley Society, before a huge and dis- 
tinguished audience. With certain effective 
scenes, what gave the play its force on the 
stage was mainly the personalities of Count 
Cenci and especially Beatrice. 

The Relation of the Death of the Family of 
the Cenci, the manuscript account mentioned 



above, is closely followed by the play and sug- 
gested all its essentials, and even such points 
as the abortive first plan for the murder, 
the hesitation of tlie murderers and Beatrice's 
firmness at the second attempt, and the gold- 
trimmed mantle given by her to one of them. 
Most of the characters are in both, Beatrice 
is the same in outline, and also Count Cenci. 
The Relation is naturally much more pro- 
saically circumstantial, particularly as to 
what followed the murder, the successful con- 
cealment of it for a time, and the culprits' 
condemnation and execution. The narrative 
has a curiously popular and even naif effect, 
with its particulars as to dress, j^^i'sonal 
appearance, pious last words, and the like; 
and though it shows sympathy chiefly toward 
Beatrice and her associates, it professes great 
horror at the parricide. The story is so 
hideous, and the guilt in it so one-sided, that 
we are not surprised to learn that legend 
has mingled with history; in real life heavenly 
innocents and devilish brutes rarely exist 
in the same family. Tlure are even those 
who state that the harshness of the historic 
Cenci to his daughter was not without ex- 
cuse, and that there was much more moral 
justification for her execution than for his 
murder. The family was one of criminals, 
the Count was better and less monstrous, and 
his family worse, than legend says. Thus an- 
other traditional story fades into the light 
of common day through historical criticism. 
Authenticity is also denied to the well- 
known supposed portrait of Beatrice Cenci at- 
tributed to Guido Reni. 

But as with any creation of vital imagina- 
tion, this matters little for the play; art 
deals rather with general than particular 
truth, and general truth is untouched by his- 
torical criticism. Unspeakable as the story 
is, it cannot be called impossible. Count Cenci 
may pass for one of tiie monsters of egotism, 
the combinations of uncontrolled crime and 
guile, of whicli we hear during the Italian 
Renascence ; or, in more modern parlance, for 
a type of paranoia, of inversion and corrup- 
tion of feeling and impulse. As we read we 
cannot but give the picture a horrified ac- 
ceptance. He is so powerfully drawn that 
we accord him that willing suspension of dis- 
belief which (as Coleridge says) constitutes 
poetic faith. His long course of crime is 



715 



716 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



made the easier by contemporary conditions 
— the paternal authority wliich gave a father 
almost absolute power in his family and 
which would incline society to take his part, 
and (according to the play and the Relation) 
the corruption of the papal court, which pre- 
ferred inllicting lucrative fines to more ef- 
fective punishments. The poet draws more 
vividly Cenci's monstrous hate than his other 
sins; indeed hate is his motive throughout 
the play; but we are spared none of his 
hideous wickedness (some of it only hinted 
at), since only this could win our sympathy 
for such a crime as parricide. No play there- 
fore could contain more violent conflicting 
emotions. Beatrice has her father's tendency 
to madness, a little of his shrewdness, and 
his jjowerful will, which overrides her asso- 
ciates and imposes on others her view of 
things. But the groundwork of her nature 
is not only normal and good; she is almost 
unique in the English drama for her com- 
bination of gentleness and energetic forti- 
tude. As we read we can readily believe the 
Relation, that to her beauties she added " a 
spirit and a majestic vivacity that captivated 
every one." By her simple final words she 
leaves us with an impression of matchless 
self-command. To active evil in her father 
she at first opposes merely the passive re- 
sistance of goodness; to the active evil in so- 
ciety, at the end, which punislies those who 
are really victims, she opposes purely pas- 
sive resistance; when she is goaded to active 
revenge, this constitutes in Shelley's view not 
a crime but only a "tragic error" (for the 
murder is at once seen to have been needless), 
which ends in the ruin of the family. Societ}' 
in the person of the pope has refused to save 
her from irremediable degradation, and she 
takes the only way out. That this embodi- 
ment of Christian patience should first be 
left defenceless and then martyred by the 
church is one of the ironies of the play. To 
her, others of her family serve as foils — the 
weak Giacomo, who has not sulRcient hold 
over his wife and children to neutralize his 
father's calumnies, and especially Lucretia, a 
lovable domestic soul, cruelly thrown into a 
situation too harsh for her, an Ophelia of 
fifty, we might say. Nothing could be more 
touching than the strong bond made between 
her and her step-children by their common 
misfortunes. According to the author of the 
Relation, who was sensible of the contrast, 
each on the way to her death carried a hand- 
kerchief, " with which Lucretia wiped her 
eyes, and Beatrice the perspiration from her 
forehead." With bhelley's dislike of eccle- 
siastics we should hardly expect from him 
a sympathetic portrait of pontilt or prelate; 
yet to offset the hard and mercenary pope 
(with the ironical name Clement) and the 
crafty, somewhat unreal Orsino, there is the 
humane cardinal Camillo. Indeed, it is with 
a realism and detachment unusual with 



Shelley, but more merciless than invective, 
that he is able to suggest the religious atmos- 
phere in which his characters live, and in 
which the connection between religion and 
morality is a purely ceremonial one. 

The structure of the play is symmetrical 
and simple, but somewhat wanting in incident 
and action, the interest being mainly psycho- 
logical. Some of the most dramatic scenes 
are the poet's own invention, such as the 
banquet-scene, and the discovery (IV. iv) 
that the slayers were on the point of being 
relieved of their tyrant through the action 
of law. This touch, filled with possibilities 
of pathos and dramatic irony, is treated per- 
haps with excessive restraint, and serves 
chiefly to contrast Lucretia's repining with 
Beatrice's firmness. The simplicity of the 
plot and strvicture may reflect Shelley's ad- 
miration for Greek tragedy, for there are 
none of the comic elements which vary the 
tragedies of Shakespeare. His influence, 
however, on any English poetic drama is 
almost inevitable, and many reminiscences of 
his plays have been pointed out here; those of 
Macbeth in the murder and discovery scenes, 
and of Lear in Cenci's curse, are obvious. 

In stylo the jtlay is singularly imlike most 
of Shelley's poetry. Here is no " beautiful 
and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his 
luminous wings In vain," none of the melting 
imagery, full of beauty and transcendental 
feeling but intellectually baffling, which per- 
vades his other work, and has had no very 
wholesome influence on later nineteenth-cen- 
tury poetry. Shelley realized that in an 
acting drama he must be 

Standing on earth, not rapt above tlie pole. 

He avoided deliberately, he says in his Pref- 
ace, " what is commonly called mere poetry, 
and I imagine there will scarcely be found a 
detached simile or a single isolated descrip- 
tion." His style in the play is more austere 
than Shakesi)eare's; Keats was even minded 
to reproach him that he did not " load every 
rift of his subject with ore." His conscious 
endeavor was to let his characters express 
themselves, not him. The beautiful is subor- 
dinated to the significant. 

When we look from this play back over the 
comedy and tragedy of the preceding century 
and more, the contrast is great and sig- 
nificant. The critical and satirical spirit 
which pervaded tlie greater literature of the 
earlier age had in the drama best ex- 
pressed itself in comedy, the only form of 
drama in which the eighteenth century had 
excelled. Sentimental drama and tragedy 
had been hemmed in by rules, convention- 
ality, and artificiality. Rarely .had great 
emotion freely expressed itself. Shelley was 
filled with the grandeur and pathos of human 
character and fate as embodied in this story; 
he followed traditional forms of expression 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



717 



so far as suited liini, but there is no longer 
any bondage to tlie three unities or to a defi- 
nite moral lesson. The moral ell'ect of the 
play stands in its exhibition of the human 
spirit rising superior to external torment 
and defilement; we are exalted by being shown 
the wortli and dignity of man, and are more 
grateful for this than we sliouid be for moral 
statements the truth of which we knew be- 
fore. In literary style drama was freed from 
a somewhat artificial diction, and felt no 
other obligation than to express tlie thouglit 
and feeling of the moment as beautifully and 
fittingly as possible. In these various ways 
the freedom which was the moving spirit of 
the early nineteenth century, in literature as 
in life, was able occasionally to express itself 
in poetic tragedy. That it did not do so 
oftener and as worthily as in Shelley's play 



was due partly to the poets' desire for a more 
intimate self-expression than is possible in 
impersonal drama, and partly to the allure- 
ments of a newer literary form, the novel. 
As the century advanced, the spirit of realism 
more and more prevailed, wliich is hard to 
combine with poetic drama. Tlie drama of 
the nineteenth century was even less notable 
than that of the eighteenth. That which is 
best as literature has not been by professional 
dramatists, but by writers like Shelley, 
Byron, Browning, Tennyson, more distin- 
guished in other fields; has been of the nature 
of closet-drama, better to read than to act. 
The plays that year after year have filled the 
theaters are mostly too poor as literature to 
be much read. But a single not unfavor- 
able specimen of this kind will be given 
next. 



THE CENCI 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 






his Sons. 



Count Francesco Cenci. 

GL/VCOMO, 

Bebnakdo, 

Cardinal Camillo. 

[Prince Colonna.] 

Orsino, a Prelate. 

Savella, the Pope's Legate. 

Olimpio, 

Marzio, 

Andrea, Servant to Cenci. 

Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants. 



Assassins. 



LucRETiA, Wife of Cenci, and 

of his Children. 
Beatrice, his Daughter. 



Step-mother 



The Scene lies principally in Rome, but 
changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, 
a castle among the Apulian Appen- 
nines. 

Time. During the Pontificate of Clement 
VIII. 



ACT I 

Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
Palace. Enter Count Cenci, and Cardi- 
nal Camillo. 

Camillo. That matter of the murder is 

hushed up 
If you consent to yield his Holiness 
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian 

gate. 
It needed all my interest in the conclave 
To bend him to this point : he said that 

you 
Bought pei'ilous impunity vpith your 

gold; 
That crimes like yours if once or twice 

compounded 
Enriched the Church, and respited from 

hell 



An erring soul which might repent and 

live ; 
But that the glory and the interest 
Of the high throne he fills, little consist 
With making it a daily mart of guilt 
As manifold and hideous as the deeds 
Which you scarce hide from men's re- 
volted eyes. 
Cenci. The third of my possessions — let 
it go ! 
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 
Had sent his architect to view the ground, 
Meaning to build a villa on my vines 
The next time I compounded with his 

uncle : 
I little thought he should outwit me so ! 
Henceforth no witness — not the lamp — 

shall see 
That which the vassal threatened to 
divulge, 



718 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Whose throat is choked with dust for 

his reward. 
The deed he saw could not have rated 

higher 
Than his most worthless life : ^ — it angers 

me! 
Respited me from Hell! — So may the 

Devil 
Respite their souls from Heaven, No 

doubt Pope Clement, 
And his most charitable nephews, pray 
That the Apostle Peter and the saints 
Will grant for their sake that I long 

enjoy 
Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, 

and length of days 
Wherein to act the deeds which are the 

stewards 
Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
To which they show no title. 
Cam. Oh, Count Cenci ! 

So nmch that thou mightst honoral)ly 

live 
And reconcile thyself with thine own 

heart 
And with thy God, and with the offended 

world. 
How hideously look deeds of lust and 

blood 
Thro' those snow white and venerable 

hairs ! 
Your chiklren should be sitting round 

you now, 
But that you fear to read upon their 

looks 
The shame and misery you have written 

there. 
Where is your wife? Where is your 

gentle daughter"? 
Methinks her sweet looks, which make all 

things else 
Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend 

within you. 
Why is she barred from all society 
But her own strange and uncomplaining 

wrongs'? 
Talk with me, Count, — you know I mean 

you well. 
I stood beside your dark and fiery 

youth 
Watching its bold and bad career, as 

men 
Watch meteors, but it vanished not: I 

marked 
Your desperate and remorseless man- 
hood; now 
Do I behold you, in dishonored age, 



Charged with a thousand unrepented 
crimes. 

Yet I have ever hoped you would amend. 

And in that hope have saved your life 
three times. 
Cen. For which Aldobrandino owes you 
now 

My fief beyond the Pincian. Cardinal, 

One thing, I pray you, recollect hence- 
forth, 

And so we shall converse with less re- 
straint. 

A man you knew spoke of my wife and 
daughter : 

He was accustomed to frequent my house ; 

So the next day his wife and daughter 
came 

And asked if I had seen him ; and I 
smiled : 

I think they never saw him any more. 
Cam. Thou execrable man, beware! — 
Cen. Of thee"? 

Nay, this is idle : we should know each 
other. 

As to my character for what men call 
crime, 

Seeing I please my senses as I list, 

And vindicate that right with force or 
guile. 

It is a public matter, and I care not 

If I discuss it with you. I may speak 

Alike to you and my own conscious 
heart ; 

For you give out that you have half re- 
formed me. 

Therefore strong vanity will keep you 
silent 

If fear should not; both will, I do not 
doubt. 

All men delight in sensual luxury, 

All men enjoy revenge; and most exult 

Over the tortures they can never feel ; 

Flattering their secret peace with others' 
pain. 

But I delight in nothing else. I love 

The sight of agony, and the sense of 

joy, 

When this shall be another's and that 

mine. 
And I have no remorse and little fear, 
Which are, I think, the checks of other 

men. 
This mood has grown upon me, until 

now 
Any design my captious fancy makes 
The picture of its wish, and it forms 

none 



1 The sense is a little ohsoure; — the fine fnr the crime which the man was killed to prevent his re- 
vealing would have been no higher than that for the murder. 



THE CENCI 



719 



But such as men like you would stai-t to 
know, 

Is as my natural food and rest debarred 

Until it be accomplished. 
Cam. Art thou not 

Most miserable? 
Cen. Why miserable? — 

No. I am what your theologians call 

Hardened; which they must be in impu- 
dence, 

So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 

True, I was happier than I am, while yet 

Manhood remained to act the thing I 
thought ; 

While lust was sweeter than revenge; 
and now 

Invention i^alls: av, we must all grow 
old : 

And but that there yet remains a deed to 
act 

Whose horror might make sharp an ap- 
petite 

Duller than mine — I 'd do, — I know not 
what. 

When I was young I thought of nothing 
else 

But pleasure ; and I fed on honey sweets : 

Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like 
bees, 

And I grew tired : yet, till I killed a foe, 

And heard his groans, and heard his chil- 
dren's groans. 

Knew I not what delight was else on 
earth, 

Wliich now delights me little. I the 
rather 

Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals : 

The dry, fixed eyeball; the pale, quiver- 
ing lip, 

Which tell me that the spirit weeps 
within 

Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of 
Christ. 

I rarely kill the body, which preserves. 

Like a strong prison, the soul within my 
power. 

Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear 

For hourly pain. 
Cam. Hell's most abandoned fiend 

Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 

Speak to his heart as now you speak to 
me; 

I thank my God that I believe you not 

{Enter Andrea.) 

Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Sala- 
manca 
Would speak tvith you. 
Cen. Bid him attend me 



In the grand saloon. 

{Exit Andrea.) 
Cam. Farewell; and I will pray 

Almighty God that thy false, impious 

words 
Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 
(Exit Camillo.) 
Cen. The third of my possessions ! I must 

use 
Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's 

sword. 
Falls from my withered hand. But yes- 
terday 
There came an order from the Pope to 

make 
Fourfold provision for my cursed sons, 
Whom I had sent from Rome to Sala- 
manca, 
Hoping some accident might cut them 

off; 
And meaning if I could to starve them 

there. 
I pray thee, God, send some quick death 

upon them ! 
Bernardo and my wife could not be worse 
If dead and damned : then, as to 

Beatrice — 
(Looking around him suspicioush/.) 
I think they cannot hear me at that door; 
What if tliey should? And yet I need 

not speak. 
Though the heart triumphs with itself in 

words. 
0, tliou most silent air, that shalt not 

hear 
"VMiat now I think! Thou, pavement, 

Avliich I tread 
Towards her chamber, — let your echoes 

talk 
Of my imperious step, scorning surprise, 
But not of my intent! Andi'ea! 

{Enter Andrea.) 

Andr. My Lord ! 

Cen. Bid Beatrice attend me in her cham- 
ber 
This evening: — no, at midnight, and 
alone. 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. A Garden of the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Beatrice and Orsino, as in conver- 
sation. 

Beatrice. Pervert not truth, 

Orsino. You remember where we held 
That conversation ; — nay, we see the spot 
Even from this cypress ; — two long years 

are past 
Since, on an April midnight, underneath 



720 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, 
I did confess to you my secret mind. 
Orsino. You said you loved me then. 
Beatr. You are a priest, 

Speak to me not of love. 
Ors. I naay obtain 

The dispensation of the Pope to marry. 
Because I am a priest do you believe 
Your image, as the hunter some struck 

deer, 
FolloAvs me not whether I wake or sleep "? 
Beatr. As I have said, speak to me not of 

love; 
Had you a dispensation, I have not; 
Nor will I leave this home of misery 
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle 

lady 
To whom I owe life and these virtuous 

thoughts. 
Must suffer what I still have strength to 

share. 
Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 
I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. 
Ours was a youthful contract, which you 

first 
Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will 

loose. 
And thus I love you still, but holily, 
Even as a sister or a spirit might; 
And so I swear a cold fidelity. 
And it is well perhaps we shall not 

marry. 
You have a sly, equivocating vein 
That suits me not. Ah, wretched that I 

am! 
Where shall I turn? Even now you look 

on me 
As you were not my friend, and as if 

you 
Discovered that I thought so, with false 

smiles 
Making my true suspicion seem your 

wrong. 
Ah ! No, forgive me ; sorrow makes me 

seem 
Sterner than else my nature might have 

been; 
I have a weight of melancholy thoughts. 
And they forebode, — but what can they 

forebode 
Worse than I now endure? 
Ors. All will be well. 

Is the petition yet prepared? You know 
My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice; 
Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill, 
So that the Pope attend to your com- 
plaint. 
Beatr. Your zeal for all T wish ; — Ah me, 

you are cold! 



Your utmost skill — speak but one word — 

(Aside.) Alas! 
Weak and deserted creature that I am. 
Here I stand bickering with my only 

friend ! 
{To Orsino.) This night my father gives 

a sumj^tuous feast, 
Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 
From Salamanca, from my brothers 

there, 
And with this outward show of love he 

mocks 
His inward hate. 'T is bold hypocrisy, 
For he would gladlier celebrate their 

deaths, 
Which I have heard him pray for on his 

knees : 
Great God ! that such a father should be 

mine ! 
But there is mighty preparation made, 
And all our kin, the Cenei, will be there, 
And all the chief nobility of Rome. 
And he has bidden me and my pale 

mother 
Attire ourselves in festival array. 
Poor lady ! She expects some happy 

change 
In his dark spirit from this act; I none. 
At supper I will give you the petition : 
Till when — farewell. 
Ors. Farewell. {Exit 

Beatrice.) I know the Pope 
Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly 

vow 
But by absolving nie from the revenue 
Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, 
I think to win thee at an easier rate. 
Nor shall he read her eloquent petition : 
He might bestow her on some poor rela- 
tion 
Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister. 
And I should be debarred from all access. 
Then as to what she suffers from her 

father, 
In all this there is much exaggeration : 
Old men are testy and will have their 

way ; 
A man may stab his enemj', or his vassal. 
And live a free life as to wine or women, 
And with a peevish temper may return 
To a dull home, and rate his wife and 

children ; 
Daughters and wives call this foul 

tyranny. 
I shall be well content, if on my con- 
science 
There rest no heavier sin than what they 

suffer 
From the devices of my love — A net 



THE CENCI 



721 



From which she shall escape not. Yet I 

fear 
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, 
Whose beams anatomize me, nerve by 

nerve, 
And lay me bare, and make me blush to 

see 
My hidden thoughts. — Ah, no ! A friend- 
less girl 
Who clings to me, as to her only hope : — 
I were a fool, not less than if a panther 
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's 

eye, 
If she escape me. 

(Exit.) 



Scene 3. A magnificent Hall in the Cenci 
Palace. A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lu- 
cretia, Beatrice, Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. 

Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen ; 

welcome ye 
Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the 

church. 
Whose presence honors our festivity. 
I have too long lived like an anchorite. 
And, in my absence from your merry 

meetings, 
An evil word is gone abroad of me : 
But I do hope that you, my noble friends, 
When you have shared the entertainment 

here. 
And heard the pious cause for which 't is 

given. 
And we have pledged a health or two to- 
gether. 
Will think me flesh and blood as w-ell as 

you; 
Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, 
But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. 
First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you seem 

too light of heart. 
Too sprightly and companionable a man. 
To act the deeds that rumor pins on you. 
{To his companion.) I never saw such 

blithe and open cheer 
In any eye ! 
Second Guest. Some most desired event, 
In which we all demand a common joy, 
Has brought us hither; let us hear it. 

Count. 
Ccn. It is indeed a most desired event. 
If, when a parent, from a parent's heart. 
Lifts from this earth to the great father 

of all 
A prayer, both when he lays him down to 

sleep 
And when he rises up from dreaming it; 



One supplication, one desire, one hope, 
That he would grant a wish for his two 

sons. 
Even all that he demands in their re- 
gard — 
And suddenly, beyond his dearest hope. 
It is accomplished, he should then re- 
joice. 
And call his friends and kinsmen to a 

feast. 
And task their love to grace his merri- 
ment. 
Then honor me thus far — for I am he. 
Beatrice. {To Lucretia.) Great God! 

How horrible ! Some dreadful ill 
Must have befallen my brothers. 
Lucretia. Fear not, child, 

He speaks too frankly. 
Beatr. Ah ! My blood runs cold. 

I fear that wicked laughter round his 

eye, 
Which wrinkles up the skin even to the 

hair. 
Cen. Here are the letters brought from 

Salamanca; 
Beatrice, read them to your mother, 

God, 
I thank thee! In one night didst thou 

perform. 
By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 
My disobedient and rebellious sons 
Are dead ! — Why, dead ! — What means 

this change of cheer ■? 
You hear me not, I tell you they are 

dead ; 
And they will need no food or raiment 

more : 
The tapers that did light them the dark 

way 
Are tlieir last cost. The Pope, I think, 

will not 
Expect I should maintain them in their 

coffins. 
Rejoice with me, my heart is wondrous 

glad. 
Beatr. {Lucretia sinks, half fainting; 

Beatrice supports her.) It is not 

true I — Dear lady, pray look up. 
Had it been true, there is a God in 

Heaven, 
He would not live to boast of such a 

boon. 
Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is 

false. 
Cen. Ay, as the word of God ; whom here 

I call 
To witness that I speak the sober truth ; 
And whose most favoring Providence 

was shown 



722 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Even in the manner of their deaths. For 

Rocco 
Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen 

others, 
When the church fell and crushed him to 

a mummy; 
The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano 
Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, 
Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his 

rival ; 
All in the self-same hour of the same 

night ; 
Which shows that Heaven has special 

care of me. 
I beg those friends who love me, that 

they mark 
The day a feast upon their calendars. 
It was the twenty-seventh of December: 
Ay, read the letters if you doubt my 

oath. 
(The assemhlij appears confitsed; several 

of the guests rise.) 
First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart. 
Second Guest. And I. 

Third Guest. No, stay! 

I do believe it is some jest ; though faith, 
'T is mocking us somewhat too solemnlj'. 
I think his son has married the Infanta, 
Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado ; 
'T is but to season some such news; stay, 

stay! 
I see 't is only raillery by his smile. 
Cen. {Filling a bowl of wine, and lifting 

it up.) Oh, thou bright wine, whose 

purple splendor leaps 
And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl 
Under the lamp-light, as my spirits do, 
To hear the death of my accursed sons! 
Could I believe thou wert their mingled 

blood. 
Then would I taste thee like a sacrament. 
And pledge with thee the mighty Devil 

in Hell; 
Wlio, if a father's curses, as men say, 
ClimlD with swift wings after their chil- 
dren's souls, 
And drag them from the very throne of 

Heaven, 
Now triumphs in my triumph ! — But thou 

art 
Superfluous ; I have drunken deep of joy, 
And I will taste no other wine to-night. 
Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 
A Guest. (Rising.) Thou wretch ! 

Will none among this noble company 
Check the abandoned villain? 
Camillo. For God's sake, 

Let me dismiss the guests! You are in- 
sane. 



Some ill will come of this. 
Second Guest. Seize, silence him ! 

First Guest. I will ! 
Third Guest. And I ! 

Cen. {Addressing those who rise with a 
threatening gesture.) Who moves'? 
Who speaks*? 

{Turning to the company.) 'T is noth- 
, ing, 

Enjoy yourselves. — Beware ! for my re- 
venge 

Is as the sealed commission of a king, 

That kills, and none dare name the mur- 
derer. 
{The banquet is broken up; several of the 

guests are departing.) 
Beatr. I do entreat you, go not, noble 
guests ; 

Wbat, although tyranny and impious 
hate 

Stand sheltered by a fatliei''s hoary hair? 

What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these 
limbs 

Who tortures them, and triumplis? 
What, if we, 

The desolate and the dead, were his own 
flesh. 

His children and his wife, whom he is 
bound 

To love and shelter? Shall we therefore 
find 

No refuge in this merciless wide world? 

Oh, think what deep wrongs must have 
blotted out 

First love, then reverence in a child's 
prone mind. 

Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! 0, 
think ! 

I have bonie much, and kissed the sacred 
hand 

Which crushed us to the earth, and 
thought its stroke 

Was perhaps some paternal chastise- 
ment ! 

Have excused much, doubted ; and when 
no doubt 

Remained, have sought by patience, love 
and tears, 

To soften him; and when this could not 
be, 

I have knelt down through the long sleep- 
less nights, 

And lifted up to God, the father of all. 

Passionate prayers: and when these were 
not heard 

I have still borne; — until I meet you 
here, 

Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous 
feast 



THE CENCI 



723 



Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet 
, remain, 

His wife remains and I, whom if ye save 
not, 

Ye may soon share such merriment again 

As fathers make over their children's 
graves. 

Oh! Prince Colonna, thou art our near 
kinsman ; 

Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamber- 
lain; 

Camillo, thou art chief justiciary; 

Take us away! 
Cen. {He has been conversing with Ca- 
millo during the first part of Bea- 
trice's speech; he hears the conclu- 
sion, and now advances.) I hope 
my good friends here 

Will think of their own daughters — or 
perhaps 

Of their own throats — before they lend 
an ear 

To this wild girl. 
Beatr. {Not noticing the ivords of Cenci.) 
Dare no one look on me"? 

None answer? Can one tyrant overbear 

The sense of many best and wisest men? 

Or is it that I sue not in some form 

Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit ? 

Oh, God ! That I were buried with my 
brothers ! 

And that the flowers of this departed 
spring 

Were fading on my grave ! And that my 
father 

Were celebrating now one feast for all! 
Cam. A bitter wish for one so young and 
gentle; 

Can we do nothing? 
Colonna. Nothing that I see. 

Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy; 

Yet I would second any one. 
A Cardinal. And I. 

Cen. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl ! 
Beatr. Retire thou, impious man! Ay, 
hide thyself 

Where never eye can look upon thee 
more! 

Wouldst thou have honor and obedience, 

Who art a torturer? Father, never 
dream, 

Though thou mayst overbear this com- 
pany, 

But ill must come of ill. — Frown not on 
me! 

Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging 
looks 

My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee 
from thy seat! 



Cover thy face from every living eye, 
And start if thou but hear a human step : 
Seek out some dark and silent corner, 

there 
Bow thy white head before offended God, 
And we will kneel around, and fervently 
Pray that he pity both ourselves and 

thee. 
Cen. My friends, I do lament this insane 

girl 
Has spoiled the mirth of our festivity. 
Good night, farewell; I will not make 

you longer 
Spectators of our dull domestic quaiTels. 
Another time. — 
{Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice.) 

My brain is swimming round ; 
Give me a bowl of wine! {To Beatrice.) 

Thou painted viper! 
Beast that thou art! Fair and yet ter- 
rible ! ' 
I know a chann shall make thee meek and 

tame, 
Now get thee from my sight ! 
{Exit Beatrice.) 

Here, Andrea, 
Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I 

said 
I would not drink this evening; but I 

must ; 
For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
With thinking what I have decreed to do. 

{Drinking the uinc.) 
Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
Within my veins, and manhood's purpose 

stern, 
And age's ^vm, cold, subtle villainy; 
As if thou wert indeed my children's 

blood 
Which I did thirst to drink. The charm 

works well; 
It must be done; it shall be done, I 

swear ! 

{Exit.) 



ACT 11. 

Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
Palace. Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. 

Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he 

struck but me, 
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In 

truth, if he 
Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. 
0, God Almighty, do thou look upon us, 
We have no other friend but only thee! 
Yet weep not; though I love you as my 

own. 



724 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 



I am not your true mother. 
Bernardo. Oh, more, more 

Than ever mother was to any child, 
That have you been to me ! Had he not 

been 
My father, do you think that I shoukl 
weep? 
Lucr. Alas, poor boy, what else couldst 
thou have done? 

{Enter Beatrice.) 

Beatrice. {In a hurried voice.) Did he 

pass this way? Have you seen him, 

brother? 
Ah ! No, that is his step upon the stairs ; 
'T is nearer now ; his hand is on the door ; 
Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
A duteous child, now save me! Thou, 

gi'eat God, 
Whose image upon earth a father is. 
Dost thou indeed abandon me? He 

comes ; 
The door is opening now ; I see his face ; 
He frowns on others, but he smiles on 

me. 
Even as he did after the feast last night. 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Almighty God. how merciful thou art! 

'Tis but Orsino's servant. — Well, what 
news ? 
Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy 
Father 

Has sent back your petition thus un- 
opened. 

{Giving a paper.) 

And he demands at what hour 't were se- 
cure 

To visit you again? 
Lucr. At the Ave Mary. 

{Exit Servant.) 

So, daughter, our last hope has failed ; 
Ah me. 

How pale you look; you tremble, and 
you stand 

Wrapped in some fixed and fearful medi- 
tation. 

As if one thought were over strong for 
you: 

Your eyes have a chill glare; 0, dearest 
child ! 

Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak 
to me. 
Beatr. You see I am not mad ; I speak to 

you. 
Lucr. You talked of something that your 
father did 

After that dreadful feast? Could it be 
worse 



Than when he smiled, and cried, My sons 

are dead ! 
And every one looked in his neighbor's 

face 
To see if others were as white as he? 
At the first word he spoke I felt the 

blood 
Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance ; 
And when it i:)ast I sat all weak and 

wild ; 
Whilst you alone stood up, and with 

strong words 
Checked his unnatural pride ; and I could 

see 
The devil was rebuked that lives in him. 
Until this hour thus have you ever stood 
Between us and your father's moody 

wrath 
Like a protecting presence : your firm 

mind 
Has been our only refuge and defence : 
What can have thus subdued it? What 

can now 
Have given you that cold melancholy 

look. 
Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear? 
Beatr. What is it that you say? I was 

just thinking 
'T Avere better not to struggle any more. 
Men, like my father, have been dark and 

bloody. 
Yet never — ! before worse comes of it 
'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at 

last. 
Lucr. Oh, talk not so, dear child ! Tell 

me at once 
What did your father do or say to 

you? 
He stayed not after that accursed feast 
One moment in your chamber. — Speak to 

me. 
Ber. Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to 

us! 
Beatr. {Speaking very sloivhj icUh a 

forced calmness.) It was one word, 

mother, one little word ; 
One look, one smile. ( Wildly. ) Oh ! 

He has trampled me 
Under his feet, and made the blood 

stream down 
My pallid cheeks. And he has given us 

all 
Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh 
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, 
And we have eaten. He has made me 

look 
On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 
Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet 

limbs, 



THE CENCI 



725 



And I have never yet despaired — but 

now! 
What would I say? (Recovering her- 
self.) Ah! No, 'tis nothing- new. 
The sufferings we all share have made me 

wild : 
He only struck and cursed me as he 

passed; 
He said, he looked, he did; — nothing at 

all 
Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty, 
I should jDreserve my senses for your 

sake. 
Lucr. Nay, Beatrice ; have courage, my 

sweet girl. 
If any one desjDairs it should be I, 
Who loved him once, and now must live 

with him 
Till God in pity call for him or me. 
For you may, like your sister, find some 

husband. 
And smile, years hence, with children 

round your knees; 
Whilst I, then dead, and all this Iiideous 

coil. 
Shall be remembered only as a dream. 
Beatr. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a 

husband. 
Did you not nurse me when my mother 

died? 
Did you not shield me and that dearest 

boy? 
And had we any other friend but you 
In infancy, with gentle Avords and looks, 
To win our father not to murder us? 
And shall I now desert you? May the 

ghost 
Of my dead mother plead against my 

soul, 
If I abandon her who filled the place 
She left, with more, even, than a mothei''s 

love ! 
Ber. And I am of my sister's mind. In- 
deed 
I would not leave you in this wretched- 
ness, 
Even though the Pojie should make me 

free to live 
In some blithe place, like others of my 

age, 
With sports, and delicate food, and the 

fresh air. 
Oh, never think that I will leave you, 

mother ! 
Lucr. My dear, dear children ! 

(Enter Cenci, suddenly.) 

Cenci. What ! Beatrice here ! 



Come hither! (She shrinks hack and 
covers her face.) Nay, hide not 
your face, 't is fair ; 
Look up! Why, yesternight you dared 

to look 
With disobedient insolence upon me, 
Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 
On what I meant; whilst I then sought 

to hide 
That which I came to tell you — but in 
vain. 
Beatr. (Wildly, staggering towards the 
door.) Oh, that the earth would 
gape ! Hide me, oh God ! 
Cen. Then it was I whose inarticulate 
words 
Fell from my lips, and who with totter- 
ing steps 
Fled from your presence, as you now 

from mine. 
Stay, I command you : from this day and 

hour 
Never again, I think, Avith fearless eye, 
And bi'ow superior, and vmaltercd cheek. 
And that lip made *for tenderness or 

scorn, 
Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of 

mankind; 
Me least of all. Now get thee to thy 

chamber! 
Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed 

mother, 
(To Bernardo.) Thy milky, meek face 
makes me sick with hate ! 
(Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo.) 
(Aside.) So much has jDast between us 

as must make 
Me bold, her fearful. 'T is an awful 

thing 
To touch such mischief as I now conceive: 
vSo men sit shivering on the dewy bank 
And try the chill stream with their feet; 

once in — 
How the delighted spirit jiants for joy ! 
Lucr. (Advancing timidly towards him.) 
Oh, husband ! Pray forgive poor 
Beatrice, 
She meant not any ill. 
Cen. Nor you, perhaps? 

Nor that young imp, whom you have 

taught by rote 
Parricide with his alj^habet? nor Gia- 

como 
Nor those two most unnatural sons, who 

stirred 
Enmity up against me with the Pope? 
\\niom in one night merciful God cut off: 
Innocent lambs! They thought not any 
ill. 



726 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



You were not bere conspiring'? You 

said nothing 
Of how I might be dungeoned as a mad- 
man; 
Or be condemned to death for some of- 
fence, 
And you would be the witnesses? — This 

failing, 
How just it were to hire assassins, or 
Put sudden poison in my evening drink? 
Or smother me when overcome by wine? 
Seeing we had no other judge but God, 
And he had sentenced me, and there were 

none 
But you to be the executioners 
Of his decree enregistered in heaven? 
Oh, no! You said not this? 
Lucr. So help me God, 

I never thought the things you charge 

me with ! 
Cen. If you dare speak that wicked lie 

again, 
I '11 kill you. What ! it was not by your 

counsel 
That Beatrice disturbed the feast last 

night? 
You did not hope to stir some enemies 
Against me, and escape, and laugh to 

scorn 
What every nerve of you now trembles 

at? 
You judged that men were bolder than 

they are: 
Few dare to stand between their grave 

and me. 
Lticr. Look not so dreadfully! By my 

salvation 
I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; 
Nor do I think she designed anything 
Until she heard you talk of her dead 

brothers. 
Cen. Blaspheming liar! you are damned 

for this ! 
But I will take you where you may per- 
suade 
The stones you tread on to deliver you : 
For men shall there be none but those 

who dare 
All things; not question that which I 

command. 
On Wednesday next I shall set out: you 

know 
That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella : 
'T is safely walled, and moated round 

about : 
Its dungeons under-ground, and its thick 

towers, 
Never told tales ; though they have beard 
and seen 



What might make dumb things speak. 

Why do you linger? 
Make speediest preparation for the jour- 
ney! 

{Exit Lucretia.) 
The all-beholding sun yet shines; I bear 
A busy stir of men about the streets; 
I see the bright sky through the window 

panes : 
It is a garish, broad and peering day; 
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and 

ears; 
And every little corner, nook, and hole, 
Is penetrated with the insolent light. 
Come, darkness! Yet, what is the day 

to me? 
And wherefore should I wish for night, 

who do 
A deed which shall confound both night 

and day? 
'T is she shall grope througli a bewilder- 
ing mist 
Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven, 
She shall not dare to look upon its beams. 
Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish 

for night; 
The act I think shall soon extinguish all 
For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom 
Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, 
Or constellations quenched in murkiest 

cloud. 
In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
Towards my purpose. — Would that it 
were done ! 

{Exit.) 



Scene 2. A Chamher in the Vatican. 
Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conver- 
sation. 

Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubt- 
ful law 

By which you might obtain a bare pro- 
vision 

Of food and clothing — 
Giacomo. Nothing more? Alas! 

Bare must be the provision which strict 
law 

Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays. 

Why did my father not apprentice me 

To some mechanic trade? I should have 
then 

Been trained in no high-born necessities 

Which I could meet not by my daily toil. 

The eldest son of a rich nobleman 

Is heir to all his incapacities; 

He has wide wants, and narrow powers. 
If you. 



THE CENCI 



727 



Cardinal Cainillo. were reduced at once 
From thriee-driveii beds of down, and 

delicate food, 
An hundred servants, and six palaces, 
To that which nature doth indeed re- 
quire ? — 
Cam. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 

't were hard. 
Giac. 'T is hard for a firm man to bear: 
but I 
Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father. 
Without a bond of witness to the deed : 
And children, who inherit her fine senses. 
The fairest creatures in this breathing 

world ; 
And she and they reproach- me not. Car- 
dinal, 
Do you not think the Pope would inter- 
pose, 
And stretch authority beyond the law? 
Cam. Though your peculiar case is bard, 
I know 
The Pope will not divert the course of 

law. 
After that impious feast the other night 
I spoke with him, and urged him then to 

check 
Your father's cruel hand; he frowned 

and said, 
"Children are disobedient, and they sting 
Their fathers' hearts to madness and de- 
spair, 
Refjuiting years of care with contumel3^ 
I pity the Count Cenci from my heart ; 
His outraged love perhaps awakened 

hate. 
And thus he is exasperated to ill. 
In the great war between the old and 

young, 
T, who have white bail's and a tottering 

body. 
Will keep at least blameless neutrality." 

{Enter Orsino.) 

You, my good lord Orsino, heard those 
words. 
Orsino. What words'? 

Giac. Alas, repeat them not again! 

There then is no redress for me; at least 
None but that which I may achieve my- 
self, 
Since I am driven to the brink. But, 

say, 
My innocent sister and my only brother 
Are dying underneath my father's eye. 
The memorable torturers of this land, 
Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 
Never inflicted on the meanest slave 



What these endure; shall they have no 

protection"? 
Cam. Why, if they would petition to the 

Pope, 
I see not how he could refuse it — yet 
He holds it of most dangerous example 
In aught to weaken the paternal power, 
Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. 
I pray you now excuse me. I have busi- 
ness 
That will not bear delay. 

{Exit Camillo.) 
Giac. But you, Orsino, 

Have the petition : wherefore not present 

it? 
Ors. I have presented it, and backed it 

with 
My earnest prayers, and urgent interest ; 
It was returned unanswered. I doubt 

not 
But that the strange and execrable deeds 
Alleged in it (in truth they might well 

baffle 
Any belief) have turned the Pope's dis- 
pleasure 
Upon the accusers from the criminal : 
So I should guess from what Camillo 

said. 
Giac. My friend, that palace-walking 

devil. Gold, 
Has whispered silence to his Holiness: 
And we are left, as scorpions ringed with 

fire. 
What should we do but strike ourselves 

to death? 
For he who is our murderous persecutor 
Is shielded by a father's holy name. 
Or I would — 

{Stops ahrupflif.) 
Ors. What? Fear not to speak 

your thought. 
Words are but holy as the deeds they 

cover : 
A priest who has forsworn the God he 

serves ; 
A judge who makes tnith weep at his 

decree ; 
A friend who should weave counsel, as I 

now, 
But as the mantle of some selfish guile ; 
A father who is all a tyrant seems. 
Were the profaner for his sacred name. 
Giac. Ask me not what I think; the un- 
willing brain 
Feigns often what it would not; and we 

trust 
Imagination with such fantasies 
As the tongue dares not fashion into 

words ; 



728 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Which have no words, their horror makes 

them dim 
To the mind's eye. My heart denies 

itself 
To think what you demand. 
Ors. But a friend's bosom 

Is as the inmost cave of our own mind, 
Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of 

And from the all-communicating air. 
You look what I suspected. 
Giac. Spare me now ! 

I am as one lost in a midnight wood, 
Who dares not ask some harmless pas- 
senger 
The path across the wilderness, lest he, 
As my thoughts are, should be — a mur- 
derer. 
I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
Speak to my soul, that will I trust with 

thee. 
But now my heart is heavy, and would 

take 
Lone counsel from a night of sleepless 

care. 
Pardon me that I say farewell — fare- 
well! 
I would that to my own suspected self 
I could address a word so full of peace. 
Ors. Farewell! — Be your thoughts better 
or more bold. 

{Exit Giacomo.) 
I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 
To feed his hope with cold encourage- 
ment : 
It fortunately serves my close designs 
That 't is a trick of this same family 
To analyze their own and other minds. 
Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 
Danderous secrets: for it tempts our 

powers, 
Knowing what must be thought, and may 

be done, 
Into the depth of darkest pui'poses: 
So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, 
Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself. 
And made me shrink from what I can- 
not shun, 
Show a poor figure to my own esteem. 
To which I grow half reconciled. I '11 

do 
As little mischief as I can ; that thought 
Shall fee the accuser conscience. 
(After a pause.) 

Now what harm 
If Cenci should be murdered? — Yet, if 

murdered. 
Wherefore by me'? And what if I could 
take 



The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 
In such an action? Of all earthly 

things 
I fear a man whose blows outspeed his 

words ; 
And such is Cenci : and Avhile Cenci lives 
His daughter's dowry were a secret 

grave. 
If a priest wins her. — Oh, fair Beatrice ! 
Would that I loved thee not, or loving 

thee 
Could but despise danger and gold, and 

all 
That frowns between my wish and its 

effect, 

smiles beyond it ! There is no escape : 
Her bright form kneels beside me at the 

altar, 
And follows me to the resort of men, 
And fills my slumber with tumultuous 

dreams, 
So, when I wake, my blood seems liquid 

fire; 
And if I strike my damp and dizzy head, 
My hot palm scorches it: her very name. 
But spoken by a stranger, makes my 

heart 
Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably 

1 clasp the phantom of unfelt delights 
Till weak imagination half possesses 
The self-created shadow. Yet much 

longer 
Will I not nurse this life of feverous 

hours : 
From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 
I must work out my own dear purposes. 
I see, as from a tower, the end of all: 
Her father dead ; her brother bound to 

me 
By a dark secret, surer than the grave ; 
Her mother scared and unexpostulating 
From the dread manner of her wish 

achieved : 
And she ! — Once more take courage, my 

faint heart ; 
What dares a friendless maiden matched 

with thee? 
I have such foresight as assures success: 
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever. 
When dread events are near, stir up 

men's minds 
To black suggestions; and he prospers 

best. 
Not who becomes the instrument of ill, 
But who can flatter the dark spirit, that 

makes 
Its empire and its prey of other hearts, 
Till it become his slave — as I will do. 
(Exit.) 



THE CENCI 



729 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
Palace. Lucretia, to her enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice. {She enters staggering, and 

speaks wildly.) Reach me that 

handkerchief ! — My brain is hurt ; 
My eyes are full of blood; just wipe 

thein for me — 
I see but indistinctly: — 
Lucretia. My sweet child, 

You have no wound ; 't is only a cold dew 
That starts from your dear brow — Alas ! 

Alas! 
What has befallen ? 
Bcatr. How comes this hair undone 1 

Its wandering strings must be what blind 

me ,so, 
And yet I tied it fast. — 0, horrible! 
The pavement sinks under my feet ! The 

walls 
Si)in rouiul ! I see a woman weeping 

there, 
And standnig calm and motionless, whilst 

I 
Slide eiddily as the world reels — My 

God ! 
The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with 

blood ! 
The sunshine on the floor is black ! The 

air 
Is changed to vapors such as the dead 

breathe 
In charnel-pits! Pah! I am choked! 

There creeps 
A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
About me — 't is substantial, heavy, thick, 
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
My fingers and my limbs to one another. 
And eats into my sinews, and dissolves 
]\ry flesh to a pollution, poisoning 
The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of 

life! 
My God ! I never knew what the mad felt 
Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! 
{More ivildli).) No, I am dead! These 

putrefying limbs 
Shut round and sepulchre the panting 

soul. 
Which would burst forth into the wander- 
ing air! 
{A pause.) What hideous thought was 

that I had even now 7 
'T is gone; and yet its burthen remains 

here 
O'er these dull eyes — upon this weary 

heai't ! 
0, world ! 0, life I 0, day ! 0, misery ! 



Lucr. What ails thee, my poor child? 

She answers not : 
Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain. 
But not its cause; suffering has dried 

away 
The source from which it sprung. 
Beatr. {Frantically.) Like parricide — 
Misery has killed its father : yet its father 
Never like mine — 0, God! What thmg 

am I? 
Lucr. My dearest child, what has your 

father done*? 
Beatr. {Doubtfully.) Who art (hou, ques- 
tioner? I have no father. 
{Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse 

who tends on me, 
It is a piteous ofiice. {To Lucretia, in a 

slow, subdued voice.) Do you know 
I thought I was that wretched Beatrice 
Men speak of, whom her father some- 
times hales 
From hall to hall by the entangled hair; 
At othei-s, pens up naked in damp cells 
Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves 

her there. 
Till she will eat strange flesh. This wo- 

ful story 
So did I overact in my sick dreams, 
That I imagined — no, it cannot be! 
Horrible things have been in this wild 

world. 
Prodigious mixtures, and confusions 

strange 
Of good and ill; and worse have been 

conceived 
Than ever there was found a heart to do. 
But never fancy imaged such a deed 
As— 
{Pauses, suddcnljf recollecting herself.) 

Who art lliou? Swear to nie, ere I die 
With fearful expectation, that indeed 
Thou art not what thou seemest — 

Mother ! 
Lucr. Oh ! 

My sweet child, know you — 
Beatr. Yet speak it not: 

For then if this be truth, that other too 
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth. 
Linked with each lasting circumstance of 

life. 
Never to change, never to pass away. 
Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; 
Thou art Lucretia ; I am Beatrice. 
I have talked some wild words, but will 

no more. 
Mother, come near me : from this point 

of time, 
I am — 

{Her voice dies nivay faintly.) 



730 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Lucr. Alas ! What has befallen thee, 

child? 
What has thy father done? 
Beatr. What have I done? 

Am I not innocent? Is it my crime 
That one with white hair, and imperious 

brow. 
Who tortured me from my forgotten 

years, 
As parents only dare, should call himself 
My father, yet should be! — Oh, what am 

I? 
Wliat name, what place, what memory 

shall be mine? 
What retrosi^eets, outliving even despair? 
Lucr. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child ; 
We know that death alone can make us 

free; 
His death or ours. But what can he have 

done 
Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? 
Thou art unlike thyself ; thine eyes shoot 

forth 
A wandering and strange spirit. Speak 

to me. 
Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers 

twine 
With one another. 
Beatr. 'T is the restless life 

Tortured within them. If I ti-y to speak, 
I shall go mad. Ay, something must be 

done; 
What, yet I know not — something which 

shall make 
The thing that I have suffered but a 

shadow 
In the dread lightning which avenges 

it; 
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 
The consequence of what it cannot cure. 
Some such thing is to be endured or done : 
When I know what, I shall be still and 

calm. 
And never any thing will move me more. 
But now! — Oh blood, which art my 

father's blood, 
Circling through these contaminated 

veins, 
If thou, poured forth on the polluted 

earth, 
Could wash away the crime, and punish- 
ment 
By which I suffer — no, that cannot be ! 
Many might doubt there were a God 

above 
Who sees and permits evil, and so die : 
That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 
Lucr. It must indeed have been some bit- 
ter wrong; 



Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost 
child. 

Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 

Thy sufferings from my fear. 
Beatr. I hide them not. 

What are the words which you would 
have me speak? 

I, who can feign no image in my mind 

Of tliat which has transformed me : I, 
whose thought 

Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up 

In its own formless horror: of all words. 

That minister to mortal intercourse. 

Which wouldst thou hear? For there is 
none to tell 

My misei'y; if another ever knew 

Aught like to it, she died as I will die. 

And left it, as I must, without a name. 

Death ! Death ! Our law and our re- 
ligion call thee 

A punishment and a reward. — Oh, which 

Have I deserved? 
Lucr. The i:)eace of innocence; 

Till in your season you be called to 
heaven. 

Whate'er you may have suffered, you 
have done 

No evil. Death must be the punishment 

Of crime, or the reward of trampling 
down 

The thorns which God has strewed upon 
the path 

Which leads to immortality. 
Beatr. Ay, death — 

The punishment of crime. I pray thee, 
God, 

Let me not be bewildered while I judge. 

If I must live day after day, and keep 

These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy 
spii'it. 

As a foul den from which what thou ab- 
horrest 

May mock thee, unavenged — it shall not 
be! 

Self-murder? no, that might be no es- 
cape, 

For thy decree yawns like a Hell be- 
tween 

Our will and it. ! in this mortal world 

There is no vindication and no law 

Which can adjudge and execute the doom 

Of that through which I suffer. 

{Enter Orsino.) 

(She approaches him solemnly.) Wel- 
come, friend ! 
I have to tell you that, since last we met, 
I have endured a wrong so great and 
strange, 



THE CENCI 



731 



That neither life nor death can give me 

rest. 
Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds 
Which have no form, sufferings which 

have no tongue. 
Orsino. And what is he who has thus in- 
jured you? 
Beatr. The man they call my father: a 

dread name. 
Ors. It cannot be — 

Beatr. What it can be, or not, 

Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ; 
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die, but a religious awe 
Restrains me, and the dread lest death 

itself 
Might be no refuge from the conscious- 
ness 
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! 
Ors. Accuse him of the deed, and let the 

law 
Avenge thee. 
Beatr. Oh, ice-hearted counsellor ! 

If I could find a word that might make 

known 
The crime of my destroyer; and that 

done, 
My tongue should, like a knife, tear out 

the secret 
Which cankei-s ray heart's core; ay, lay 

all bare. 
So that my unpolluted fame should be 
With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story ; 
A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment : — 
If this were done, which never shall be 

done. 
Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded 

hate. 
And the strange horror of the accuser's 

tale. 
Baffling belief, and overpowering speech ; 
Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrai>t 
In hideous hints — Oh, most assured 

redress ! 
Ors. You will endure it then'? 
Beatr. Endure! Orsino, 

It seems your coimsel is small profit. 
{Turns from him, and speaks half to her- 
self.) Ay, 
All must be suddenly resolved and done 
What is this undistinguishable mist 
Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after 

shadow, 
Darkening each other? 
Ors. Should the offender live? 

Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by 

use, 
His crime, whatever it is, dreadful no 

doubt, 



Thine element ; until thou mayest become 
Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue 
Of that which thou permittest? 
Beatr. {To herself.) Mighty death! 

Thou double-visaged shadow! Only 

judge ! 
Rightfullest arbiter! 

{She retires absorbed in thought.) 

Lucr. If the lightning 

Of God has e'er descended to avenge — 

Ors. Blaspheme not! His high Provi- 

. dence commits 

Its glory on this earth, and their own 

wrongs 
Into the hands of men ; if they neglect 
To punish crime — 
Lucr. But if one, like this wretch, 

Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, 

and power? 
If there be no appeal to that which makes 
The guiltiest tremble? If, because our 

wrongs. 
For that they are unnatural, strange, 

and monstrous. 
Exceed all measure of belief? Oh, Ood ! 
If, for the veiy reasons which should 

make 
Redress most swift and sui'e, our injurer 

triumphs? 
And we, the victims, bear worse punish- 
ment 
Than that appointed for their torturer? 
Ors. Think not 

But that there is redress where there is 

wrong, 
So we be bold enough to seize it. 
Lucr. How? 

If there were any way to make all sure, 
I know not — but I think it might be good 
To— 
Ors. Wliy. his late outrage to Beatrice; 

For it is such, as I but faintly guess. 
As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves 

her 
Only one duty, how she may avenge : 
You, but one refuge from ills ill en- 
dured ; 
Me, but one counsel — 
Lucr. For we cannot hope 

That aid, or retribution, or resource, 
Will arise thence, where every other one 
Might find them with less need. 
{Beatrice advances.) 
Ors. Then— 

Beatr. Peace. Orsino! 

And, honored Lady, Avhile I speak, I pray 
That you put off, as gannents overworn. 
Forbearance and respect, remorse and 
fear, 



732 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



And all the fit restraints of daily life, 
Which have been borne from childhood, 

but which now 
Would be a mockery to my holier plea. 
As I have said, I have endured a wrong. 
Which, though it be expressionless, is 

such 
As asks atonement, both for what is past. 
And lest I be reserved, day after day. 
To load with crimes an overburthened 

soul, 
And be — what ye can dream not. I have 

prayed 
To God, and I have talked with my own 

heart, 
And have unravelled my entangled will, 
And have at length determined what is 

right. 
Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or 

true 1 
Pledge thy salvation ei'e I speak. 
Ors. I swear 

To dedicate my cunning, and my 

strength. 
My silence, and whatever else is mine. 
To thy commands. 
Lucr. You think we should devise 

His death? 
Beatr. And execute what is devised, 

And suddenly. We must be brief and 
bold. 
Ors. And yet most cautious. 
Liter. For the jealous laws 

Would punish us with death and infamy 
For that which it became themselves to 
do. 
Beatr. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. 
Orsino, 
What are the means'? 
Ors. I know two dull, fierce outlaws, 

Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and 

they 
Would tramj^le out, for any slight ca- 
price, 
The meanest or the noblest life. This 

mood 
Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
What we now want. 
Lucr. To-morrow, befoi'e dawn, 

Cenei will take us to that lonely rock, 
Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. 
If he arrive there — 
Beatr. He m\ist not arrive. 

Ors. Will it be dark before you reach the 

tower"? 
Lucr. The sun will scarce be set. 
Beatr. But I remember 

Two miles on this side of the fort, the 
road 



Crosses a deep ravine ; 't is rough and 

narrow. 
And winds with short turns down the 

precipice ; 
And in its depth there is a mighty rock, 
Which has, from unimaginable years, 
Sustained itself with terror and with toil 
Over a gulph, and with the agony 
With which it clings seems slowly coming 

down ; 
Even as a wretched soul hour after hour, 
Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, 

leans; 
And leaning, makes more dark the dread 

abyss 
In Avhieh it fears to fall : beneath this 

crag, 
Huge as despair, as if in weariness. 
The melancholy mountain ya\ATis; below. 
You hear but see not an impetuous tor- 
rent 
Raging among the caverns, and a bridge 
Crosses the chasm ; and high above there 

grow. 
With intersecting trunks, from crag to 

crag, 
Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose 

tangled hair 
Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
By the dark ivy's twine. At noon -day 

here 
'T is twilight^, and at sunset blackest 

night. ^ 
Ors. Before you reach that bridge make 

some excuse 
For spurring on your mules, or loitering 
Until— 
Beatr. What sound is that? 

Lucr. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's 

step ; 
It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 
Returned — Make some excuse for being 

here. 
Beatr. (To Orsino as she goes out.) Tliat 

step we hear approach must never 

pass 
The bridge of wliich we spoke. 
(Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.) 
Ors. What shall I do? 

Cenei must find me here, and I must bear 
The imperious inquisition of his looks 
As to what brought me hither: let me 

mask 
Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. 

{Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner.) 

How! Have you ventured hither? 

Know you then 
That Cenei is from home? 



THE CENCI 



733 



Giacomo. I sought him here; 

And now must wait till he returns. 

Ors. Great God! 

Weigh you the danger of this rashness*? 

Giac. Ay ! 

Does my destroyer know his danger? 

We 
Are now no more, as once, parent and 

chihl, 
But man to man ; the oppressor to the 

oppressed ; 
The slanderer to the slandered; foe to 

foe. 
He has east Nature off, which was his 

shield. 
And Nature casts him off, who is her 

shame; 
And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat 
Which I will shake, and say, I ask not 

gold ; 
I ask not happy years; nor memories 
Of tranquil childliood ; nor home-shel- 
tered love; 
Though all these hast thou torn from me, 

and more ; 
But only my fair fame; only one hoard 
Of peace, which I thought hidden from 

thy hate, 
lender the penury heaped on me by thee; 
Or I will — God can understand and par- 
don, 
Why should I speak with man f 
Ors. Be calm, dear friend. 

Giac. Well, I will calmly tell you what he 

did. 
This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, 
Borrowed the dowry of my wife from 

me, 
And then denied the loan ; and left me 

so 
In poverty, the which I sought to mend 
By holding a poor office in the state. 
It had been promised to me, and already 
I bought new clothing for my ragged 

babes. 
And my wife smiled; and my heart knew 

repose ; 
When Cenci's intercession, as I found, 
Conferred this office on a wretch, whom 

thus 
He paid for vilest service. I returned 
With this ill news, and we sate sad to- 
gether 
Solacing our despondency with tears 
Of such affection and unbroken faith 
As temper life's worst bitterness; when 

he, 
As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse. 
Mocking our poverty, and telling us 



Such was God's scourge for disobedient 

sons. 
And then, that I might strike him dumb 

with shame, 
I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he 

coined 
A brief yet specious tale, how I had 

wasted 
The sum in secret riot ; and he saw 
My wife was touched, and he went smil- 
ing forth. 
And when I knew the impression he had 

made. 
And felt my wife insult with silent scoru 
My ardent truth, and look averse and 

cold, 
I went forth too: but soon returned 

again ; 
Yet not so soon but that my wife had 

taught 
My children her harsh thoughts, and they 

all cried, 
"Give us clothes, father! Give us better 

food ! 
What you in one night squander were 

enough 
For months!" I looked, and saw that 

home was hell; 
And to that hell will I return no more 
Until mine enemy has rendered up 
Atonement, or, as he gave life to me 
I will, reversing nature's law — 
Ors. Trust me. 

The comi^ensation which thou seekest 

here 
Will be denied. 
Giac. Then — Are you not my friend? 

Did you not hint at the alternative, 
Upon the brink of which you see I stand. 
The other day when we conversed to- 
gether? 
My wrongs were then less. That word 

I^arricide, 
Although I am resolved, haunts me like 

fear. 
Ors. It must be fear itself, for the bare 

word 
Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest 

God 
Draws to one point the threads of a just 

doom. 
So sanctifying it: what you devise 
Is, as it were, accomplished. 
Giac. Is he dead ? 

Ors. His grave is ready. Know that since 

we met 
Cenci has done an outrage to his daugh- 
ter. 
Giac. What outrage? 



734 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Ors. That she speaks not, but you may 

Conceive such half conjectures as I do, 
From her fixed paleness, and the lofty 

grief 
Of her stern brow, bent on the idle air, 
And her severe unmodulated voice. 
Drowning both tenderness and dread; and 

last 
From this; that whilst her step-mother 

and I, 
Bewildered in our horror, talked to- 
gether 
With obscure hints; both self -misunder- 
stood. 
And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our 

talk, 
Over the truth, and yet to its revenge, 
She interrupted us, and with a look 
Which told before she spoke it, he must 
die : — 
Giac. It is enough. My doubts are well 
appeased ; 
There is a higher reason for the act 
Than mine; there is a holier judge than 

me, 
A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 
Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth 
Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised 
A living t^ower, but thou hast pitied it 
With needless tears! Fair sister, thou 

in whom 
Men wondered how such loveliness and 

wisdom 
Did not destroy each other! Is there 

made 
Ravage of thee? 0, heart, I ask no more 
Justification ! 8hall I wait, Orsino, 
Till he return, and stab him at the door"? 
Ors. Not so; some accident might inter- 
pose 
To rescue him from what is now most 

sure ; 
And you are unprovided where to fly, 
How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, 

listen : 
All is contrived ; success is so assured 
That— 

{Enter Beatrice.) 

Beatrice. 'T is my brother's voice ! You 

know me not? 
Giac. My sister, my lost sister! 
Beatr. Lost indeed ! 

I see Orsino has talked with you, and 
That you conjecture things too horrible 
To speak, yet far less than the truth. 

Now, stay not, 
He might return : yet kiss me ; I shall 
know 



That then thou hast consented to his 

death. 
Farewell, farewell ! Let piety to God, 
Brotherly love, justice, and clemency. 
And all things that make tender hardest 

heai'ts, 
Make thine hard, brother. Answer not: 

farewell. 

{Exeunt severally.) 

Scene II. A mean Apartment in Gia- 
como's House. Giacomo alone. 

Giacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes 

not yet. {Thunder, and the sound 

of a storm.) 
What! can the everlasting elements 
Feel with a worm like man? If so, the 

shaft 
Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall 
On stones and trees. My wife and chil- 
dren sleep : 
They are now living in unmeaning 

dreams : 
But I must wake, still doubting if that 

deed 
Be just, which was most neeessaiy. 0, 
Tliou unrcplenished \ava.\^ ! whose narrow 

fire 
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
Devouring darkness hovers ! Thou small 

flame, 
Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, 
Still flickercst up and down, how very 

soon. 
Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail 

and be 
As thou hadst never been ! So wastes 

and sinks 
Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled 

mine : 
But that no power can fill with vital oil 
That l)roken lamp of flesh. Ha! 't is the 

blond 
Which fed these veins, that ebbs till all 

is cold : 
It is the form that moulded mine, that 

sinks 
Into the white and yellow spasms of 

death : 
It is the soul by which mine was an-ayed 
In God's immortal likeness, which now 

stands 
Naked before Heaven's judgment seat! 

{A hell strikes.) One! Two! 
The hours crawl on ; and, when my hairs 

are white, 
My son will then perhaps be waiting 

thus, 



THE CENCI 



735 



Tortured between just hate and vain re- 
morse ; 

Chiding the tardy messenger of news 

Like those which I expect. I almost 
wish 

He be not dead, although my wrongs are 
great; 

Yet — 't is Orsino's step — 

{Enter Orsino.) 

Speak ! 
Orsino. I am come 

To say he has escaped. 
Giac. Escaped ! 

Ors. And safe 

Within Petrella. He past by the spot 
Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. 
Giac. Are we the fools of such contingen- 
cies? 
And do we waste in blind misgivings thus 
The hours when we should act? Then 

wind and thunder, 
Which seemed to howl his knell, is the 

loud laughter 
With Avhich Heaven mocks our weak- 
ness! I henceforth 
Will ne'er repent of aught, designed or 

done, 
But my repentance. 
Ors. See, the lamp is out. 

Giac. If no remorse is ours when the dim 
air 
Has drank this innocent flame, why 

should we quail 
When Cenci's life, that light by which ill 

spirits 
See the worst deeds they prompt, shall 

sink forever? 
No, I am hardened. 
Ors. Why, what need of this? 

Who feared the pale intrusion of re- 
morse 
In a just deed? Altho' our first plan 

failed, 
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to 

rest. 
But light the lamp ; let us not talk i' the 
dark. 
Giac. (lighting tlie lamp). And yet, once 
quenched, I cannot thus relume 
My father's life : do you not think his 

ghost 
Might plead that argument with God? 
Ors. Once gone. 

You cannot now recall your sister's 

peace ; 
Your own extinguished years of youth 
and hope; 



Nor your wife's bitter words ; nor all the 

taunts 
Which, from the prosperous, weak mis- 
fortune takes; 
Nor your dead mother; nor — 
Giac. 0, speak no more ! 

I am resolved, althoi;gh this very hand 
Must quench the life that animated it. 
Ors. There is no need of that. Listen; 

you know, 
Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 
In old Colonna's time; him whom your 

father 
Degraded from his post? And Marzio, 
That desperate wretch, whom he deprived 

last year 
Of a reward of blood, well earned and 

due? 
Giac. I knew Olimpio; and they say he 

hated 
Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
His lips grew white only to see him pass. 
Of Marzio I know nothing. 
Ors. Marzio's hate 

Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these 

men. 
But in your name, and as at your re- 
quest, 
To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 
Giac. Only to talk? 

Ors. The moments which even now 

Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight 

hour 
May memorize their flight with death : 

ere then 
They must have talked, and may perhaps 

have done, 
And made an end — 
Giac. Listen ! What sound is that ? 

Ors. The house-dog moans, and the beams 

crack: nought else. 
Giac. It is my wife complaining in her 

sleep : 
I doubt not she is saying bitter things 
Of me; and all my children round her 

dreaming 
That I deny them sustenance. 
Ors. Wliilst he 

Who truly took it from them, and who 

fills 
Their hungry rest with bitterness, now 

sleeps 
Lapped in bad pleasures, and trium- 
phantly 
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
Too like the truth of day. 
Giac. If e'er he wakes 

Again, T will not trust to hireling 

hands — 



736 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Ors. Why, that were well. I must be 

gone; good night! 

When next we meet may all be done — 

Giac. And all 

Forgotten — Oh, that I had never been ! 

{Exeunt.) 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. An Apartment in the Castle of 
Petrella. Enter Cenci. 

Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even 
now 

Vanquished and faint. She knows the 
penalty 

Of her delay : yet what if threats arc 
vain "? 

Am I not now within Petrella's moaf? 

Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome"? 

Might I not drag her by the golden hair*? 

Stamp on her? keep her sleepless till her 
brain 

Be overworn? tame her with chains and 
famine? 

Less would suffice. Yet so to leave un- 
done 

What I most seek ! No, 't is her stub- 
born will, 

Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as 
low 

As that which drags it down. 

{Enter Lucretia.) 

Thou loathed wretch ! 
Hide thee from my abhorrence; fly, be- 
gone ! 
Yet stay ! Bid Beatrice come hither. 
Lucretia. Oh, 

Husband ! I pray, for thine own wretched 

sake, 
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks 

like thee 
Through crimes, and through the danger 

of his crimes, 
Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden 

grave. 
And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary 

grey; 
As thou wouldst save thyself from death 

and hell, 
Pity thy daughter; give her to some 

friend 
In marriage: so that she may tempt thee 

not 
To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse 

tliere be. 
Cen. What ! like her sister who has found 

a home 



To mock my hate from with prosperity? 
Strange ruin shall destroy both her and 

thee 
And all that yet remain. My death may 

be 
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
Bid her come hither, and before my 

mood 
Be changed, lest I should drag her by the 

hair. 
Lucr. She sent me to thee, husband. At 

thy presence 
She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; 
And in that trance she heard a voice 

which said, 
" Cenci must die ! Let him confess him- 
self! 
'^ Even now the accusing angel waits to 

hear 
" If God, to punish his enormous crimes, 
" Harden his dyhig heart ! " 
Cen. Why — such things are : 

No doubt divine revealings may be made. 
'T is plain I have been favored from 

above. 
For wlien I cursed my sons they died — 

Ay — so — 
As to the right or wrong that 's talk — 

repentance — 
Repentance is an easy moment's work, 
And more depends on God tlian me. 

Well— well— 
I must give up the greater point, which 

was 
To poison and corrupt her soul. 

{A pause; Lucretia approaches anx- 
iouslji, and tit en sli rinks hack as 
he speaks.) 

One, two; 
Ay — Rocco and Cristofano my curse 
Strangled : and Giacomo, I think, will 

find 
Life a worse Hell than that beyond the 

grave : 
Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate. 
Die in despair, blaspheming : to Ber- 

nai'do, 
He is so innocent, I will bequeath 
The memory of these deeds, and make his 

youth 
The sepulchre of hope, where evil 

thoughts 
Shall grow like weeds on a neglected 

tomb. 
When all is done, out in the wide 

Campagna 
T will pile up my silver and my gold ; 
My costly robes, paintings, and tapes- 
tries ; 



THE CENCI 



737 



My parchments and all records of my 

wealth ; 
And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave 
Of my possessions nothing' but my name ; 
Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
lis Avearer bare as infamy. That done, 
My soul, which is a scourge, will I re- 
sign 
Into the hands of him who wielded it; 
Be it for its own punishment or theirs. 
He will not ask it of me till the lash 
Be broken in its last and deepest wound ; 
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me 

make 
Short work and sure — (Going.) 

Lucr. (stops him). Oh, stay! It was a 

feint : 
She had no vision, and she heard no 

voice. 
I said it but to awe thee. 
Cen. That is well. 

Vile palterer with the sacred truth of 

God, 
Be tliy soul choked with that blasphem- 
ing lie! 
For Beatrice, worse terrors are in store, 
To bend her to my will. 
Lucr. Oh, to what will"? 

What cruel sufferings, more than she has 

known, 
Canst thou inflict? 
Cen. Andrea! Go call my daughter. 
And if she comes not tell her that I 

come. 
What sufferings'? I will drag her, step 

by step. 
Through infamies unheard of among 

men : 
She shall stand shelterless in the broad 

noon 
Of public scorn, for acts blazoned 

abroad. 
One among which shall be — What ? 

Canst thou guess? 
She shall become (for what she most 

abhors 
Shall have a fascination to entrap 
Her loathing Avill) to her own conscious 

self 
All she appears to others; and when 

dead, 
As she shall die unshrived and unfor- 

given, 
A rebel to her father and her God, 
Her corpse shall be abandoned to the 

hounds ; 
Her name shall be the terror of the 

earth ; 



Her spirit shall approach the throne of 

God 
Blague-spotted with my curses. I will 

make 
Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 

(Enter Andrea.) 

Andrea. The lady Beatrice — 

Can. Speak, pale slave! What 

Said she? 
Andr, My Lord, 't was what she looked; 
she said : 
" Go tell my father that I see the gulf 
" Of Hell between us two, which he may 

pass, 
" I will not." 

(Exit Andrea.) 
Cen. Go thou quick, Lucrctia, 

Tell her to come; yet let her understand 
Her coming is consent; and say, more- 
over. 
That if she come not I will curse her. 

(Exit Lucrctia.) 

Ha! 

With what but with a father's curse doth 

God 
Panic-strike armed victory, and make 

pale 
Cities in their prosperity? The world's 

Father 
Must grant a parent's prayer against his 

child. 
Be he who asks even what men call me.- 
Will not the deaths of her rebellious 

brothers 
Awe her before I speak? for I on thon 
Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. 

(Enter Lucretia.) 

Well; what? Speak, wretch! 
Lucr. She said, "1 cannot come; 

" Go tell my father that I see a torrent 

"Of his own blood raging between us." 
Cen. (kneeling) God! 

Hear me ! If this most specious mass of 
flesh. 

Which thou hast made my daughter; this 
my blood, 

This particle of my divided being; 

Or rather, this my bane and my disease. 

Whose sight infects and poisons me ; this 
devil. 

Which sprung from me as from a hell, 
was meant 

To aught good use; if her bright loveli- 
ness 

Was kindled to illumine this dark world ; 

If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love 



738 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Such virtues blossom in ber as should 
make 

The peace of life, I pray thee, for my 
sake, 

As thou the common God and Father art 

Of her, and me, and all; reverse that 
doom ! 

Earth, in the name of God, let her food 
be 

Poison, until she be encrusted round 

With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain upon 
her head 

The blistering drops of the Maremma's 
dew, 

Till she be speckled like a toad; parch 
up 

Those love-enkindled lips, warp those 
fine limbs 

To loathed lameness! All-beholding sun, 

Strike in thine envy those life-darting 
eyes 

With thine own blinding beams ! 
Liicr. Peace ! Peace ! 

For tliine own sake unsay those dreadful 
words. 

When high God grants, he punishes such 
prayers. 
Cen. {leaping up, and throwing his right 
hand towards Heaven). He does his 
will, I mine ! This in addition, 

That if she have a child — 
Lucr. Horrible thought ! 

Cen. That if she ever have a child ; and 
thou, 

Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy 
God, 

That thou be fruitful in her, and en- 
crease 

And multiply, fulfilling his command, 

And my deep imprecation ! May it be 

A hideous likeness of herself ; that, as 

From a distorting mirror, she may see 

Her image mixed with what she most ab- 
hors, 

Smiling upon her from her nursing 
breast. 

And that the child may from its infancy 

Grow, day by day, more wicked and de- 
formed, 

Turning her mother's love to misery: 

And that both she and it may live, imtil 

It shall repay her care and pain with 
hate. 

Or what may else be more unnatural. 

So he may hunt her through the clamor- 
ous scoffs 

Of the loud world to a dishonored grave. 

Shall I revoke this curse'? Go, bid her 
come, 



Before my words are chronicled in 
heaven. 

{Exit Lucretia.) 
I do not feel as if I were a man. 
But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
The offences of some unremembered 

world. 
My blood is running up and down my 

veins; 
A fearful pleasure makes it prick and 

tingle : 
I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe ; 
My heart is beating with an expectation 
Of horrid joy. 

{Enter Lucretia.) 

What ? Speak ! 
Lucr. She bids thee curse; 

And if thy curses, as they cannot do. 
Could kill her soul — 
Cen. She would not come. 'T is well, 

I can do both : first take what I demand. 
And then extort concession. To thy 

chamber ! 
Fly ere I spurn thee : and beware this 

night 
That thou cross not my footsteps. It 

Avere safer 
To come between the tiger and his prey. 

{Exit Lucretia.) 
It must be late; mine eyes grow weary 

dim 
With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. 
Conscience ! Oh, thou most insolent of 

lies! 
They say that sleep, that healing dew of 

heaven. 
Steeps not in balm the foldings of the 

brain 
Which thinks thee an impostor. I will 

go, 
First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 
Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and 

then — 
0, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will 

shake 
Thine arches with the laughter of their 

joy ! 
There shall be lamentation heard in 

Heaven 
As o'er an angel fallen ; and upon Eartl^ 
All good shall droop and sicken, and ill 

things 
Shall, with a spirit of unnatural life. 
Stir and be quickened; even as I am 

now. 

{Exit.) 



THE CENCI 



739 



Scene 2. Before the Castle of Petrella. 
Enter Beatrice and Lucrctia above on the 
ramparts. 

Beatrice. They come not yet. 
Lucretia. 'T is scarce midnight. 

Beatr. How slow 

Behind the course of thought, even sick 
with speed, 

Lags leaden-footed time ! 
Liicr. The minutes pass — 

If he should wake before the deed is 
done ? 
Beatr. 0, mother! he must never wake 
again. 

What thou hast said persuades me that 
our act 

Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 

Out of a human form. 
Liicr. 'T is true he sjjoke 

Of death and judgment with strange con- 
hdenee 

For one so wicked ; as a man believing 

In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 

And yet to die without confession ! 
Beatr. Oh ! 

Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, 

And will not add our dread necessity 

To the amount of his offences. 

(Enter Olimpio and Marzio below.) 

Lucr. See, 

They come. 
Beatr. All mortal things must hasten thus 
To their dark end. Let us go down. 
(Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice 
from above.) 
Olimpio. How feel you to this work? 
Marzio. As one who thinks 

A thousand crowns excellent market 

price 
For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks 
are pale. 
Olim. It is the white reflection of your 
own, 
Which you call pale. 
Mar. Is that their natural hue? 

Olim. Or 'tis my hate, and the deferred 
desire 
To wreak it, which extinguishes their 
blood. 
Mar. You are inclined then to this busi- 
ness? 
Olim. Ay, 

If one should bribe me with a thousand 

crowns 
To kill a serpent which had stung my 

cliild, 
I could not be more willing. 



(Enter Beatrice and Lucretia below.) 

Noble ladies! 
Beatr. Are ye resolved? 
Oliyn. Is he asleep? 

Mar. Is all 

Quiet? 
Lucr. I mixed an opiate with his drink : 

He sleeps so soundly — 
Beatr. That his death will be 

But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, 
A dark continuance of the Hell within 

him. 
Which God extinguish! But ye are re- 
solved? 
Ye know it is a high and holy deed? 
Olim. We are resolved. 
Mar. As to the how this act 

Be warranted, it rests with you. 
Beatr. Well, follow ! 

Olim. Hush! Hark! What noise is that ? 
Mar. Ha ! some one comes ! 

Beatr. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, 
rock to rest 
Your baby hearts. It is the ii'on gate, 
Which ye left open, swinging to the Avind, 
That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, 

follow ! 
And be your steps like mine, light, quick, 
and bold. 

(Exeunt.) 

Scene 3. An Apartment in the Caslle. 
Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. 

Lucretia. They are about it now. 

Beatrice. Nay, it is done. 

Lucr. I have not heard him groan. 

Beatr. He will not groan. 

Lticr. What sound is that ? 

Bealr. List! 'tis the tread of feet 

About his bed. 
Lucr. My God! 

If he be now a cold, stiff corpse. 
Beatr. 0, fear not 

What may be done, but what is left un- 
done: 
The act seals all. 

(Enter Olimpio and Marzio.) 
Is it accomplished? 
Marzio. What? 

Olimpio. Did you not call? 
Beatr. When ? 

Olim. Now. 

Beatr. I ask if all is over? 

Olim. We dare not kill an old and sleep- 
ing man ; 
His thin grey hair, his stera and reverent 
brow, 



740 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



His veined bands crossed on his heaving 

breast, 
And the calm innocent sleep in which he 

lay, 

Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do 

it. 
Mar. But I was bolder; for I chid 

01imi')io, 
And bade him bear his wrongs to his own 

grave 
And leave me the reward. And now my 

knife 
Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when 

the old man 
Stirred in his sleep, and said, " God ! 

hear, 0, hear 
"A father's curse! What, art thou not 

our father r' 
And then he laughed. I knew it was the 

ghost 
Of my dead father speaking thi'ough his 

lips, 
And could not kill him. 
Beatr. Miserable slaves! 

Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
Found ye the boldness to return to me 
With such a deed undone'? Base palter- 

ers! 
Cowards and traitors! Why, the very 

conscience 
Which ye would sell for gold and for re- 
venge 
Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 
A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 
And when a deed where mercy insults 

heaven — 
Why do I talk? { Snatching a dagger 

from one of them and raising it.) 

Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
She murdered her own father, I must do 

it! 
But never dream ye shall outlive him 

long! 
Olim. Stop, for God's sake! 
Mar. I will go back and kill him. 

Olim. Give me the weapon, we must do 

thy will. 
Beatr. take it! Depart! Return! 

(Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 

How pale thou art ! 
We do but that which 'twere a deadly 

crime 
To leave undone. 
Lucr. Would it were done! 

Beatr. Even whilst 

That doubt is passing through your 

mind, the world 
Is conscious of a change. Darloiess and 

hell 



Have swallowed up the vapor they sent 

forth 
To blacken the sweet light of life. My 

breath 
Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied 

blood 
Runs freely through my A-eius. Hark! 

[Enter Olimpio and Marzio.) 

He is — 
Olim. Dead ! 

Mar, We strangled him that there might 
be no blood ; 
And then we threw his heavy corpse i' 

the garden 
Under the balcony ; 't will seem it fell. 
Beatr. {giving them a hag of coin). Here, 
take this gold, and hasten to your 
homes. 
And, Marzio, because thou wast only 

awed 
By that which made me tremble, wear 
thou this! 

(Clothes him in a rich mantle.) 
It Avas the mantle which my grandfather 
Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
Envied his state: so may they envy thine. 
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
To a just use. Live long and thrive! 

And, mark. 
If thou hast crimes, repent : this deed is 
none. 

(A horn is sounded.) 
Lucr. Hark! 'tis the castle horn; my 
God ! it sounds 
Like the last trump. 
Beatr. Some tedious guest is coming. 
Lucr. The drawbridge is let down ; there 
is a tramp 
Of horses in the court; fly, hide your- 
selves ! 

(Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 
Beatr. Let us retire to counterfeit deep 
rest; 
I scarcely need to counterfeit it now : 
The spirit which doth reign within these 

limbs 
Seems strangely undisturbed. I could 

even sleep 
Fearless and calm : all ill is surely past. 
(Exeunt.) 



Scene 4. Another Apartment in the 
Castle. Enter on one side the Legate 
Savella, introduced hy a Servant, and on 
the other Lucretia and Bernardo. 

Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness 



THE CENCI 



741 



Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 
I break upon your rest. I must speak 

with 
Count Cenci; doth he sleep? 
Lucretia {in a hurried and confused man- 
ner). I thmk he sleeps; 
Yet, wake him not, I pray, spare me 

awhile, 
He is a wicked and a wrathful man ; 
Should he be roused out of his sleep to- 

night. 
Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, 
It were not well; indeed it were not well. 
Wait till day break — [aside) O, I am 

deadly sick ! 
Sav. I grieve thus to distress you, but the 

Count 
Must answer charges of the gravest im- 
port. 
And suddenly; such my commission is. 
Lucr. {with increased agitation.) I dare 

not rouse him : I know none who 

dare: 
'T were perilous ; — you might as safely 

waken 
A serpent ; or a corpse in which some 

fiend 
Were laid to sleep. 
Sav. Lady, my moments here 

Are counted. I must rouse him from his 

sleep. 
Since none else dare. 
Lucr. {aside). 0, terror! 0, despair! 
{To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you 

the Lord Legate to 
Your father's chamber. 

{Exeunt Savella and Bernardo.) 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice. 'T is a messenger 

Come to arrest the culprit who now 

stands 
Before the throne of unappealable God. 
Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbi- 
ters. 
Acquit our deed. 
Lucr. Oh, agony of fear! 

Would that he yet might live ! Even 

now I heard 
The Legate's followers whisper, as they 

passed. 
They had a Avarrant for his instant death. 
All was prepared by unforbidden means, 
Wliich we must pay so dearly, having 

done. 
Even now they search the tower, and find 

the body; 
Now they suspect the truth ; now they 

consult 



Before they come to tax us with the fact : 
0, horrible, 't is all discovered ! 
Beatr. Mother, 

What is done wisely, is done well. Be 

bold 
As thou art just. 'T is like a truant 

child. 
To fear that others know what thou hast 

done. 
Even from thine own strong conscious- 
ness, and thus 
Write on unsteady eyes and altered 

cheeks 
All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to 

thyself. 
And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 
Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
Suspicion with such cheap astonishment. 
Or overbear it with such guiltless pride. 
As murderers cannot feign. The deed is 

done, 
And what may follow now regards not 

me. 
I am as universal as the light; 
Free as the earlh-surrounding air; as 

firm 
As the world's centre. Consequence, to 

me, 
Is as the wind which strikes the solid 

rock 
But shakes it not. 

{A cry ivithin and tumult.) 
Voices. Murder! Murder! Murder! 

{Enter Bernardo and Savella.) 

Sav. {to his followers). Go, search the 

castle round ; sound the alarm ; 

Look to the gates that none escape ! 

Beatr. What now"? 

Bernardo. I know not what to say: my 

father 's dead ! 
Beatr. How? dead? he only sleeps: you 
mistake, brother. 
His sleep is very calm, very like death ; 
'T is wonderful liow well a tyrant sleeps. 
He is not dead? 
Ber. Dead ! murdered ! 

Lucr. {with extreme agitation). Oh, no, 
no. 
He is not murdered, though he may be 

dead; 
I have alone the keys of those apart- 
ments. 
Sav. Ha! Is it so? 

Beatr. My Lord, T pray excuse us; 

We will retire ; my mother is not well : 
She seems quite overcome with this 
strange horror. 



742 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 



{Exeunt Lucrctia and Beatrice.) 
Sav. Can you suspect who may have mur- 
dered him? 

Ber. 1 know not what to think. 

Sav. Can you name any 

Who had an interest in his death? 
Ber. Alas ! 

1 can name none who had not, and those 
most 

Who most lament that such a deed is 
done; 

My mother, and my sister, and myself. 
Sav. 'T is strange ! There were clear 
marks of violence. 

I found the old man's body in the moon- 
light 

Hanging beneath the window of his 
chamber, 

Among the branches of a pine : he could 
not 

Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay 
heaped 

And effortless; 'tis true there was no 
blood. 

Favor me, Sir (it much imports your 
house 

That all should be made clear) to tell the 
ladies 

That I request their presence. 
{Exit Bernardo.) 
{Enter Guards, 'bringing in Marzio.) 

Guard. We have one. 

Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian 
and another 
Lurking among the rocks; there is no 

doubt 
But that they are the murderers of Count 

Cenci : 
Each had a bag of coin ; this fellow wore 
A gold-inwoven robe, which, shining 

bright 
Under the dark rock? to the glimmering 

moon, 
Betrayed them to our notice : the other 

fell 
Desperately fighting. 
Sav. What does he confess? 

Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these 
lines found on him 
May speak. 
Sav. Their lan^-uage is at least sincere. 

{Beads.) 

"To THE Lady Beatrice. 

"That the atonement of what my nature 
sickens to conjecture may soon arrive. I 
send thee, at thy brother's desire, those who 



will speak and do more than I dare write — 

"Thy devoted servant, 

"Orsino." 

{Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo.) 

Knowest thou this writing. Lady? 
Beatr, No. 

Sav. Nor thou? 

Lucr. {Her conduct throughout the scene is 
marked by extreme agitation.) 
Where was it found? What is it? 
It should be 
Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange 

horror 
Which never yet found utterance, but 

which made 
Between that hajoless child and her dead 

father 
A gulf of obscure hatred. 
Sav. Is it so? 

Is it tnie. Lady, that thy father did 
Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
Un filial hate? 
Beatr. Not hate, 't was more than hate : 
This is most true, yet wherefore question 
me? 
Sav. There is a deed demanding question 
done; 
Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 
Beatr. What sayest ? My Lord, your 

words are bold and rash. 
Sav. I do arrest all present in the name 
Of the Poise's Holiness. You must to 
Kome. 
Lucr. 0, not to Rome ! Indeed we are not 

guilty. 
Beatr. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? 
My Lord, 
I am more innocent of parricide 
Than is a child born fatherless. Dear 

mother, 
Your gentleness and patience are no 

shield 
For this keen-judging world, this two- 
edged lie, 
Wliieh seems, but is not. What ! will 

human laws. 
Rather will ye who are their ministers. 
Bar all access to retribution first, 
And then, when heaven doth interpose to 

do 
What ye neglect, arming familiar things 
To the redress of an unwonted crime, 
Make ye the victims who demanded it 
Culprits? 'T is ye are culprits! That 

poor wretch 
Who stands so pale, and trembling, and 

amazed. 
If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 



THE CENCI 



743 



A sword in the right hand of justest God. 
Wherefore should I have wielded it? 

Unless 
The crimes which mortal tongue dare 

never name 
God therefore scruples to avenge, 
Sav. You own 

That you desired his death 1 
Beatr. It would have been 

A crime no less than his, if, for one 

moment, 
That tierce desire had faded in my heart. 
'T is true I did believe, and hope, and 

pray, 
Ay, I even knew — for God is wise and 

just, 
That sorne strange sudden death hung 

over him. 
'T is true that this did happen, and most 

true 
There was no other rest for me on earth. 
No other hope in Heaven: now what of 

this? 
Sav. Strange thoughts beget strange 

deeds; and here are both: 
I judge thee not. 
Beatr. And yet, if you arrest mo, 

You are the judge and executioner 
Of that which is the life of life: the 

breath 
Of accusation kills an innocent name, 
And leaves for lame acquittal the poor 

life 
Which is a mask without it. 'T is most 

false 
That I am guilty of foul parricide ; 
Although I must rejoice, for justest 

cause, 
That other hands have sent my father's 

soul 
To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
Now leave us free : stain not a noble 

house 
With vague surmises of rejected crime; 
Add to our sufferings and your own 

neglect 
No heavier sum; let them have been 

enough ; 
Leave us the wreck we have, 
Sav. I dare not, Lady. 

I pray that you prepare yourselves for 

Rome : 
There the Pope's further pleasure will be 

known. 
Lucr. 0, not to Rome ! 0, take us not to 

Rome ! 
Beatr. Why not to Rome, dear mother? 

There as here 
Our innocence is as an armed heel 



To trample accusation. God is there, 

As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 

The innocent, the injured, and the weak; 

And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, 
lean 

On me ; collect your wandering thoughts. 
My Lord, 

As soon as you have taken some refresh- 
ment. 

And had all such examinations made 

Upon the si^ot, as may be necessaiy 

To the full understanding of this matter, 

We shall be ready. Mother, will you 
come? 
Lucr. Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, 
and wrest 

Self-accusation from our agony ! 

Will Giaeomo be there? Orsino? Mar- 
zio? 

All present; all confronted; all demand- 
ing 

Each from the other's countenance the 
thing 

Which is in every heart ! 0, misery ! 
(She faints, and is borne out.) 
Sav. She faints: an ill appearance this. 
Beatr. My Lord, 

She knows not yet the uses of the world. 

She fears that power is as a beast which 
grasps 

And loosens not; a snake, whose look 
transmutes 

All things to guilt which is its nutriment; 

She cannot know how well the supine 
slaves 

Of blind authority read the truth of 
things 

When written on a brow of guilelessness : 

She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 

Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal 
man, 

A judge and an accuser of the wrong: 

Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, 
my Lord ; 

Our suite will join yours in the court be- 
low. 

(Exeunt.) 



ACT V. 

Scene 1. An Apartment in Orsino' s Pal- 
ace. Enter Orsino and Giaeomo. 

Giaeomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come 
to end? 

0, that the vain remorse which must chas- 
tise 

Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to 
wani 



744 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



As its keen sting is mortal to avenge! 

0, that the hour when present had east 
off 

The mantle of its mystery, and shewn 

The ghastly form with which it now re- 
turns 

When its scared game is roused, cheering 
the hounds 

Of conscience to their prey! Alas! 
Alas! 

It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, 

To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 
Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in 

truth. 
Giac. To violate the sacred doors of sleep ; 

To cheat kind nature of the placid death 

Which she prepares for over-wearied 
age; 

To drag from Heaven an unrepentant 
soul, 

Which might have quenched in reconcil- 
ing prayers 

A life of burning crimes — 
Ors. You cannot say 

I urged you to the deed. 
Giac. " 0, had I never 

Found in thy smooth and ready coun- 
tenance 

The mirror of my darkest thoughts ; hadst 
thou 

Never with hints and questions made me 
look 

Upon the monster of my thought, until 

It grew familiar to desire — 
Ors. 'T is thus 

Men cast the blame of their unprosperous 
acts 

Upon the abettors of their own resolve; 

Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. 

And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 

In winch you stand that gives you this 
pale sickness 

Of penitence; confess 'tis fear disguised 

From its own shame that takes the mantle 
now 

Of thin remorse. What if we yet were 
safe? 
Giac. How can that be? Already Bea- 
atriee, 

Lucretia, and the murderer, are in prison. 

I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak. 

Sent to arrest us. 
Ors. I have all prepared 

For instant flight. We can escape even 
now. 

So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 
Giac. Rather expire in tortures, as I may. 

What ! will you east by self-accusing 
flight 



Assured conviction upon Beatrice? 

She, who alone in this unnatural work, 

Stands like God's angel ministered upon 

By fiends; avenging such a nameless 
wrong 

As turns black parricide to piety ; 

Whilst we for basest ends — I fear, Or- 
sino, 

While I consider all your words and 
looks. 

Comparing them Avith your projiosal now, 

That you must be a villain. For what 
end 

Could you engage in such a perilous 
crime, 

Training me on with hints, and signs, and 
smiles. 

Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? 
No, 

Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! 

Coward and slave ! But, no, defend thy- 
self ; 

(Drawing.) Let the sword speak what 
the indignant tongue 

Disdains to brand thee with. 
Ors. Put up your weapon. 

Is it the desperation of your fear 

Makes you thus rash and sudden with a 
friend. 

Now ruined for your sake? If honest 
anger 

Have moved you, know, that what I just 
projoosed 

Was but to try you. As for me, I think 

Thankless affection led me to this point, 

From which, if my firm temper could re- 
pent, 

I cannot now recede. Even whilst we 
speak 

The ministers of justice wait below: 

They grant me these brief moments. 
Now if you 

Have any words of melancholy comfort 

To speak to your pale wife, 't were best 
to pass 

Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 
Giac. 0, generous friend ! how canst thou 
pardon me? 

Would that my life could purchase thine ! 
Ors. That wish 

Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare 
thee well ! 

Hear'st thou not steps along the corri- 
dor? 

(Exit Giacomo.) 

I 'm sorry for it ; but the guards are 
waiting 

At his own gate, and such was my con- 
trivance 



THE CENCI 



745 



That I might rid me both of him and 

them. 
I thought to act a solemn comedy 
Upon the painted scene of this new world, 
And to attain my own peculiar ends 
By some such plot of mingled good and 

ill 
As others weave ; but there arose a Power 
Which grasped and snapped the threads 

of my device, 
And turned it to a net of ruin — Ha ! 

{A shout is heard.) 
Is that my name I hear proclaimed 

abroad? 
But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise ; 
Rags on my back, and a false innocence 
Upon my face, through the misdeeming 

crowd 
Which judges by what seems. 'T is easy 

then 
For a new name and for a country new. 
And a new life, fashioned on old desires, 
To change the honors of abandoned 

Rome. 
And these must be the masks of that 

within, 
Which must remain unaltered. Oh, I 

fear 
That what is past will never let me rest! 
Why, when none else is conscious but 

myself 
Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's 

contempt 
Trouble me? Have I not the power to 

fly 

My own reproaches? Shall I be the 
slave 

Of — what? A word? which those of 
this false world 

Employ against each other, not them- 
selves ; 

As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 

But if I am mistaken, where shall I 

Find the disguise to hide me from mv- 
self. 

As now I skulk from every other eye? 
[Exit.) 



Scene 2. A Hall of Justice. Camillo, 
Judges, d'c, are discovered seated. Mar- 
zio is led in. 

First Judge. Accused, do you persist in 

your denial? 
T ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? 
I demand who were the participators 
In your offence? Speak truth and the 

whole truth. 



Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I 
know nothing; 
Olimpio sold the robe to me fi'om which 
You would infer my guilt. 
Second Judge. Away with him I 

First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white 
from the rack's kiss, 
Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner 
That you would bandy lover's talk with 

it 
Till it wind out your life and soul? 
Away ! 
Mar. Spare me ! 0, spare ! I will con- 
fess. 
First Judge. Then speak. 

Mar. I strangled him in his sleep. 
First Judge. Who urged you to it? 

Mar. His own son Giacomo, and the young 
prelate 
Orsino sent me to Petrella ; there 
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and 

I 
And my companion forthwith murdered 

him. 
Now let me die. 
First Judge. This sounds as bad as 

truth. 
Guards, there, lead forth the prisoners. 

{Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, 
guarded.) 

Look upon this man; 
When did you see him last? 
Beatrice. We never saw him. 

Mar. You know me too well. Lady Bea- 
trice. 
Beatr. I know thee ! How? where? when ? 
Mar. You know 'twas I 

Whom you did urge with menaces and 

bribes 
To kill your father. When the thing was 

done 
You clothed me in a robe of woven gold 
And bade me thrive : how I have thriven, 

you see. 
You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
You know that what I speak is true. 
{Beatrice advances towards him; he covers 
his face, and shrinks back.) 

0, dart 
The terrible resentment of those eyes 
On the dead earth ! Turn them away 

from me ! 
They wound : 't was torture forced the 

truth. My Lords, 
Having said this, let me be led to death. 
Beatr. Poor wretch, I pity thee : yet stay 
awhile. 



746 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Camillo. Guards, lead him not away. 
Beatr. Cardinal Camillo, 

You have a good repute for gentleness 
And wisdom : can it be that you sit here 
To countenance a wicked farce like thisf 
When some obscure and trembling slave 

is dragged 
From sufferings which might shake the 

sternest heart, 
And bade to answer, not as he believes, 
But as those may suspect or do desire. 
Whose questions thence suggest their own 

reply ; 
And that in peril of such hideous tor- 
ments 
As merciful God spares even the damned. 

Speak now 
The thing you surely know, which is, 

that you 
If your fine frame were stretched ui:)on 

that wheel, 
And you were told : "Confess that you 

did poison 
Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed 

child 
Who was the loadstar of your life :" — 

and though 
All see, since his most swift and piteous 

death. 
That day and night, and heaven and 

earth, and time, 
And all the things hoped for or done 

therein 
Are changed to you, through your exceed- 
ing grief, 
Yet you would say, "I confess anything :" 
And beg from your tormentors, like that 

slave, 
The refuge of dishonorable deatli. 
I pray thee. Cardinal, that thou assert 
My innocence. 
Cam. {Much moved.) What shall we 

think, my Lords'? 
Shame on these tears ! I thought the 

heart was frozen 
Which is their fountain. I would pledge 

my soul 
That she is guiltless. 
Judge. Yet she must be tortured. 

Cam. I would as soon have tortured mine 

own nephew : 
(If he now lived he would be just her 

age; 
His hair, too, was her color, and his 

eyes 
Like hers in shape, but blue and not so 

deep) 
As that most perfect image of God's 

love 



That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 

She is as pure as speechless infancy ! 
Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, 
my Lord, 

If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 

Enjoined us to pui'sue this monstrous 
crime 

By the severest forms of law; nay, even 

To stretch a point against the criminals. 

The jDrisoners stand accused of parricide 

Upon such evidence as justifies 

Torture. 
Beatr. What evidence? This man's? 
Judge. Even so. 

Beatr. (To Marzio.) Come near. And 
who art thou thus chosen forth 

Out of the multitude of living men, 

To kill the innocent? 
Mar. I am Marzio, 

Thy father's vassal. 
Beatr. Fix thine eyes on mine; 

Answer to what I ask. {Turning to the 
Judges.) I prithee mark 

His countenance : unlike bold calumny 

Which sometimes dares not speak the 
thing it looks, 

He dares not look the thing he speaks, 
but bends 

His gaze on the blind earth. {To Mar- 
zio.) What ! wilt thou say 

That I did murder my own father? 
Mar. Oh ! 

Spare me ! My brain swims round — I 
cannot speak — 

It was that horrid torture forced the 
truth. 

Take me away ! Let her not look on me ! 

I am a guilty, miserable wretch ; 

I have said all I know; now, let me die! 
Beatr. My Lords, if by my nature I had 
been 

So stern, as to have planned the crime 
alleged. 

Which your suspicions dictate to this 
slave, 

And the rack makes him utter, do you 
think 

I should have left this two-edged instru- 
ment 

Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody 
knife 

With my own name engraven on the heft 

Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes. 

For my own death ? That with such hor- 
rible need 

For deepest silence, I should have ne- 
glected 

So trivial a precaution, as the making 

His tomb the keeper of a secret written 



THE CENCI 



747 



On a thief's memory? What is his poor 

life? 
What are a thousand lives'? A parricide 
,Had trampled them like dnst; and see, 

he lives ! 
{Turning to Marzio.) And thou — 
Mar. Oh, 

spare me ! Speak to me no more ! 
That stern yet piteous look, those solemn 

tones, 
Wound Avorse than torture. {To the 

Judges. ) I have told it all ; 
For pity's sake lead me away to death. 
Cam. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady 

Beatrice, 
He shrinks from her regard like autumn's 

leaf 
From the keen breath of the serenest 

north. 
Beatr. Oh, thou who tremblest on the 

giddy verge 
Of life and death, pause ere thou answer- 

est me ; 
So mayst thou answer God Avith less dis- 
may: 
What evil have we done thee? I, alas! 
Have lived but on this earth a few sad 

years 
And so my lot was ordered, that a father 
First turned the moments of awakening 

life 
To droits, each poisoning youth's sweet 

hope; and then 
Stabbed with one blow my everlasting 

soul ; 
And my untainted fame; and even that 

peace 
Wliich sleeps within the core of the 

heart's heart. 
But the wound was not mortal; so my 

hate 
Became the only worship I could lift 
To our great father, who in pity and love, 
Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him 

off; 
And thus his wrong becomes my accusa- 
tion; 
And art thou the accuser? If thou 

hopest 
Mercy in heaven, show justice upon 

earth : 
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard 

heart. 
If thou hast done murders, made thy 

life's path 
Over the trampled laws of God and 

man. 
Rush not before thy Judge, and say : 

"My Maker, 



I have done this and more; for there was 
one 

Who was most pure and innocent on 
earth ; 

And because she endured what never any. 

Guilty or innocent, endured before; 

Because her wrongs could not be told, 
not thought; 

Because thy hand at length did rescue 
her; 

I with my words killed her and all her 
kin." 

Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 

The reverence living in the minds of 
men . 

Towards our ancient house, and stainless 
fame ! 

Think what it is to strangle infant pity, 

Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, 

Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 

What 't is to blot with infamy and blood 

All that which shows like innocence, and 
is. 

Hear me, great God ! I swear, most inno- 
cent. 

So that the Avorld lose all discrimination 

Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of 
guilt. 

And that which now compels thee to re- 
ply 

To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 

A parricide? 
Mar. Thou art not ! 

Judge. What is this? 

Mar. I here declare those whom I did ac- 
cuse 

Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty. 
Judge. Drag him away to torments; let 
them be 

Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the 
folds 

Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him 
not 

Till he confess. 
Mar. Torture me as ye Avill : 

A keener pain has wrung a higher truth 

From my last breath. She is most inno- 
cent ! 

Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves 
Avell Avith me; 

I Avill not give you that fine piece of 
nature 

To rend and ruin. 

{Exit Marzio, guarded.) 
Cam. What say ye noAv, my Lords? 

Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it 
be Avhite 

As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. 
Cam. Yet stained with blood. 



748 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Judge. {To Beatrice.) Iviiow you this 

paper, Lady? 
Beatr. Entrap me not with questions. 

Who stands here 
As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, 
Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, 

judge, 
What, all in one? Here is Orsino's 

name ; 
Wliere is Orsino? Let his eye meet 

mine. 
"\A^iat means this scrawl? Alas! ye know 

not what. 
And therefore on the chance that it may 

be 
Some evil, will ye kill us ? 

{Enter an Officer.) 

Officer. Marzio 's dead. 

Judge. What did he say? 
Officer. Nothing. As soon as we 

Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled 

on us, 
As one who baffles a deep adversary'; 
And holding his breath, died. 
Judge. There remains nothing 

But to apply the question to those prison- 
ers, 
Who yet remain stubborn. 
Cam. I overrule 

Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
Of these most innocent and noble persons 
Will use my interest with the Holy 
Father. 
Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then be 
done. Meanwhile 
Conduct these culprits each to separate 

cells ; 
And be the engines ready: for this night, 
If the Pope's resolution be as grave. 
Pious, and just as once, I '11 wring the 

truth 
Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by 
groan. 

{Exeunt.) 



Scene 3. The Cell of a Prison. Beatrice 
is discovered asleep on a Couch. Enter 
Bernardo. 

Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon 
her face, 

Like the last thoughts of some day 
sweetly spent 

Closing in night and di'eams, and so pro- 
longed. 

After such torments as she bore last 
night. 



How light and soft her breathing comes. 
Ay, me ! 

Methinks that I shall never sleep again. 

But I must shake the heavenly dew of 
rest 

From this sweet folded flower, thus — 
wake ! awake ! 

What, sister, canst thou sleep? 
Beatrice. {Awaking.) I was just dream- 
ing 

That we were all in Paradise. Thou 
knowest 

This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 

After our father's presence. 
Ber. Dear, dear sister. 

Would that thy dream were not a dream ! 
0, God ! 

How shall I tell? 
Beatr. What wouldst thou tell, 

sweet brother? 
Ber. Look not so calm and happy, or even 
whilst 

I stand considering what I have to say 

My heart will break. 
Beatr. See now, thou 

mak'st me weep : 

How very friendless thou wouldst be, 
dear child. 

If I were dead. Say what thou hast to 
say. 
Ber. They have confessed ; they could en- 
dure no more 

The tortures — 
Beatr. Ha ! What was there to 

confess? 

They must have told some weak and 
wicked lie 

To flatter their tormentors. Have they 
said 

That they were guilty? 0, white inno- 
cence, 

That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt 
to hide 

Thine awful and serenest eountenarice 

From those who know thee not ! 

{Enter Judge, icith Lucretia and Giacomo, 
guarded.) 

Ignoble hearts ! 
For some brief spasms of pain, which 

are at least 
As mortal as the limbs through which 

they pass, 
Are centuries of high splendor laid in 

dust ? 
And that eternal honor which should live 
Sun-like, above the reek of mortal fame, 
Changed to a mockery and a by-word? 

What ! 



THE CENCI 



749 



Will you give up these bodies to be 

dragged 
At horses' heels, so that our hair should 

sweep 
The footsteps of the vain and senseless 

crowd, 
Who, that they may make our calamity 
Their worship and their spectacle, will 

leave 
The ehui'ches and the theatres as void 
As their own hearts? Shall the light 

multitude 
Fling, at their choice, curses or faded 

pity. 
Sad funeral flowers to deck a living 

corpse. 
Upon us as we pass to pass away. 
And leave — what memory of our having 

been? 
Infamy, blood, terror, despair? thou. 
Who wert a mother to the parentless. 
Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs 

kill thee ! 
Brother, lie down with me upon the rack. 
And let us each be silent as a corpse; 
It soon will be as soft as any grave. 
'T is but the falsehood it can wring from 

fear 

Makes the rack cruel. 

Giacomo. They will tear the truth 

Even from thee at last, those cruel pains : 

For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 

Lucr. 0, speak the truth ! Let us all 

quickly die; 
And after death, God is our judge, not 

they; 
lie will have mercy on us. 
Ber. If indeed 

It can be true, say so, dear sister mine ; 
And then the Po^dc will surely pardon 

you, 
And all be well. 
Judge. Confess, or I will warp 

Your limbs with such keen tortures — 
Beatr. Tortures ! Turn 

The rack henceforth into a spinning- 
wheel ! 
Torture your dog, that he may tell when 

last 
He lapi^ed the blood his master shed — 

not me ! 
My pangs are of the mind, and of the 

heart. 
And of the soul ; ay, of the inmost soi;l. 
Which weeps within tears as of burning 

gall 
To see, in this ill world where none are 

true, 
My kindred false to their deserted selves. 



And with considering all the wretched 
life 

Which I have lived, and its now wretched 
end, 

And the small justice shown by Heaven 
and Earth 

To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou 
art, 

And what slaves these ; and what a world 
we make. 

The oppressor and the oppressed — such 
pangs compel 

My answer. What is it thou wouldst 
with mc? 
Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father's 

death? 
Beatr. Or wilt thou rather tax high judg- 
ing- God 

That he permitted such an act as that 

Which I have suffered, and which he be- 
held; 

Made it unutterable, and took from it 

All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 

But that which thou hast called my fath- 
er's death? 

Which is or is not what men call a crime. 

Which either I have done, or have not 
done; 

Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 

If ye desire it thus, thus let it be. 

And so an end of all. Now do your will ; 

No other pains shall force another word. 
Judge. She is convicted, but has not con- 
fessed. 

Be it enough. Until their final sentence 

Let none have converse with them. You, 
young Lord, 

Linger not here! 
Beatr. 0, tear him not away ! 

Judge. Guards ! do your duty. 
Ber. {Embracing Beatrice.) Oh! would 
ye divide 

Body from soul ? 
Officer. That is the headsman's business. 
(Exeunt all hut Lucretia, Beatrice, and 

Giacomo.) 
Giac. Have I confessed? Is it all over 
now? 

No hope! No refuge! weak, wicked 
tongue. 

Which hast destroyed me, would that thou 
hadst been 

Cut out and thrown to dogs first ! To 
have killed 

My father first, and then betrayed my 
sister; 

Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and pure 

In this black, guilty world, to that which 



750 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 



So well deserve! My wife! my little 

ones ! 
Destitute, helpless, and I— Father ! God ! 
Canst thou fory-ive even the unforgiving-, 
When tlieir full hearts break thus, thus ! 

{Covers his face, and weeps.) 
Lucr. 0, my child ! 

To what a dreadful end are we all come! 
"Why did I yield? Why did I not sus- 
tain 
Those torments? Oh, that I were all 

dissolved 
Into these fast and unavailing tears, 
Wliich flow and feel not! 
Beatr. What 't was weak to do, 

'T is weaker to lament, once being done; 
Take cheer! The God who knew my 

wrong, and made 
Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, 
Seems, and but seems to have abandoned 

us. 
Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
Brother, sit near me; give me your firm 

hand, 
You had a manly heart. Boar up! 

Bear up ! 
0, dearest Lady, put your gentle head 
Upon my ]i\]t, and try to sleep awhile : 
Your eyes look pale, hollow, and over- 
worn. 
With heaviness of watching and slow 

grief. 
Come, I will sing you some low, slooi^y 

tune. 
Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old 

thing, 
Some outworn and unused monotony, 
Such as our country gossips sing and 

spin, 
Till they almost forget they live: lie 

down ! 
So, that will do. Have I forgot the 

words 1 
Faith! They are sadder than I thought 

they were. 

SONG. 

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
When my life is laid asleei)*? 
Little cares for a smile or a tear, 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier ! 

Farewell ! Heighho ! 

What is this whispers low? 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, 
Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
I would close these eyes of pain; 



When to wake? Never again. 

World! Farewell! 

Listen to the passing bell! 
It says, thou and I must part. 
With a light and a heavy heart. 

{The scene closes.) 

Scene 4. A Hall of the Prison. 
Camillo and Bernardo. 



Enter 



Camillo. The Pope is stern; not to be 

moved or bent. 
He looked as calm and keen as is the 

engine 
Which tortures and wliich kills, exempt 

itself 
From aught that it inlHcts; a marble 

j'orm, 
A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. 
He frowned, as if to frown had been the 

trick 
Of his machinery, on the advocates 
Presenting the defences, which he tore 
And Ihi'ew beliind, nuUteiing with hoarse, 

harsh voice : 
''Which among ye defended their old 

father 
Killed in his sleep?" Then to another: 

''Thou 
Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis 

well." 
He turned to me then, looking depreca- 
tion. 
And said these three words, coldly: 

"They must die." 
Bernardo. And yet you left him not? 
Cam. 1 urged him still; 

Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish 

wrong 
Which prompted your unnatural parent's 

death. 
And he replied : "Paolo Santa Croce 
Murdered his mother yester-evening. 
And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife, 
That soon, for some just cause no doul)t, 

the young 
Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
Authority, and power, and hoary hair. 
Are grown crimes capital. You are my 

nephew, 
You come to ask their pai'don ; stay a mo- 
ment ; 
Here is their sentence; never see me more 
Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled." 
Ber. 0, God, not so! I did believe indeed 
That all you said was but sad prepara- 
tion 
For ha]ipy news. O, tliei-e are words 
and h)oks 



THE CENCI 



751 



To bend the sternest purpose ! Once I 

knew them, 
Now I f'orfi'et them at my dearest need. 
What think you if I seek him out and 

bathe 
His feet and robe with hot and bitter 

tears? 
Importune him with prayers, vexing his 

brain 
With my perpetual cries, iintil in rage 
He strike me with his pastoral cross, and 

trample 
Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 
May stain the senseless dust on which he 

treads, 
And remorse waken mercy? I will do it ! 
0, \\ait till I return ! 

{Rushrs oxt.) 
Cam. Alas! poor boy! 

A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
To the deaf sea. 

(Enter Lucretin, Beatrice, and Giacomo, 
guarded.) 

Beatrice. I hardly dare to fear 

That thou bring'st other news than a just 

pardon. 
Cam. May God in heaven be less inex- 
orable 
To the Pope's prayers, than he has been 

to mine. 
Here is the sentence and the warrant. 
Beatr. {Wddhi.) Oh, 

My God ! Can it be possible I have 
To die so suddenly? So young to go 
Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy 

ground ! 
To be nailed down into a narrow place ; 
To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no 

more 
Blithe voice of living thing; muse not 

again 
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus 

lost — 
How fearful! To be nothing! Or to 

be— 
What? 0, where am I? Let me not go 

mad ! 
Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! 

If there should be 
No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void 

world ; 
The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled 

world ! 
If all things then should be — my father's 

spirit. 
His eye, his voice, his touch, surrounding 

me; 



The atmosphere and breath of my dead 

life ! 
If sometimes, as a shape more like him- 
self, 
Even the form which tortured me on 

earth, 
Masked in gi'ey hairs and wrinkles, he 

should come 
And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix 
His eyes on mine, and drag me down, 

down, down ! 
For was he not alone omnipotent 
On Eartli, and ever present? Even tho' 

dead. 
Does not his spirit live in all that breathe. 
And work for me and mine still the same 

ruin, 
Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet re- 
turned 
To teacli tho laws of death's untrodden 

realm ? 
Unjust perhajis as those which drive us 

now, 
0, whither, whitlier? 
Lucrelia. Trust in God's sweet love, 

The lender promises of Christ : ere night, 
Think we shall be in Paradise. 
Beatr. 'T is past! 

Whatever comes, my heart shall sink no 

more. 
And yet, I know not why, your words 

strike chill : 
How tedious, false, and cold seem all 

things. I 
Have met with much injustice in this 

world ; 
No difference has been made by God or 

man, 
Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 
I am cut off from the only world I know, 
From light, and life, and love, in youth's 

sweet prime. 
You do well telling me to trust in God, 
I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 
Can any trust? And yet my heart is 

cold. 
[During the latter speeches Giacomo has re- 
tired conversing with Camilla, who now 
goes out. Giacomo advances.) 
Giacomo. Know you not, mother — sister, 

know you not? 
Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
The Pope to grant our pardon. 
Luer. Child, perhaps 

It will be granted. We may all then 

live 
To make these woes a tale for distant 

years: 



752 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



0, what a thought! It gushes to my 

heart 
Like the warm blood. 
Beatr. Yet both will soon be cold. 

0, trample out that thought! Worse 

than despair, 
Worse than the bitterness of death, is 

hope: 
It is the only ill which can find place 
Upon the giddy, sharp and naiTow hour 
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the 

swift frost 
That it should spare the eldest flower of 

spring : 
Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er 

whose couch 
Even now a city stands, strong, fair and 

free; 
Now stench and blackness yawn, like 

death. plead 
With famine, or wind-walking pestilence, 
Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with 

man ! 
Cruel, cold, formal man ! righteous in 

words. 
In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must 

die: 
Since such is the reward of innocent 

lives ; 
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 
And whilst our murderers live, and hard, 

cold men, 
Smiling and slow, walk thro' a world of 

tears 
To death as to life's sleep ; 't were just the 

grave 
Were some strange joy for us. Come, 

obscure Death, 
And wind me in thine all-embracing 

arms! 
Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom. 
And rock me to the sleep from which 

none wake. 
Live ye, who live, subject to one another 
As we were once, who now — 

{Bernardo rushes in.) 

Ber. Oh, horrible ! 

That teai's, that looks, that hope poured 
forth in prayer. 

Even till the heart is vacant and de- 
spairs. 

Should all be vain! The ministers of 
death 

Are waiting round the doors. I thought 
I saw 

Blood on the face of one — what if 't were 
fancy"? 



Soon the heart's blood of all I love on 

earth 
Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off 
As if 't were only rain. 0, life ! 0, 

world ! 
Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
That perfect mirror of pure innocence 
Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and 

good, 
Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, 
Who made all lovely thou didst look 

upon — 
Thee, light of life — dead, dark! while I 

say, sister. 
To hear I have no sister; and thou, 

Mother, 
Whose love was [as] a bond to all our 

loves — • 
Dead ! The sweet bond broken ! 

{Enter Camillo and Guards.) 

They come. Let me 

Kiss those warm lips before their crimson 
leaves 

Are blighted — white — cold. Say fare- 
well, before 

Death chokes that gentle voice ! 0, let 
me hear 

You speak! 
Beatr. Farewell, my tender brother. 

Think 

Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now : 

And let mild pitying thoughts lighten for 
thee 

Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh de- 
spair. 

But tears and patience. One thing more, 
my child, 

For thine own sake be constant to the 
love 

Thou bearest us ; and to the faith that I, 

Though wrapt in a strange cloud of crime 
and shame. 

Lived ever holy and unstained. And 
though 

111 tongues shall Avound me, and our com- 
mon name 

Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent 
brow 

For men to point at as they pass, do 
thou 

Forbear, and never think a thought un- 
kind 

Of those, who perhaps love thee in their 
gTaves. 

So mayest thou die as I do; fear and 
pain 

Being subdued. Farewell! farewell! 
farewell ! 



THE CENCI 



753 



Ber. I eanuot say, farewell ! 

Cam. 0, Lady Beatrice ! 

Beatr. Give yourself no unnecessary pain, 
My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, 

tie 
My girdle for me, and bind up this hair 
In any simple knot; ay, that does well. 



And yours I see is coming dow^n. How 

often 
Have we done this for one another! now 
We shall not do it any moi-e. My Lord, 
We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very 

well. 




EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



Edward Buhver-Lytton, first Baron Lytton 
(1803-1873), of aristocratic birth, passed a 
youth of romantic emotion, precocious liter- 
ary work, wide desultory study, and fashion- 
able gaiety. Interested in political reform, he 
was in the House of Commons from 1831 most 
of the time till 18GG, when he became a peer; 
and also held cabinet offices. His activity 
and versatility were great. His best-known 
literary works are his novels; his plays, 
notably The Lady of Lyons and Ricliclicit, 
have been among the most often acted of 
the century. 

Buhver-Lytton was rather a popular than 
a great writer, a man of much talent but 
not of genius. He seems to have taken to 
writing as a result of his ambition and de- 
sire for popularity and prominence, and of a 
mind which was restless and active ratlier 
than fine, penetrating, or imaginative. His 
earlier novels followed the prevalent ro- 
mantic taste, being especially under the in- 
fluence of Byron. Later, like Dickens, he 
combined realism with the spirit of reform; 
he also wrote some of the most jiopular of 
historical novels. In his style there is a 
grandiloquence, a flowery wordiness, that 
often seems insincere, and was made fun of 
by Thackeray among liis Burlesques. From 
tiie first, the critics have had no very high 
praise for his novels, but their popular suc- 
cess was xmiversal; which was due in large 
measure to active elaborate plots, and a pro- 
fusion of " strong " dramatic situations. 
And much the same must be said of his plays. 
They follow instead of leading contemporary 
taste; their style is sometimes meretricious. 
Yet their popularity was and has continued 
to be great. It shows how relatively low has 
been the literary quality of nineteenth-cen- 
tury acting drama that they are among the 
most favorable specimens of dramatic taste 
in the earlier Victorian period. Buhver-Lyt- 
ton was the only man, except perhaps Cold- 
smith, from Dryden to the present day, who 
was prominent in otlier literary work and 
greatly succeeded in the drama. 

The Lady of Lyons was written in 1838, 
in little over two weeks. The author states 
in his Preface that the plot was suggested by 
a vague memory of a "very pretty little tale,, 
called 'The Bellows-Mender'"; also that the 
play was written to help Macready in his 
newly assumed management of the Covent 
Garden theater, and to retrieve " the com- 
parative failure on the stage of The Duchess 



de la VaJhere," a play of his own which had 
appeared in 183G. When produced. The Lady 
of Lyons made an immediate success, and lias 
lield the stage intermittently till almost the 
present day. It was put on in elaborate and 
expensive style by so eminent an actor as 
Henry Irving in 1879, wlien it was already 
old and liackneyed, ami played by him forty- 
five times, at a period wlien he was acting in 
such plays as Faust and The Bells. Irving 
used also to read it aloud publicly. For half 
a century, therefore, it was a representative 
play and pleased the best tastes. 

A play like The Lady of Lyons, with its 
abundant action, its superficiality, its sen- 
sationalism, its emotionality, is properly to 
be classed as a melodrama ; but it sliows curi- 
ously a heritage from both scntimentalism 
and romanticism. It ends with a couple of 
maxims of the sort all'ected by the former, 
and such are to be found elsewhere in the 
play. Mme. Deschappelles is of a type of 
crudely worldly, designing woman often op- 
posed to the celestial innocence of the eiglit- 
eenth century heroine. The , resemblance to 
sentimental drama is perhaps most impor- 
tant in the attempt to combine realism and 
humor with an all-pervading but shallow 
emotionality, and with an elaborate and not 
over-probable plot. A romantic element was 
inevitable in any play by Bulwer and writ- 
ten in the 30's. The lovers belong rather to 
romance than to scntimentalism. The eight- 
eenth century liked to see a young man 
raise sliglited and unfortunate merit to the 
honor of associating with county-families; 
what could give better opportunity for the 
mood of moral approbation in which senti' 
mental drama basked? Scntimentalism was 
after all conventionality and worldliness on 
its good behavior ; while romancp hardly ac- 
cepted the bonds even of possibility. 
Romance liked to hitch its wagon to a star, 
and eagerly granted a suspension of its dis- 
belief to the gardener's son who learned paint- 
ing, fencing, and deportment that he might 
woo the haughtiest beauty of Lyons. The 
romance was felt as the more delightful be- 
cause the scene was in a neighboring country 
and the time within the memory of middle- 
aged people; those with an appetite for the 
strange and alluring were gratified at finding 
it so near their own lives. The setting had 
another advantage. A concession to com- 
mon-sense was made by placing the action, as 
the author remarks in his Preface, at a time 



754 



EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 



755 



when the strata of society had just been 
shaken up by the Revolutionary eartliquake, 
and an excess of mawkishness was avoided 
by treating Mme. Deschappelles (and her 
daughter at first) witli satiric humor. Tlie 
dramatist forgot his romance also in act IV, 
where, after being grossly tricked by him, 
Pauline betrays and finally confesses her con- 
tinued desire for Claude. Such a strain on 
our credulity can be justified only by a phys- 
ical passion such as crude realism may por- 
tray, a dash of cynicism, and the dramatist's 
desire to prepare for the happy outcome. 
Romance flourishes chiefly in the figure of 
Claude in act V, during most of which he 
is judiciously kept rather in the background, 
lest the beautifying glamour of fresh romance 
which now covers him should be dissipated. 
" This mysterious Morier," especially favored 
by Napoleon — " his constant melancholy, the 
loneliness of his habits — his daring valor. 
Ills brilliant rise in the profession, all tend to 
make him as much the matter of gossip as of 
admiration." This is a perfect description 
of the " Byronic hero," gloomy and piquing, 
who began his admired course in such poems 
as The (liaoiir and Manfred, and enthralled 
the world, not yoiuig ladies only, for a gener- 
ation. Bulwer himself in his youtli had been 
nicknamed " Childe Harold" by an English- 
woman in Paris. Claude IMelnotte is a com- 
bination of romance and sheer improbability. 
In his Preface the author pleads the general 
ferment of tlie time as the excuse for Mel- 
notte's "unsettled principles (the struggle 
between which makes the passion of this 
drama) "; but the most romantic spectator 
could hardly find here an excuse for his un- 
manly treachery. His ideal figure at the 
close was needed to restore him to the good 
graces of the audience. It must be remem- 
bered that in fiction of this type the barest 
minimum of psychological trutli was all that 
was felt to be needed in the persons who acted 
out an interesting plot. Other traits char- 
acteristic of the age appear in tlie literary 
style, the composite style of the romanticists 
— not the language of life, but somewhat 
artificial, and ornate and stilted, yet unlike 
the artificiality of the eighteenth century. 
With Shakespeare's example as a precedent, 



Bulwer puts the more high-emotional pas- 
sages of this prose play into blank-verse. 

In this play as in the romantic novel, such 
as Scott's, some solid mundane element was 
needed to hold the romance down from float- 
ing away into the palaces of the sunset clouds. 
Two of the characters especially fulfil this 
office, the two " character parts." Damas is 
the typical blunt soldier, affecting cynicism 
about women, but generous, good-hearted, and 
ready '' to blubber " at an affecting scene. 
The other is Mme. Deschappelles, transpar- 
ently silly and vain. This combination of 
the improbable-pleasing with the exagger- 
ated-real may be regarded as inherited from 
sentimentalism, and makes a strong link be- 
tween Bulwer-Lytton and Dickens. In life 
they were good friends, and both were equally 
interested in the novel and the drama, which 
have long been the most intimately connected 
of literary forms. 

Tlie success of the play was due first and 
foremost, no doubt, to its well-constructed 
plot, full of suspense, surprise, and variety. 
'Jo it the author tells us he gave his chief 
attention. As in The Alchemist, Venice Pre- 
served and The Cenci, the last act stands 
apart from the rest of the play; the main 
action being concluded, it seems as if all were 
over, yet a new interest is created as keen 
as the old, an admirable device. Bulwer 
himself attributed his success to the art " of 
creating agreeable emotions"; this amounts 
to saying that it was adapted to con- 
temporary taste, which the autlior shared, but 
which, being somewliat crudely ambitious, he 
also studied. To us the play seems a some- 
what unhappy combination of the romantic, 
the sentimental, the satiric, and the realistic. 
It seems to us lacking whether we compare it 
with the stalwart imagination of the Eliza- 
bethans, or the austere reality of Ibsen and 
his followers. It seems to us more old-fash- 
ioned, because it was more temporary, than 
the plays of Sheridan or Jonson. It is only 
the highest excellence that is timeless. But 
the qualities which won admiration for The 
Lady of Lyons in its day gain it tolerance 
now, and its suggestiveness as to early Vic- 
torian taste gives it considerable historical in- 
terest. 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Beauseant, a rich gentleman of Lyons, in 
love with, and refused hi/, Pauline Des- 
chappelles. 

Glavis, his friend, also a rejected suitor to 
Pauline. 

Colonel (afterwards General) Damas, 
cousin to Mme. DcschappcUes, and an of- 
ficer in the French Army. 

Monsieur Deschappelles, a Lyonnese mer- 
chant, father to Pauline. 

Landlord of the Golden Lion. 

Gaspar. 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. A room in the house of M. 
Deschappelles, at Lyons. Pauline re- 
clining on a sofa; Marian, her maid fan- 
ning her. — Flowers and notes on a table 
beside the sofa. — Madame Deschappelles 
seated. — The gardens are seen from the 
open window. 

Mme. DeseJiap. Marian, put that rose a 
little more to the left. — {Marian alters 
the position of a rose in Pauline's hair.) 
— Ah, so! — that improves the air, — the 
tournure, the je ne sais quoi! ^ — You are 
certainly very handsome, child! — quite 
my style; — I don't wonder that you 
make such a sensation! — Old, young, 
rich, and poor, do homage to the Beauty 
of Lyons! — Ah, we live again in our 
children, — especially when they have our 
eyes and complexion! 

Pauline. {Languidly.) Dear mother, you 
spoil your Pauline! — {Aside.) I wish I 
knew who sent me these flowers ! 

Mme. Deschap. No, child! — If I praise 
you, it is only to inspire you with a 
proper ambition. — You are born to make 
a great marriage. — Beauty is valuable 
or worthless according as you invest the 
property to tlie best advantage. — Mar- 
ian, go and order the carriage! 
{Exit Marian.) 

Pauline. Who can it be that sends me, 
every day, these beautiful flowers? — how 
sweet they are! 

{Enter Servant.) 



Claude IMelnotte. 

First Officer, Second Officer, Third Of- 
ficer. 

Servants, Notary, de. 
]\L\DAME Deschappelles. 
Pauline, her daughter. 
The Widow Melnotte, mother to Claude. 
Janet, the innkeeper's daughter. 
Marian, maid to Pauline. 

Scene — Lyons and the ncighhorhood. 
Time— 1795-1798. 

Servant. Monsieur Beauseant, madam. 

Mme. Deschap. Let him enter. Pauline, 
this is another offer! — I know it is! — 
Your father should engage an additional 
clerk to keep the account-book of your 
conquests. 

{Enter Beauseant.) 

Beau. Ah, ladies, how fortunate I am to 
find you at home! — {Aside.) How 
lovely she looks ! — It is a great sacrifice 
I make in marrying into a family in 
trade! — they will be eternally grateful! 

— {Aloud.) Madame, you will permit 
me a word with your charming daughter. 

— {Approaches Paidine, who rises dis- 
dainfully.) — Mademoiselle, I have ven- 
tured to wait upon you, in a hope that 
you must long since have divined. Last 
night, when you outshone all the beauty 
of Lyons, you completed your conquest 
over me ! You know that my fortune is 
not exceeded by any estate in the prov- 
ince, — you know that, but for the Revo- 
lution, which has defrauded me of my 
titles, I should be noble. May I, then, 
trust that you will not reject my al- 
liance? I offer you my hand and heart. 

Pauline. {Aside.) He has the air of a 
man who confers a favor! — {Aloud.) 
Sir, you are very condescending — I 
thank you humbly; but, being duly sensi- 
ble of my own demerits, you must allow 
me to decline the honor you propose. 
{Curtsies, and turns away.) 

Beau. Decline ! impossible ! — you are not 
serious! — Madame, suffer me to appeal 



1 The general effect, the inexpressible something. 
756 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



757 



to you. I am a suitor for your daugh- 
ter's hand — the settlements shdll be 
worthy her beauty and my station. 
May I wait on M. Deschappelles? 

Mme. Deschap. M. Deschappelles never 
interferes in the domestic arrangements, 
— you are very obliging. If you were 
still a marquis, or if my daughter were 
intended to marry a commoner, — why, 
perhaps, we might give you the pref- 
erence. 

Beau. A commoner! — we are all common- 
ers in France now. 

Mme. Deschap. In France, yes; but there 
is a nobility still left in the other coun- 
tries in Europe. We are quite aware of 
your good qualities, and don't doubt that 
you will find some lady more suitable to 
your pretensions. We shall be always 
happy to see you as an acquaintance, 
M. Beauseant ! — My dear child, the car- 
riage will be here presently. 

Beau. Say no more, madame! — say no 
more! — (Aside). Refused! and by a 
merchant's daughter! — refused! It will 
be all over Lyons before sunset ! — I will 
go and bury myself in my chateau, study 
philosophy, and turn woman-hater. Re- 
fused ! they ought to ])e sent to a mad- 
house ! — Ladies, I have the honor to wish 
you a very good morning. 
(Exit.) 

Mme. Deschap. How forward these men 
are! — I think, child, we kept up our 
dignity. Any girl, however inexperi- 
enced, knows how to accept an offer, but 
it requires a vast deal of address to re- 
fuse one with proper condescension and 
disdain. I used to practise it at school 
with the dancing-master. 

(Enter Damas.) 

Damas. Good morning, cousin Deschap- 
pelles. — Well, Pauline, are you recovered 
from last night's ball? — So many tri- 
umphs must be very fatiguing. Even 
M. Glavis sighed most piteously when 
you departed; but that might be the 
effect of the supper. 

Pauline. M. Glavis, indeed! 

Mme. Deschap. M. Glavis? — as if my 
daughter would think of M. Glavis! 

Damas. Hey-day ! — why not ? — His father 
left him a very pretty fortune, and his 
birth is higher than yours, cousin Des- 
chappelles. But perhaps you are look- 
ing to M. Beauseant, — his father was a 
marquis before the Revolution. 



Pauline. M. Beauseant! — Cousin, you de- 
light in tormenting me! 

Mme. Deschap. Don't mind him, Pauline! 
— Cousin Damas, you have no suscepti- 
bility of feeling, — there is a certam in- 
delicacy in all your ideas. — M. Beauseant 
knows already that he is no match for 
my daughter! 

Damas. Pooh ! pooh ! one would think you 
intended your daughter to marry a 
prince ! 

Mme. Deschap. Well, and if I did? — 
what then? — Many a foreign prince — 

Damas. (Interrupting her.) Foreign 
prince! — foreign fiddlestick! — you ought 
to be ashamed of such nonsense at your 
time of life. 

Mme. Deschap. My time of life! — That 
is an expression never applied to any 
lady till she is sixty-nine and three- 
quarters; — and only then by the clergy- 
man of the parish. 

(Enter Servant.) 

Servant. Madame, the carriage is at the 
door. 

(Exit.) 

Mme. Deschaj). Come, child, put on your 
bonnet — you really have a very thor- 
ough-bred air — not at all like your poor 
father. — (Fondly.) Ah, you little co- 
quette! when a young lady is always 
making mischief, it is a sure sign that 
she takes after her mother! 

Pauline. Good day, cousin Damas — and a 
better humor to you. — (Going back to 
the table and taking the flowers.) Who 
could have sent me those flowers? 

(Exeunt Paidine and Madame Deschap- 
2)elles. ) 

Damas. That would l)e an excellent girl 
if her head had not been turned. I fear 
she is now become incorrigible ! Zounds, 
what a lucky fellow I am to be still a 
bachelor! They may talk of the devo- 
tion of the sex — but the most faithful at- 
tachment in life is that of a woman in 
love — with herself. 

(Exit.) 



Scene 2. The exterior of a small Village 
Inn — sign, the Golden Lion — a few 
leagues from Lyons, which is seen at a 
distance. 

Beau. (Behind the scenes.) Yes, you 
may bait the horses; we shall rest here 
an hour. 



758 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



{Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Gla. Keally, my dear Beauseant, consider 
that I have promised to spend a day or 
two with you at your chateau, — that I 
am quite at your mercy for my enter- 
tainment, — and yet you are as silent 
and as gloomy as a mute at a funeral, or 
an Englishman at a party of pleasure. 

Beau. Bear with me; — the fact is that I 
am miserable. 

Gla. You — the richest and gayest bachelor 
in Lyons'? 

Beau. It is because I am a bachelor that 
I am miserable. — Thou knowest Paulme 
— the only daughter of the rich mer- 
chant, Mons. Deschappelles? 

Gla. Know her? — who does not? — as 
pretty as Venus, and as proud as Juno. 

Beau. Her taste is worse than her pride. 
— {Drawing himself up.) Know, Gla- 
vis, she has actually refused me! 

Gla. {Aside.) So she has me! — very 
consoling! In all cases of heart-ache, 
the appHcation of another man's disap- 
pointment draws out the pain and allays 
the irritation. — {Aloud.) Refused you! 
and wherefore? 

Beau. I know not, unless it be because 
the Revolution swei)t away my fathers 
title of Marquis, — and she will not marry 
a commoner. Now, as we have no noble- 
men left in France, — as we are all citi- 
zens and equals, she can only hope that, 
in spite of the war, some English Milord 
or German Count will risk his life, by 
coming to Lyons and making her my 
Lady. Refused me, and with scorn ! — By 
Heaven, I '11 not submit to it tamely : — 
I 'm in a perfect fever of mortification 
and rage. — Refuse me, indeed! 

Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow, — I 
will tell you a secret. For the same rea- 
son she refused me ! 

Beau. You ! — that 's a very different mat- 
ter! But give me your hand, Glavis, — 
we '11 think of some plan to humble her. 
By Jove, I should like to see her married 
to a strolling player ! 

{Enter Landlord and his Daughter from 
the Inn.) 

Land. Your servant, citizen Beauseant, — 
servant, sir. Perhaps you will take din- 
ner before you proceed to your chateau; 
our larder is most plentifully supplied. 

Beau. I have no appetite. 

Gla. Nor I. Still it is bad travelling on 
an empty stomach. What have you got? 

{Takes and looks over the bill of fare.) 



{Shout without.) "Long live the Prince! 

— Long live the Prince!" 
Beau. The Prince! — what Prince is that? 
I thought we had no princes left in 
France. 
Land. Ha, ha! the lads always call him 
Prince. He has just won the prize at 
the shooting-match, and they are taking 
him home in triumph. 
Beau. Him! and who's Mr. Him? 
Land. Who should he be but tlie pride of 
the village, Claude Melnotte? — Of course 
you have heard of Claude Melnotte? 
Gla. {Giving back the bill of fare.) 
Never had that honor. Soup — ragout 
of hare — roast chicken, and, in short, all 
you have! 
Beau. The son of old Melnotte, the gar- 
dener? 
Land. Exactly so — a wonderful young 

man. 
Beau. How, wonderful? — Are his cab- 
bages better than other people's? 
Land. Nay, he don't garden any more; 
his father left him well off. He 's only 
a genus. 
Gla. A what? 

Land. A genus! — a man who can do 
everything in life except anything that 's 
useful ; — that 's a genus. 
Beau. You raise my curiosity; — proceed. 
Land. Well, then, about four years ago, 
old Melnotte died, and left his son well 
to do in the world. We then all ob- 
served that a great change came over 
young Claude: he took to reading and 
Latin, and hired a professor from 
Lyons, who had so much in his head that 
he was forced to wear a great full- 
bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a 
fencing-master, and a dancing-master, 
and a music-master; and then he learned 
to paint; and at last it was said that 
young Claude was to go to Paris, and 
set up for a painter. The lads laughed 
at him at first; but he is a stout fellow, 
is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and 
soon taught them to laugh the wrong side 
of their mouths; and now all the boys 
swear by him, and all the girls pray 
for him. 
Beau. A promising youth, certainly! 

And why do they call him Prince? 
Land. Partly because he is at the head 
of them all, and partly because he has 
such a proud way with him, and wears 
such fine clothes — and, in short, looks 
like a prince. 
Beau. And what could have turned the 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



759 



foolish fellow's brain? The Revolution, 
I suppose? 

Land. Yes — the revolution that turns us 
all topsy-turvy — the revolution of Love. 

Beau. Romantic young Corydon ! And 
with whom he is in love? 

Land. Why— but it is a secret, gentle- 
men. 

Beau. Oh ! certainly. 

Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, 
good soul ! that it is no less a jierson 
than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Des- 
chappelles. 

Beau, and Glavis. Ha, ha ! — Capital ! 

Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as 
I stand here. 

Beau. And what does the Beauty of 
Lyons. say to his suit? 

Land. Lord, sir, she never even conde- 
scended to look at him, though when he 
was a boy he worked in her fatlier's 
garden. 

Beau. Are you sure of that? 

Land. His mother says that Mademoi- 
selle does not know him by sight. 

Beau. {Talxing Glavis aside.) I have hit 
it, — I have it; — here is our revenge! 
Here is a prince for our haughty dam- 
sel! Do you take me? 

Gla. Deuce take me if I do ! 

Beau. Blockhead ! — it 's as clear as a map. 
What if we could make this elegant 
clown pass himself off as a foreign 
prince? — lend him money, clothes, 
equipage for the purpose? — make him 
propose to Pauline? — marry Pauline? 
Would it not be delicious? 

Gla. Ha, ha ! — excellent ! But how shall 
we support the necessary expenses of his 
highness ? 

Beau. Pshaw! Revenge is worth a much 
larger sacrifice than a few hundred louis ; 
— as for details, my valet is the trustiest 
fellow in the world, and shall have tlie 
appointment of his highness's establish- 
ment. Let 's go to liim at once, and see 
if he be I'eally this Admirable Crichton.^ 

Gla. With all my lieart; — but the dinner? 

Beau. Always thinking of dinner! Hark 
ye, landlord ; how far is it to young Mel- 
notte's cottage? I should like to see 
such a prodigy. 

Land. Turn down the lane, — then strike 
across the common, — and you will see 
his mother's cottage. 

Beau. True, he lives with his mother. — 
{Aside.) We will not trust to an old 
woman's discretion ; better send for him 



hither. I '11 just step in and write him 
a note. Come, Glavis. 

Gla. Yes, — Beauseant, Glavis, and Co., 
manufacturers of princes, wholesale and 
retail, — an uncommonly genteel line of 
business. But why so grave? 

Beau. You think only of the sport, — I of 
the revenge. 

{Exeunt within the Inn.) 

Scene 3. The interior of Melnotte's 
cottage; flowers 2}laced here and there; 
a guitar on an oaken table, with a port- 
folio, dc; a picture on an easel, covered 
by a curtain; fencing-foils crossed over 
the mantelpiece ; an attempt at refine- 
ment in spite of the homeliness of the 
furniture, d'c; a staircase to the right 
conducts to the upper story. 

{Shout tvithout.) "Long live Claude 

Melnotte !" "Long live the Prince !" 
The Widow Mel. Hark ! — there 's my dear 

son ; — carried off the prize, I 'm sure ; 

and now he '11 want to treat them all. 
Claude Mel. {Opening the door.) What! 

you won't come in, my friends! Well, 

well, — there 's a trifle to make merry 

elsewhere. Good day to you all, — good 

day! 

{Shout.) "Hurrah! Long live Prince 

Claude!" 

{Enter Claude Melnotte, with a rifle in his 
hand.) 

Mel. Give me joy, dear mother ! — I 've 
won the prize! — never missed one shot! 
Is it not handsome, this gun? 

Widoxv. Humph ! — Well, what is it worth, 
Claude? 

Mel. Worth ! What is a riband worth to 
a soldier? Worth! everything! Glory 
is priceless! 

Widow. Leave glory to great folks. AIi ! 
Claude, Claude, castles in the air cost a 
vast deal to keep up ! How is all this 
to end? What good does it do thee to 
learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on 
the guitar, and fence, and dance, and 
paint pictures? All very fine; but what 
does it bring in ? 

Mel. Wealtli! wealth, my mother! 
Wealth to the mind — wealth to the heart 
— high thoughts — bright dreams — the 
hope of fame — the ambition to be 
worthier to love Pauline. 

Widow. My poor son! — The young lady 
will never think of thee. 



2 James Crichton, 15G0-1583 (?), was a Scotch adventurer noted for his versatility. 



760 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Mel. Do the stars think of usf Yet if 
the prisoner see them shine into his 
dungeon, wouldst thou hid him turn 
away from their lustre? Even so from 
this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to 
Pauline and forget my chains. — {Goes to 
the picture and draws aside the curtain.) 
See, this is her image — painted from 
memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs 
her! — {Takes up the brush and throws 
it aside.) I shall never be a painter! 
I can paint no likeness but one, and that 
is above all art. I would turn soldier — 
France needs soldiers! But to leave the 
air that Pauline breathes! What is the 
hour? — so late? I will tell thee a se- 
cret, mother. Thou knowest that for 
the last six weeks I have sent every day 
the rarest flowers to Pauline? — she wears 
them. I have seen them on her breast. 
Ah, and then the whole universe seemed 
filled with odors! I have now grown 
more bold — I have poured my worship 
into poetry — I have sent the verses to 
Pauline — I have signed them with my 
own name. My messenger ought to be 
back by this time. I bade him wait for 
the answer. 

Widow. And what answer do you expect, 
Claude? 

Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre 
sent to the poor troubadour: — "Let me 
see the Oracle that can tell nations I am 
beautiful !" She Avill admit me. I shall 
hear her speak — I shall meet her eyes — 
I shall read upon her cheek the sweet 
thoughts that translate themselves into 
blushes. Then — then, oh, then — she 
may forget that I am the peasant's son! 

Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee 
talk, Claude? 

3Iel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that 
desert is the true rank. She will give 
me a badge — a flower — a glove ! Oh 
rapture ! I shall join the armies of the 
republic — I shall rise — I shall win a 
name that beauty will not blush to hear. 
I shall return with the right to say to 
her — "See, how love does not level the 
proud, but raise the hum})le!" Oh, how 
my heart swells within me! — Oh, what 
glorious prophets of the future are youth 
and hope! 

{Knock at the door.) 

Widow. Come in. 

{Enter Gaspar.) 

Mel. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where 
is the letter? Why do you turn away, 



man? where is the letter? {Gaspar gives 
him one.) This! This is mine, the one 
I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not 
leave it? 

Gaspar. Yes, I left it. 

Mel. My own verses returned to me. 
Nothing else? 

Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how 
thy messenger was honored. For thy 
sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which 
no Frenchman can bear without dis- 
grace. 

Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace? 

Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the porter, 
who passed it from lackey to lackey till 
it reached the lady it was meant for. 

Mel. It reached her, then; — you are sure 
of that? It reached her, — ^^'ell, well! 

Gaspar. It reached her, and was returned 
to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte? 
with blows! Death! are we slaves still, 
that we are to be thus dealt with, we 
peasants? 

Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no; not 
blows ! 

Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if 
it were not so deep a shame to bear them. 
The lackey who tossed thy letter into the 
mire swore that his lady and her mother 
never were so insulted. What could thy 
letter contain, Claude? 

Mel. {Looking over the letter.) Not a 
line that a serf might not have written to 
an empress. No, not one. 

Gaspar. They promise thee the same greet- 
ing they gave me, if thou wilt pass that 
way. Shall we endure this, Claude? 

Mel. {Wringing Gaspar' s hand.) For- 
give me, the fault was mine, I have 
brought this on thee; I will not forget it; 
thou shalt be avenged ! The heartless in- 
solence ! 

Gaspar. Thou are moved, Melnotte; think 
not of me; I would go through fire and 
water to serve thee ; but, — a blow ! It is 
not the bruise that galls, — it is the blush, 
Melnotte. 

Mel. Say, what message? — How insulted! 
— Wherefore — What the offence? 

Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Des- 
chappelles, the daughter of the rich mer- 
chant? 

Mel. Well?— 

Gaspar. And are you not a peasant — a 
gardener's son? — that was the offence. 
Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a 
French citizen, blows ! 
{Exit.) 

Widow. Now you are cured, Claude! 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



7G1 



Mel. (Tearing the letter.) So do I scat- 
ter her image to the winds — I will stop 
her in the open streets — I will insult her 
— I will beat her menial ruffians — I will 
— (Turns suddenly to Widow.) Mother, 
am I humpbacked — deformed — hideous? 

Widow. You ! 

Mel. A coward — a thief — a liar? 

Widow. You ! 

Mel. Or a dull fool — a vain, drivelling, 
brainless idiot? 

Widow. No, no. 

Mel. What am I then — worse than all 
these? Why, I am a peasant! What 
has a peasant to do with love? Vain 
revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on 
the great? Oh that we — we, the hewers 
of wood and drawers of water — had been 
swept away, so that the proud might 
learn what the world would be without 
us! — 

(Knock at the door.) 

(Enter Servant from the Inn.) 

Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. 

Mel. A letter! from her perhaps — who 
sent thee? 

Servant. Why, Monsieur — I mean Citizen 
— Beauseant, who stops to dine at the 
Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau. 

Mel. Beauseant! — (Reads.) "Young man, 
I know thy secret — thou lovest above 
thy station: if thou hast wit, cour- 
age, and discretion, I can secure to thee 
the realization of thy most sanguine 
hopes ; and the sole condition I ask in re- 
turn is, that thou shalt be steadfast to 
thine own ends. I shall demand from 
thee a solemn oath to marry her whom 
thou lovest ; to bear her to thine home on 
thy wedding night. I am serious — if 
thou wouldst learn more, lose not a mo- 
ment, but follow the bearer of this letter 
to tliy friend and patron, — Charles 
Beauseant." 

Mel. Can I believe my eyes? Are our 
own passions the sorcerers that raise up 
for us spirits of good or evil ? I will go 
instantly. 

Widow. What is this, Claude? 

Mel. "Marry her whom thou lovest" — 
"bear her to thine o^vn home." — Oh, re- 
venge and love; which of you is the 
stronger? — (Gazing on the picture.) 
Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the 
canvas: weak fool that I am, do I then 
love her still? No, it is the vision of my 
own romance that I have worshiped : it 
is the reality to which I bring scorn for 



scorn. Adieu, mother: I will return 
anon. My brain reels — the earth swims 
before me. — (Looks again at the letter.) 
No, it is not a mockery; I do not dream! 
(Exit.) 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. The gardens of M. Deschap- 
j}elles' house at Lyons — the house seen at 
the hack of the stage. 

(Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Beau. Well, what think you of my plot? 
Has it not succeeded to a miracle? The 
instant that I introduced his Highness 
the Prince of Como to the pompous 
mother and the scornful daughter, it was 
all over with them: he came — he saw — 
he conquered : and, though it is not many 
days since he arrived, they have already 
promised him the hand of Pauline. 

Gla. It is lucky, though, that you told 
them his highness travelled incognito, for 
fear the Directory (who are not very 
fond of princes) should lay him by the 
heels; for he has a wonderful wish to 
keep up his rank, and scatters our gold 
about with as much coolness as if he were 
watering his own flower-pots. 

Beau. True, he is damnably extravagant; 
I think the sly dog does it out of malice. 
However, it must be owned that he re- 
fleets credit on his loyal subjects, and 
makes a very pretty figure in his fine 
clothes, with my diamond snuff-box. 

Gla. And my diamond ring! But do you 
think he will be firm to the last ? I fancy 
I see symptoms of relenting: he will 
never keep up his rank, if he once let out 
his conscience. 

Beau. His oatli binds him ! he cannot re- 
tract without being forsworn, and those 
low fellows are always superstitious! 
But, as it is, I tremble lest he be dis- 
covered: that bluff Colonel Damas 
(Madame Dcschappelles' cousin) evi- 
dently suspects him : we must make haste 
and conclude the farce : I have thought 
of a plan to end it this verj' day. 

Gla. This very day! Poor Pauline: her 
dream will be soon over. 

Beau. Yes, this day they shall be mar- 
ried; this evening, according to his oath, 
he shall carry his bride to the Golden 
Lion, and then pomp, equipage, retinue, 
and title, all shall vanish at once; and her 
Highness the Princess shall find that she 



762 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



has refused the son of a Marquis, to 
marry the son of the gardener. — Oh, 
Pauline, once loved, now hated, yet still 
not relinquished, thou shalt dram the cup 
to the dregs, — thou shalt know what it is 
to be humbled! 

{Enter from the house, Mehiotte, as the 
Prince of Como, leading in Pauline; 
Madame Deschappelles, fanning herself ; 
and Colonel Daruas.) 

{Beauseant and Glavis how respectfully. 
Pauline and Melnotte walk apart.) 

Mme. Deschap. Good morning, gentlemen; 
really I am so fatigued with laughter; 
the dear Prince is so entertaining. What 
wit he has! Any one may see that he 
has spent his whole life in courts. 
Damas. And what the deuce do you know 
about courts, cousin Deschappelles? 
You women regard men just as you buy 
books — you never care about what is in 
them, but how they are bound and let- 
tered. 'Sdeatli, I don't think 3'ou would 
even look at your Bible if it had not a 
title to it. 

Mrs. Deschap. How coarse you are, cousin 
Damas ! — quite the manners of a barrack 
— you don't deserve to be one of our 
family; really we nmst drop your ac- 
quaintance when Pauline maiTies. I can- 
not patronize any relations that would 
discredit my future son-in-law, the Prince 
of Como. 

Mel. {Advancing.) These are beautiful 
gardens, madame, {Beauseant and Glavis 
retire.) — who planned them? 

Mme. Deschap. A gardener named Mel- 
notte, your highness — an honest man who 
knew his station. I can't say as much 
for his son — a presuming fellow, who — 
ha! ha! actually wrote verses — such dog- 
gerel ! — to my daughter. 

Pauline. Yes, how you would have 
laughed at them, Prince! — you, who 
write such beautiful verses ! 

Mel. This Melnotte must be a monstrous 
impudent person ! 

Damas. Is he good-looking? 

Mme. Deschap. I never notice such ca- 
naille — an ugly, mean-looking clown, if I 
remember right. 

Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he 
was wonderfully like his highness. 

Mel. {Taking snuff.) You are compli- 
mentary. 

Mme. Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas! 
— like the Prince, indeed! 

Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our 



beautiful prince! I'll never speak to 
you again, cousin Damas. 

Mel. {Aside.) Humph! — rank is a great 
beautitier ! I never passed for an Apollo 
while I was a peasant; if I am so hand- 
some as a prince, what should I be as 
an emperor! {Aloud.) Monsieur Beau- 
seant, will you honor me ? 
{Offers snuff.) 

Beau. No, your highness ; I have no small 
vices. 

Mel. Nay, if it were a vice, you 'd be sure 
to have it. Monsieur Beauseant. 

Mme. Deschap. Ha! ha! — how very se- 
vere ! — what wit ! 

Beau. {In a rage and aside.) Curse his 
impertinence ! 

Mme. Deschap. What a superb snuff-box! 

Pauline. And what a beautiful ring! 

Mel. You like the box — a trille — interest- 
ing perhaps from associations — a present 
from Louis XIV. to my great-great- 
grandraother. Honor me by accept- 
ing it. 

Beau. {Plucking him by the sleeve.) 
How! — wliat the devil! My box — are 
you mad? It is worth five hundred 
louis. 

Blel. {Unheeding him, and turning to 
Paidine.) And you like this ring? Ah, 
it has, indeed, a lustre since your eyes 
have shone on it. {Placing it on her fin- 
ger.) Henceforth hold me, sweet en- 
chantress, the Slave of the Ring. 

Gla. {Pulling him.) Stay, stay — what 
are you about? My maiden aunt's 
legacy — a diamond of the first water. 
You shall be hanged for swindling, sir, 

Mel. {Pretending not to hear.) It is curi- 
ous, this ring; it is the one with which 
my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, 
married the Adriatic ! 

{Madame and Paidine examine the ring.) 
Mel. {To Beauseant and Glavis.) Fie, 
gentlemen! princes must be generous? — 
{Turns to Damas, who watches them 
closely.) These kind friends have my 
interest so much at heart, that they are I 
as careful of my property as if it were I 
their own ! 
Beau, and Gla. {Confusedly.) Ha! ha! 
— very good joke that ! 

{Appear to remonstrate with Melnotte, in 
dumb show.) 

Damas. What's all that whispering? I 
am sure there is some juggle here : hang 
me, if I think he is an Italian after all. 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



763 



Gad, I '11 try him. Servitore umiilissimo, 
Eccellenza.* 

Mel. Hum — what does he mean, I won- 
der? 

Damas. Godo di vedervi in buona salute.** 

Mel, Hem — hem ! 

Damas. Fa bel tempo — che si dice di 
nuovo?*** 

Mel. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish? 

Damas. Oli, oh ! — only Italian, your high- 
ness ! — The Prince of Como does not un- 
derstand his own language ! 

Mel. Not as you pronounce it; who the 
deuce could? 

Mme. Descliap. Ha! ha! cousin Damas, 
never pretend to what you don't know. 

Pauline. Ha! ha! cousin Damas; you 
speak Italian, indeed! 
{Makes a mocking gesture at him.) 

Beau. {To Glavis.) Clever dog! — how 
ready ! 

Gla. Ready, yes; with my diamond ring! 
— Damn his readiness! 

Damas. Laugh at me! — laugh at a colonel 
in the French army ! — the fellow 's an im- 
postor; I know he is. I'll see if he un- 
derstands fighting as well as he does 
Italian. — {Goes up to him, and aside.) 
Sir, you are a jackanapes! — Can you 
construe that? 

Mel. No, sir; I never construe affronts in 
the presence of ladies; by-and-by I shall 
be happy to take a lesson — or give one. 

Damas. I '11 find tlie occasion, never fear! 

Mme. Deschap. Where are you going, 
cousin ? 

Damas. To correct mv Italian. 
{Exit.) 

Beau. {To Glavis.) Let us after, and 
pacify him; he evidently suspects some- 
thing. 

Gla. Yes! — but my diamond ring! 

Beau. And my box! — We are overtaxed, 
fellow-subject ! — we must stop the sup- 
plies and dethrone the prince. 

Gla. Prince ! — he ought to be heir-appar- 
ent to King Stork.^ 

{Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Mme. Deschap. Dare I ask your highness 
to forgive my cousin's insufferable vul- 
garity? 

Pauline. Oh yes ! — you will forgive his 
manner for the sake of his heart. 

Mel. And the sake of his cousin. — Ah, 

* Your Excellency's most humble servant [note 
in the original] . 

** I am glad to see you in good health. 
*** Pine weather. What news is there? 



madam, there is one comfort in rank, — 
we are so sure of our position that we are 
not easily affronted. Besides M. Damas 
has bought the right of indulgence from 
his friends, by never showing it to his 
enemies. 

Pauline. Ah ! he is, indeed, as brave in 
action as he is rude in speech. He rose 
from the ranks to his present grade, and 
in two years ! 

Mel. In two years! — two years, did you 
say? 

3Ime. Deschap. {Aside.) I don't like 
leaving girls alone with their lovers ; but, 
with a prince, it would be so ill-bred to 
be prudish. 

{Exit.) 

Mel. You can be proud of your connec- 
tion with one who owes his position to 
merit, — not birth. 

Pauline. Why, yes; but still— 

Mel. Still what, Pauline! 

Pauline. There is something glorious in the 
heritage of command. A man who has an- 
cestors is like a representative of the past. 

Mel. True ; but, like other representatives, 
nine times out of ten he is a silent mem- 
ber. Ah, Pauline ! not to the past, but 
to the future, looks true nobility, and 
finds its blazon in posterity. 

Pauline. You say this to please me, who 
have no ancestors; but you, prince, must 
be proud of so illustrious a race ! 

Mel. No, no ! I would not, were I fifty 
times a prince, be a pensioner on the 
dead! I honor birth and ancestry when 
they are regarded as the incentives to 
exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I 
honor the laurels that overshadow the 
graves of our fathers; — it is our fatliers 
I emulate, when I desire that beneath the 
evergreen I myself have planted my own 
ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst 
thou but see with my eyes! 

Pauline. I cannot forego pride Avhen I 
look on thee, and tliink that thou lovest 
me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy 
palace by the Lake of Como; it is so 
pleasant to hear of thy splendors since 
thou didst swear to me that they would 
be desolate without Pauline; and when 
thou describest them, it is with a mock- 
ing lip and a noble scorn, as if custom 
had made thee disdain greatness. 

Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst 
have me paint 
The home to which, could love fulfil its 
prayers. 



3 A fabulous type of overactive ruler; as "King Log" is a type of inactivity. 



764 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



This hand would lead thee, listen! — A 

deep vale 
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude 

world ; 
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of 

gold 
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest 

skies, 
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate 

shadows, 
As I would have thy fate! 
Pauline. My own dear love ! 

Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer 
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 
Of coolest foliage musical with birds. 
Whose songs should syllable thy name! 

At noon 
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and 

wonder 
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the 

Heavens 
Still left us youth and love ! We 'd have 

no friends 
That were not lovers; no ambition, save 
To excel them all in love ; we 'd read no 

books 
That were not tales of love — that we 

might smile 
To think how poorly eloquence of words 
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
And Avhen night came, amidst the breath- 
less Heavens 
We 'd guess what star should be our home 

when love 
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed 

light 
Stole through the mists of alabaster 

lamps, 
And every air was heavy with the sighs 
Of orange-groves and music from sweet 

lutes. 
And murmurs of low fountains that gush 

forth 
I* the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the 

picture 1 
Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, 

I hang 
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! 
Am I not blest? And if I love too 

wildly, 
Who would not love thee like Pauline? 
Mel. (Bitterly.) Oh, false one! 

It is the prince thou lovest, not the man: 
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and 

power, 
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, 
Thou liadst found no honey on my 

tongue ; — Pauline, 
That is not love ! 



Pauline. Thou wrong 'st me, cruel Prince ! 
[At first, in truth,] I might not [have] 

been won. 
Save through the weakness of a flatter'd 

pride; 
But now, — oh! trust me, — couldst thou 

fall from power 
And sink — 
Mel. As low as that poor gardener's 

son 
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee? — 
Pauline. Even then, 

Methinks thou wouldst be only made 

more dear 
By the sweet thought that I could prove 

how deep 
Is woman's love! We are like the in- 
sects, caught 
By the poor glittering of a garish flame ; 
But, oh, the wings once seorch'd, the 

brightest star 
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light 
AVe cling till death ! 
Mel. Angel ! 

(Aside.) conscience! conscience! 
It must not be; — her love hath grown a 

torture 
Worse than her hate. I will at once to 

Beauseant, 
And — ha! he comes. Sweet love, one 

moment leave me. 
I have business with these gentlemen — 

I— I 
Will forthwith join you. 
Pauline. Do not tarry long ! 

(Exit.) 

(Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Mel. Release me from my oath, — I will 
not marry her! 

Beau. Then thou art perjured. 

Mel. No, I was not in my senses when 
I swore to thee to marry her! I was 
blind to all but her scorn ! — deaf to all 
but my passion and my rage ! Give me 
back my poverty and my honor! 

Beau. It is too late, you must marry her! 
and this day. I have a story already 
coined, and sure to pass current. This 
Damas suspects thee, — he will set the 
police to work; — thou wilt be detected — 
Pauline will despise and execrate thee. 
Thou will be sent to the common jail as 
a swindler. 

Mel. Fiend ! 

Beau. And in the heat of the girl's resent- 
ment (you know of what resentment is 
capable), and the parents' shame, she 
will be induced to marry the first tliat 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



765 



offers — even perhaps your humble serv- 
ant. 

Mel. You ! No ; that were worse — for 
thou hast no mercy! I will marry her — 
I will keep my oath. Quick, then, with 
the damnable invention thou are hatch- 
ing; — quick, if thou wouldst not have me 
strangle thee or myself. 

Gla. What a tiger! Too fierce for a 
prince ; — he ought to have been the Grand 
Turk. 

Beau. Enough — I will despatch; be pre- 
pared. 

{Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 

{Enter Damas with two swords.) 

Damas. Now, then^ sir, the ladies are no 
longer your excuse. I have brought you 
a couple of dictionaries ; let us see if your 
Highness can find out the Latin for bilbo. 

Mel. Away, sir! I am in no humor for 
jesting. 

Damas. I see you understand something 
of the grammar; you decline the noun- 
substantive "small-sword" with great 
ease; but that won't do — you must take 
a lesson in parsing.* 

Mel. Fool ! 

Damas. Sir, as sons take after their 
mother, so the man who calls me a fool 
insixlts the lady who bore me ; there 's no 
escape for you — fight you shall, or — 

Mel. Oh, enough ! enough ! — take your 
ground. 

{They fight; Damas is disarmed. Melnolte 
takes up the sword and returns it to 
Damas respectfully.) 
A just punishment to the brave soldier 
who robs the State of its best property — 
the sole right to his valor and his life. 

Damas. Sir, you fence exceedingly well ; 
you must be a man of honor — I don't 
care a jot whether you are a prince; but 
a man who has carte and tierce ^ at his 
fingers' ends must be a gentleman. 

Mel. {Aside.) Gentleman! Ay, I was a 
gentleman before I turned conspirator; 
for honest men are the gentlemen of Na- 
ture! — Colonel, they tell me you rose 
from the ranks. 

Damas. I did. 

Mel. And in two years? 

Damas. It is true ; that 's no wonder in 
our army at present. Why the oldest 
general in the service is scarcely thirty, 
and we have some of two-and-twenty. 

Mel. Two-and-twenty ! 

Damas. Yes; in the French army, now-a- 

4 He means a pun on passing (a pass being a thrust ). 



days, promotion is not a matter of pur- 
chase. We are all heroes, because we 
may be all generals. We have no fear 
of the cypress, because we may all hope 
for the laurel. 

Mel. A general at two-and-twenty! 
{Turning away.) — Sir, I may ask you a 
favor one of these days. 

Damas. Sir, I shall be i)roud to grant it. 
It is astonishing how much I like a man 
after I 've fought with him. 
{Hides the swords.) 

{Enter Madame Deschappelles and Beau- 
seant.) 

Mme. Descliap. Oh, prince, — prince! — 
What do I hear"? You must Uy — you 
must quit us ! 

Mel. I— 

Beau. Yes, prince: read this letter, just 
received from my friend at Paris, one of 
the Directory; they suspect you of de- 
signs against the Republic : they are very 
suspicious of princes, and your family 
take part with the Austrians. Knowing 
that I introduced your highness at 
Lyons, my friend writes to me to say 
that you must quit the town immediately, 
or you will be arrested, — thrown into 
pi-ison, perhaps guillotined! Fly! — I 
will order horses to your carriage in- 
stantly. Fly to Marseilles ; there you can 
take ship for Leghorn. 

Mme. Descliap. And what 's to become of 
Pauline? Am I not to be mother to a 
princess, after all? 

{Enter Pauline and 31. Deschappelles.) 

Pauline. {Throwing herself into Mel- 
notte's arms.) You must leave us! — 
Leave Pauline ! 

Beau. Not a moment is to be wasted. 

M. Deschap. I will go to the magistrates 
and inquire — 

Beau. Then he is lost; the magistrates, 
hearing he is suspected, will order his 
arrest. 

Mme. Deschap. And I shall not be a prin- 
cess-dowager ! 

Beau. Why not? There is only one thing 
to be done: — send for the priest — let the 
marriage take place at once, and the 
prince carry home a bride! 

Mel. Impossible ! — {Aside. ) Villain ! 

Mme. Def'Chap. What, lose my child? 

Beau. And gain a princess ! 

Mme. Deschap. Oh, Monsieur Beauseant, 
you are so very kind, it must be so, — we 

5 Positions in fencing. 



766 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



ought not to be selfish, my daughter's 
happiness at stal^e. She will go away, 
too, in a carriage and six ! 

Pauline. Thou art here still, — I cannot 
part from thee, — my heart will break. 

31el. But thou wilt not consent to this 
hasty union, — thou wilt not wed an out- 
cast — a fugitive. 

Pauline. Ah! if thou art in danger, who 
should share it but Pauline? 

Mel. (Aside.) Distraction! — If the earth 
could swallow me! 

M. Descliap. Gently! gently! The settle- 
ments — the contracts — my daughter's 
dowry! 

Mel. The dowry! — I am not base enough 
for that ; no, not one farthing ! 

Beau. (To Madame.) Noble fellow! — 
Really your good husband is too mer- 
cantile in these matters. Monsieur Des- 
chappelles, you hear his Highness : we 
can arrange the settlements by proxy; 
't is the way Avith people of quality. 

M. Deschap. But — 

Mme. Deschap. Hold your tongue! — Don't 
expose yourself! 

Beau. I will bring the priest in a trice. 
Go in all of you and prepare; the car- 
riage shall be at the door before the cere- 
mony is over. 

Mme. Deschap. Be si;re there are six 
horses, Beauseant ! You are very good 
to have forgiven us for refusing you ; but 
you see — a prince ! 

Beau. And such a prince ! Madame, I can- 
not blusli at the success of so illustrious 
a rival. — (Aside.) Now will I follow 
them to the village, enjoy my triumph, 
and to-morrow, in the hour of thy shame 
and grief, I tliink, proud girl, thou wilt 
prefer even these arms to those of the 
gardener's son. 

(Exit.) 

Mme. Deschap. Come, Monsieur Deschap- 
pelles, give your arm to her highness that 
is to be. 

M. Deschap. I don't like doing business in 
such a hurry ; 't is not the way with the 
house of Deschappelles and Co. 

Mme. Descliap. There, now, you fancy you 
are in the counting-house, don't you? 
(Pushes him to Paidine.) 

Mel. Stay, stay, Pauline — one word. 
Have you no scruple, no fear? Speak — 
it is not yet too late. 

Pauline. When I loved thee, thy fate be- 
came mine. Triumph or danger — joy or 
sorrow — I am by thy side. 

Damas. Well, well, prince, thou art a 



lucky man to be so loved. She is a good 
little girl in spite of her foibles — make 
her as happy as if she were not to be a 
princess. (Slapping him on the shoul- 
der.) Come, sir, I wish you joy — young 
— tender — lovely; — zounds, I envy you! 
Mel. (Who has stood apart in gloomy ab- 
straction.) Do you? 

ACT III. 

Scene 1. The exterior of the Golden Lion 
— time, twilight. The moon rises during 
the scene. 

(Enter Landlord and his Daughter from 
the Inn.) 

Land. Ha — ha — ha ! Well, I never shall 
get over it. Our Claude is a prince with 
a vengeance now. His cari'iage breaks 
down at my inn — ha — ha ! 

Janet. And what airs the young lady gives 
herself! "Is this the best room you 
have, young woman?" with such a toss 
of the head. 

Land. Well, get in, Janet: get in and see 
to the supper: the servants must sup be- 
fore they go back. 

(Exeunt.) 

(Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Beau. You see our princess is lodged at 
last — one stage more, and she '11 l)e at 
her journey's end — the beautiful palace 
at the foot of the Alps! — ha — ha! 

Gla. Faith, I pity the poor Pauline — 
especially if she 's going to sup at the 
Golden Lion. (Makes a tvry face.) I 
shall never forget that cursed ragout. 

(Enter Melnotte from the Inn.) 

Beau. Your servant, my prince; yovi 
reigned most worthily. I condole with 
you on your abdication. I am afraid 
tliat your higlmess's retinue are not very 
faithful servants. I think they will quit 
you in the moment of your fall — 't is the 
fate of greatness. But you are welcome 
to your fine clothes — also the diamond 
snuff-box, which Louis XIV. gave to your 
great-great-grandmother. 

Gla. And the ring, with which your grand- 
father, the Doge of Venice, married the 
Adriatic. 

Mel. I have kept my oath, gentlemen — 
say, have I kept my oath? 

Beau. Most religiously. 

Mel. Then you Iiave done with me and 
mine — away with you ! 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



7G7 



Beau. How, knave ? 

Mel. Look you, our bond is over. Proud 
conquerors that we are, we have won the 
victory over a simple girl — eomjiromised 
her honor — embittered her life — blasted, 
in their very blossoms, all the flowers of 
her youth. This is your triumph, — it is 
my shame! {Turns to Beauseant.) En- 
joy thy triumph, but not in my sight. 
• I was her betrayer — I am her protector! 
Cross but her path — one word of scorn, 
one look of insult — nay, but one quiver 
of that mocking lip, and I will teach 
thee that bitter word thou hast graven 
eternally in this heart — Bepentance! 

Beau. His highness is most grandiloquent. 

Mel. Highness me no more ! Beware ! 
Remorse has made me a new being. 
Away with you! There is danger in me. 
Away ! 

Gla. (Aside.) He's an awkward fellow 
to deal with : come away, Beauseant. 

Beau. I know the respect due to rank. 
Adieu, ray prince. Any commands at 
Lyons? Yet hold — I promised you 200 
louis on your wedding day ; here they are. 

Mel. {Dashing the purse to the ground.) 
I gave you revenge, I did not sell it. 
Take up your silver, Judas ; take it. — Ay, 
it is fit you should learn to stoop. 

Beau. You will beg my pardon for this 
some day. {Aside to Glavis.) Come to 
my chateau — I shall return hither to- 
morrow, to learn how Pauline likes her 
new dignity. 

Mel. Are you not gone yet ? 

Beau. Your highness's most obedient, most 
faithful— 

Gla. And most humble servants. Ha ! ha ! 
{Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 

Mel. Thank heaven I had no weapon, or 
I should have slain them. Wretch ! what 
can I say? Where turn? On all sides 
mockery — the very boors within. — 
{Laughter from the Inn.) — 'Sdeath, if 
even in this short absence the exposure 
should have chanced. I will call her. 
We will go hence. I have already sent 
one I can trust to my mother's house. 
There, at least, none can insult her 
agony — gloat upon her shame! There 
alone must she learn what a villain she 
has sworn to love. 
{As he turns to the door enter Pauline from 
the Inn.) 

Pauline. Ah ! my lord, what a place ! I 
never saw such rude people. They stare 
and wink so. I tliink the very sight of a 
prince, though he travels incognito, turns 



their honest heads. What a pity the car- 
riage should break down in such a spot ! 
You are not well — the drops stand on 
your l)row — your hand is feverish. 
Mel. Nay, it is but a passing spasm; the 

air — 
Pauline. Is not the soft air of your native 
south — 
How pale he is! — indeed thou art not 

well. 
Where are our people ? I will call them. 
Mel. Hold ! 

I — I am well. 
Pauline. Thou art ! — Ah ! now I know it. 
Thou fanciest, my kind lord — I know 

thou dost — 
Thou fanciest these rude walb, these 

rustic gossips, 
Brick'd floors, sour wine, coarse viands, 

vex Pauline; 
And so they might, but thou art by my 

side. 
And I forget all else. 

{Enter Landlord, the Servants peeping and 
laughi)ig over his shoulder.) 

Land. My lord — your highness — 

Will your most noble excellency choose — 
Mel. Begone, sir! 

{Exit Landlord laughing.) 
Pauline. How could they have learn'd thy 

rank? 
One's servants are so vain! — nay, let it 

not 
Chafe thee, sweet prince! — a few short 

days and we 
Shall see thy jialace by its lake of silver. 
And — nay, nay, spendthrift, is thy wealth 

of smiles 
Already drain'd, or dost thou play the 

miser? 
Mel. Thine eyes would call up smiles in 

deserts, fair one. 
Let us escape these rustics : close at hand 
There is a cot, where I have bid prepare 
Our evening lodgment — a rude, homely 

roof. 
But honest, where our welcome will not be 
Made torture by the vulgar eyes and 

tongues 
That are as death to Love! A heavenly 

night ! 
The wooing air and the soft moon in- 
vite us. 
Wilt walk? I pray thee, now, — I know 

the path. 
Ay, every inch of it! 
Pauline. What, thou! methought 



7(38 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Thou wert a stranger in these parts? 

Ah, truant, 
Some village beauty lured thee; — thou 

art now 

GroAvn constant. 

Mel. Trust me. 

Pauline. Princes are so changeful. 

Mel. Come, dearest, come. 
Pauline. Shall I not call our people 

To light us? 
Mel. Heaven will lend its stars for 

torches ! 
It is not far. 
Pauline. The night breeze chills me. 
Mel. Nay, 

Let me thus luantle thee; — it is not cold. 
Pauline. Never beneath thy smile ! 
Mel. {Aside.) Heaven! forgive me! 
(Exeunt.) 

Scene 2. Melnotte's cottage — Widow hus- 
tling about — a table spread for supper.) 

Widow. So, I think that looks very neat. 
He sent me a line, so blotted that I can 
scarcely read it, to say he would be here 
almost immediately. She must have 
loved him well indeed to have forgotten 
his birth ; for though he was introduced 
to her in disguise, he is too honorable 
not to have revealed to her the artifice, 
which her love only could forgive. Well, 
I do not wonder at it ; for though my 
son is not a prince, he ought to be one, 
and that 's almost as good. {Knock at 
the door. ) Ah ! here they are. 

{Enter Melnotte and Pauline.) 

Widow. Oh, my boy — the pride of my 
heart ! — welcome, welcome ! I beg par- 
don, ma'am, but I do love him so ! 

Pauline. Good woman, I really — why 
prince, what is this? — does the old lady 
know you? Oh, I guess, you have done 
her some service. Another proof of 
your kind heart; is it not? 

Mel. Of my kind heart, ay! 

Pauline. So you know the prince? 

Widow. Know him, madam? — Ah, I be- 
gin to fear it is you who know him not ! 

Pauline. Do you think she is mad? Can 
we stay here, my lord? I think there's 
something very wild about her. 

Mel. Madam, I — no, I cannot tell her; 
my knees knock together: what a coward 
is a man who has lost his honor! Speak 
to her — speak to her {To his mother.) — 
tell her that — Heaven, that I were 
dead! 



Pauline. How confused he looks! — this 
strange place! — this woman — what can 
it mean? — I half suspect — Who are you, 
madam ! — who are you ? can't you speak ? 
are you struck dumb? 

Widow. Claude, you have not deceived 
her? — Ah, shame upon you! I thought 
that, before you went to the altar, she 
was to have known all. 

Pauline. All! what? — My blood freezes in 
my veins ! 

Widow. Poor lady! — dare I tell her, 
Claude? {Melnotte makes a sign of as- 
sent.) Know you not then, madam, 
that this young man is of poor though 
honest parents? Know you not that 
you are wedded to my son, Claude Mel- 
notte? 

Pauline. Your son! hold — hold! do not 
speak to me. — {Approaches Melnotte, 
and lays her hand on liis arm.) Is this 
a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak — 
one word — one look — one smile. I can- 
not believe — I who loved thee so — I 
cannot believe that thou art such a — No, 
I will not wrong thee by a harsh word 
— speak ! 

3Iel. Leave us — have pity on her, on me: 
leave us. 

Widoiv. Oh, Claude, that I should live to 
see thee bowed by shame ! thee of whom 
I was so proud! 

{Exit by the staircase.) 

Pauline. Her son — her son ! 

Mel. Now, lady, hear me. 

Pauline. Hear thee! 

Ay, speak — her son! have fiends a par- 
ent? speak. 
That thou mayst silence curses — speak! 

3Iel. No, curse me: 

Thy curse "would blast me less than thy 
forgiveness. 

Pauline. {Laughing wildly.) "This is thy 
palace, where the perfumed light 
Steals through the mist of alabaster 

lamps. 
And every air is heavy with the sighs 
Of orange-groves, and music from sweet 

lutes. 
And murmurs of low fountains, that 

gush forth 
V the midst of roses! Dost thou like 

the picture?" 
This is my bridal home, and thou my 

bridegroom. 
fool — dupe — wretch! — I see it 

all— 
The by-word and the jeer of every 
tongue 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



769 



In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one 

touch 
Of human kindness? if thou hast, why, 

kill me, 
And save thy wife from madness. No, 

it cannot — 
It cannot be : this is some hon'id dream : 
I shall wake soon. — {Touching him.) 

Art flesh? art man? or but 
■ The shadows seen in sleep? It is too 

real. 
What have I done to thee? how sinn'd 

against thee. 
That thou shouldst crush me thus? 
Mel. Pauline, by pride 

Angels have fallen ere thy time: by 

pride — 
That sole alloy of thy most lovely 

mould — 
The evil spirit of a bitter love, 
And a revengeful heart, had power upon 

thee. 
From my first years my soul was fill'd 

with thee: 
I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly 

boy 
Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of 

bloom, 
And joy, and freshness, as if Spring 

itself 
Were made a living thing, and wore thy 

shape ! 
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of 

man 
Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming 

boy. 
And from that hour I grew — what to the 

last 
I shall be — thine adorer! Well, this 

love 
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 
A fountain of ambition and bright hope; 
I thought of tales that by the winter 

hearth 
Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung 

from kings 
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; 

how love, like death. 
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's 

crook 
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my 

home 
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! 
My father died; and I. the peasant-born, 
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to 

rise 
Out of the prison of my mean estate; 
And, with such jewels as the exploring 
mind 



Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy 

my ransom 
From those twin jailers of the daring 

heart — 
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright 

image 
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of 

glory, 
And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
By which man masters men ! For thee 

I grew 
A midnight student o'er the dreams of 

sages. 
For thee I sought to borrow from each 

grace, 
And every muse, such attributes as lend 
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, 
And passion taught me poesy — of thee. 
And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
Of beauty! Art became the shadow 
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting 

eyes! 
Men call'd me vain — some mad — I 

heeded not; 
But still toil'd on — hoped on — for it was 

sweet, 
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee! 
Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate! 
Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to 

pour 
The thoughts that burst their channels 

into song. 
And sent them to thee — such a tribute, 

lady, 
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the 

meanest. 
The name — appended by the burning 

heart 
That long'd to show its idol what bright 

things 
It had created — yea, the enthusiast's 

name, 
That should have been thy triumph, was 

thy scorn! 
That very hour — when passion, turn'd to 

wrath. 
Resembled hatred most — when thy dis- 
dain 
Made my whole soul a chaos — in that 

hour 
The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
For their revenge! Thou hadst tram- 
pled on the worm — 
It turn'd and stung thee! 
Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting. 

What was the slight of a poor powerless 

girl 
To the deep wrong of this most vile re- 
venge ? 



"770 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Oh, how I loved this man! — a serf! — a 

shave ! 
Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! De- 
spair is free ! 
I will not tell thee of the throes — the 

struggles — 
The anguish — the remorse ! No, let it 

pass! 
And let me come to such most poor 

atonement 
Yet in my power. Pauline ! — 
{Approachincj her with great emotion, a)ul 

about to take her hand.) 
Pauline. No, touch me not ! 

I know my fate. You are, by law, my 

tyrant ; 
And I — Heaven! a peasant's wife! 

I '11 work- 
Toil — drudge — do what thou wilt — but 

touch me not; 
Let my wrongs make me sacred ! 
Mel. Do not fear me. 

Thou dost not know me, madam: at the 

altar 
My vengeance ceased — my guilty oath 

expired ! 
Henceforth, no image of some marble 

saint. 
Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd 

more 
From the rude hand of sacrilegious 

wrong. 
I am thy husband — nay, thou need'st not 

shudder; — 
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's 

rights. 
A marriage thus unholy — unfulfiU'd — , 
A bond of fraud — is, by the laws of 

France, 
Made void and null. To-night sleep — 

sleep in peace. 
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn 
I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the 

shrine. 
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy 

home. 
The law shall do thee justice, and restore 
Thy right to bless another with thy love. 
And when thou art happy, and hast half 

forgot 
Him who so loved — so wrong'd thee, 

think at least 
Heaven left some remnant of the angel 

still 
In that poor peasant's nature ! 

Ho ! my mother ! 

{Enter Widow.) 

Conduct this lady — (she is not my wife; 



She is our guest, — our honor'd guest, 

my mother) — 
To the poor chamber, where the sleep of 

virtue. 
Never, beneath my father's honest roof, 
Ev'n villains dared to mar! Now, lady, 

now, 
I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my 
mother ! 
Widow. She is not thy wife! 
Mel. Hush, hush ! for mercy's sake ! 

Speak not, but go. 
{Widoio ascends the stairs; Paidine fol- 
lows, weeping — 4urns to look hack.) 
Mel. {Sinking down.) All angels bless 
and guard her! 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1. The cottage as before — Mel- 
notte seated before a table — writing im- 
plements, (i'c. — {Day breaking.) 

Mel. Hush, hush ! — she sleeps at last ! — 
thank Heaven, for a while she forgets 
even that I live! Her sobs, which have 
gone to my heart the whole, long, deso- 
late night, have ceased ! — all calm — all 
still ! I will go now ; I will send this 
letter to Pauline's father: when he ar- 
rives, I will place in his hands my own 
consent to the divorce, and then, 
France ! my country ! accept among thy 
protectors, thy defenders — the Peasant's 
Son ! Our country is less proud than 
custom, and does not refuse the blood, 
the heart, the right hand of the poor 
man. 

{Enter Widow.) 

Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill; but 
sin brings its own punishment. In the 
hour of thy remorse, it is not for a 
mother to reproach thee. 

Mel. What is past is past. There is a 
future left to all men, who have the vir- 
tue to repent, and the energy to atone. 
Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. 
Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has 
been grievously injured. For the sake 
of thy son's conscience, respect, honor, 
bear with her. If she weep, console — if 
she chide, be silent. 'T is but a little 
while more — I shall send an express fast 
as horse can speed to her father. Fare- 
well! I shall return shortly. 

Widow. It is the only course left to thee 
— thou wert led astray, but thou art not 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



771 



hardened. Thy heart is right still, as 
ever it was when, in thy most ambitious 
hopes, thou wert never ashamed of thy 
poor mother. 

Mel. Ashamed of thee! No, if I yet en- 
dure, yet live, yet hope — it is only be- 
cause I would not die till I have 
redeemed the noble heritage I have lost 
— the heritage I took unstained from 
, thee and my dead father — a proud con- 
science and an honest name. I shall win 
them back yet — Heaven bless you! 
(Exit.) 

Widoio. My dear Claude ! How my heart 
bleeds for him. 

(Pauline looks down from above, and after 
a pause descends.) 

Pauline. Not here! — he spares me that 
pain at least: so far he is considerate— 
yet the place seems still more desolate 
without him. Oh, that I could hate him 
— the gardener's son! — and yet how 
nobly he — no — no — no, I will not be so 
mean a thing as to forgive him! 

Widow. Good morning, madam; I would 
have waited on you if I had known you 
were stirring. 

Pauline. It is no matter, ma'am — your 
son's wife ought to wait on herself. 

Widow. My son's wife — let not that 
thought vex you, madam — he tells me 
that you will have your divorce. And 
I hope I shall live to see him smile again. 
There are maidens in this village, young 
and fair, madam, who may yet console 
him. 

Pauline. I dare say — they are very wel- 
come — and when the divorce is got, he 
will marry again. I am sure I hope so. 
(Weeps.) 

Widoxv. He could have married the rich- 
est girl in the province, if he had pleased 
it; but his head was turned, poor child! 
he could think of nothing but you. 
( Weeps. ) 

Pauline. Don't weep, mother. 

Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I 
know, but love is so headstrong in the 
young. Don't weep, madam. 

Pauline. So, as you were saying — go on. 

Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma'am 
— he was not in his right senses. 

Pauline. But he always — always (Sob- 
bing) loved — loved me then? 

Widow. He thought of nothing else. See 
here — he learnt to paint that he might 
take your likeness (Uncovers the pic- 
ture). But that's all over now — I trust 
you have cured him of his folly; — but. 



dear heart, you have had no breakfast! 

Pauline. I can't take anything — don't 
trouble yourself. 

Widow. Nay, madam, be persuaded; a 
little coffee will refresh you. Our milk 
and eggs are excellent. I will get out 
Claude's cofl'ee-cup — it is of real Sevres; 
he saved up all his money to buy it three 
years ago, because the name of Pauline 
was inscribed on it. 

Pauline. Three years ago! Poor Claude! 
— Thank you; I think I will have some 
coffee. Oh! if he were but a poor gen- 
tleman, even a merchant: but a garden- 
er's son — and what a home! — Oh no, it 
is too dreadful! 

(They seat themselves at the table, Beau- 
seant opens the lattice and looks in.) 

Beau. So — so — the coast is clear! I saw 
Claude in the lane — I shall have an ex- 
cellent opportunity. 

(SJiuts the lattice and knocks at the door.) 

Pauline. (Starting.) Can it be my fa- 
ther? — he has not sent for him yet"? No, 
he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid 
of me. 

Widoiv. It is not time for your father to 
arrive yet; it must be some neighbor. 

Pauline. Don't admit any one. 

(Widow opens the door, Bcauseant pushes 
her aside and enters.) 
Ah ! Heavens ! that hateful Beauseant ! 
This is indeed bitter! 

Beau. Good morning, madam! widow, 
your son begs you will have the goodness 
to go to him in the village — he wants to 
speak to you on particular business; 
you '11 find him at the inn, or the grocer's 
shop, or the baker's, or at some other 
friend's of your family — make haste. 

Pauline. Don't leave me, mother! — don't 
leave me. 

Beau. (With great respect.) Be not 
alarmed, madam. Believe me your 
friend — your servant. 

Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you. even 
in this house! Go, madam, if your son 
wishes it ; I will not contradict his com- 
mands whilst, at least, he has still the 
right to be obeyed. 

Widow. I don't understand this; however, 
I shan't be long gone. 
(Exit.) 

Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your 
visit — you wish to exult in the humilia- 
tion of one who humbled you. Be it so ; 
I am prepared to endure all — even your 



presence 



Beau. You mistake me, madam — Pauline, 



772 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



you mistake me! I come to lay my for- 
tune at your feet. You must already be 
disenchanted with this impostor; these 
walls are not worthy to be hallowed by 
your beauty! Shall that form be 
clasped in the arms of a base-born peas- 
ant? Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly 
with me — my carriage waits without — I 
will bear you to a home more meet for 
your reception. Wealth, luxury, station 
— all shall yet be yours. I forget your 
past disdain — I remember only your 
beauty and my unconquerable love ! 

Pauline. Sir! leave this house — it is hum- 
ble : but a husljand's roof, however lowly, 
is, in the eyes of God and man, the 
temple of a wife's honor! Know that 
I would rather starve — yes — with him 
who has betrayed me, than accept your 
lawful hand, even were you the prince 
whose name he bore ! — Go. 

Beau. What, is not your pride humbled 
yet? 

Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosper- 
ity in affliction becomes virtue. 

Beau. Look round : these rugged floors — 
these homely walls — this wretched strug- 
gle of poverty for comfort — think of 
this ! and contrast with such a picture 
the refinement, the luxury, the pomp, 
that the wealthiest gentleman of Lyons 
offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear 
me! 

Pauline. Oh! my father! — why did I 
leave you? — why am I thus friendless? 
Sir, you see before you a betrayed, in- 
jured, miserable woman ! — respect her 
anguish ! 

[Melnotte opens the door silently, and 
pauses at the threshold.) 

Beau. No ! let me rather thus console it ; 
let me snatch from those lips one breath 
of that fragrance which never should be 
wasted on the low cliurl thy husband. 

Pauline. Help! Claude! — Claude! — Have 
I no protector? 

Beau. Be silent! {Showing a pistol.) 
See, I do not come unprepared even for 
violence. I will brave all things — thy 
husband and all his race — for thy sake. 
Thus, then, I clasp thee! 

Mel. {Dashing him to the other end of 
the stage.) Pauline — look up, Pauline! 
thou art safe. 

Beau. {Levelling his pistol.) Dare you 
thus insult a man of my birth, ruffian? 

Pauline. Oh, spare him — spare my hus- 
band ! — Beauseant — Claude — no — no. 
{Faints.) 



Mel. Miserable trickster! shame upon 
you! brave devices to terrify a woman! 
Coward! — you tremble — you have out- 
raged the laws — you know that your 
weapon is harmless — you have the cour- 
age of the mountebank, not the bravo! 
— Pauline, there is no danger. 
Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman — as 
it is, thou art beneath me. — Good day, 
and a happy honeymoon. — {Aside.) I 
will not die till I am avenged. 
{Exit.) 
Mel. I hold her in these arms — the last 

embrace ! 
Never, ah never more, shall this dear 

head 
Be pillow'd on the heart that should have 

shelter'd 
And has betray'd! — Soft — soft! one kiss 

— poor wretch! 
No scorn on that pale lip forbids me 

now ! 
One kiss — so ends all record of my 

crime ! 
It is the seal upon the tomb of hope, 
By which, like some lost, sorrowing 

angel, sits 
Sad memory evermore; — she breathes — 

she moves — 
She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to 

shudder 
Beneath the touch of my abhorred love. 

{Places her on a seat.) 
There — Ave are strangers now! 
Pauline. All gone — all calm — 

Is every thing a dream? thou art safe, 

unhurt — 
I do not love thee; but — but I am 

woman. 
And — and — no blood is spilt? 
Mel. No, lady, no; 

My guilt hath not deserved so rich a 

blessing 
As even danger in thy cause. 

{Enter Widow.) 

Widow. My son, I have been everywhere 
in search of you; why did you send for 
me? 

Mel. I did not send for you. 

Widow. No! but I must tell you your ex- 
press has returned. 

Mel. So soon! impossible! 

Widow. Yes, he met the lady's father and 
mother on the road ; they were going into 
the country on a visit. Your messenger 
says that Monsieur Deschaiipelles turned 
almost white with anger when he read 
your letter. They will be here alniQst 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OH, LOVE AND PRIDE 



773 



immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude! what 
will they do to you? How I tremble! 
Ah, madam! do not let them injure him 
— if you knew how he doated on you. 

Pauline. Injure him! no, ma'am, be not 
afraid; — my father! how shall I meet 
him? how go back to Lyons? the scoff 
of the whole city! Cruel, cruel, Claude. 
{In great agitation.) Sir, you have 

' acted most treacherously. 

Mel. I know it, madam. 

Pauline. (Aside.) If he would but ask 
me to forgive him ! — I never can forgive 
you, sir. 

Mel. I never dared to hope it. 

Pauline. But you are my husband now, 
and I have sworn to — to love you, sir. 

Mel. That was under a false belief, 
madani; Heaven and the laws will re- 
lease you from your vow. 

Pauline. He will drive me mad! if he 
were but less proud — if he would but ask 
me to remain — hark, hark — I hear the 
wheels of the carriage — Sir — Claude, 
they are coming; have you no word to 
say ere it is too late? Quick — speak. 

Mel. I can only congratulate you on your 
release. Behold your parents! 

{Enter Monsieur and Madame Descliap- 
pelles and Colonel Datnas.) 

M. Deschap. My child! my child! 

Mme. Deschap. Oh, my poor Pauline ! — 
what a villainous hovel this is ! Old 
woman, get me a chair — I shall faint — 
I certainly shall. What will the world 
say? Child, you have been a fool. A 
mother's heart is easily broken. 

Damas. Ha, ha! most noble Prince — I am 
sorry to see a man of your quality in 
such a condition; I am afraid your high- 
ness will go to the House of Correction. 

3Iel. Taunt on, sir; I spared you when 
you were unarmed — I am unarmed now. 
A man who has no excuse for crime is 
indeed defenceless! 

Damas. There 's something fine in the ras- 
cal, after all! 

M. Deschap. Where is the impostor? — 
Are you thus shameless, traitor? Can 
you brave the presence of that girl's 
father? 

Mel. Strike me, if it please you — you are 
her father. 

Pauline. Sir — sir, for my sake; — what- 
ever his guilt, he has acted nobly in 
atonement. 

Mme. Deschap. Nobly ! Are you mad, 
girl? I have no patience with you — to 



disgrace all your family thus! — Nobly! 
Oh you abominable, hardened, pitiful, 
mean, ugly villain ! 

Damas. Ugly! Why he was beautiful 
yesterday ! 

Pauline. Madam, this is his roof, and he 
is my husband. Respect your daughter, 
or let blame fall alone on her. 

Mme. Deschap. You — you — Oh, I 'm chok- 
ing. 

M. Deschap. Sir, it were idle to waste re- 
proach upon a conscience like yours — 
you renounce all pretensions to the per- 
son of this lady? 

Mel. I do. {Gives a paper.) Here is 
my consent to a divorce — my full con- 
fession of the fraud which annuls the 
man-iage. Your daughter has been 
foully wronged — I grant it, sir; but her 
own lips will tell you that, from the hour 
in which she crossed this threshold, I 
returned to my own station, and re- 
spected hers. Pure and inviolate, as 
when yestermorn you laid your hand 
upon her head, and blessed her, I yield 
her back to you. For myself — I deliver 
you for ever from my presence. An 
outcast and a criminal, I seek some 
distant land, where I may mourn my 
sin, and pray for your daughter's 
peace. Farewell — farewell to you all, 
for ever! 

Widow. Claude, Claude, you will not 
leave your poor old mother? She does 
not disown you in your sorrow — no, not 
even in your guilt. No divorce can sep- 
arate a mother from her son. 

Pauline. This poor widow teaches me my 
duty. No, mother, — no, for you are now 
my mother also ! — nor should any law, 
human or divine, separate the wife from 
her husband's sorrows. Claude — Claude 
— all is forgotten — forgiven — I am thine 
for ever! 

Mme. Deschap. What do I hear? — Come 
away, or never see my face again. 

M. Deschap. Pauline, ice never betrayed 
you! — do you forsake us for him? 

Pauline. {Going hack to her father.) 
Oh no — but you will forgive him too; 
we will live together — he shall be your 
son. 

M. Deschap. Never! Cling to him and 
forsake your parents! His home shall 
be yours — his fortune yours — his fate 
yours: the wealth I have acquired by 
honest industry shall never enrich the 
dishonest man. 

Pauline. And you would have a wife en- 



774 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



joy luxury while a husband toils! 
Claude, take me; thou canst not give me 
wealth, titles, station — but thou canst 
give me a true heart. I will work for 
thee, tend thee, bear with thee, and 
never, never shall these lips reproach 
thee for the past. 

Damas. I '11 be hanged if I am not going 
to blubber! 

Mel. This is the heaviest blow of all ! — 
What a heart I have wronged ! — Do not 
fear me, sir; I am not all hardened — I 
will not rob her of a holier love than 
mine. Pauline! — angel of love and 
mercy! — your memory shall lead me 
back to virtue ! — The husband of a being 
so beautiful in her noble and sublime 
tenderness may be poor — may be low- 
born; — (there is no guilt in the decrees 
of Providence ! — but he should be one 
who can look thee in the face without a 
blush, — to whom thy love does not bring 
remorse, — who can fold thee to his heart, 
and say, — "Here there is no deceit!" — 
I am not that man ! 

Damas. {Aside to Melnotte.) Thou art 
a noble fellow, notwithstanding; and 
wouldst make an excellent soldier. 
Serve in my regiment. I have had a 
letter from the Directory — our young 
general takes the command of the army 
in Italy, — I am to join him at Marseilles, 
— I will depart this day, if thou wilt go 
with me. 

Mel. It is the favor I would have asked 
thee, if I dared. Place me wherever a 
foe is most dreaded, — wherever France 
most needs a life ! 

Damas. There shall not be a forlorn hope 
without thee! 

Mel. There is my hand ! — mother, your 
blessing. I shall see you again, — a bet- 
ter man than a prince, — a man who has 
bought the right to high thoughts by 
brave deeds. And thou ! — thou ! so 
wildly worshipped, so guiltily betrayed, 
— all is not yet lost ! — for thy memory, 
at least, must be mine till death ! If 
I live, the name of him thou hast once 
loved shall not rest dishonored; — if I 
fall, amidst the carnage and the roar of 
battle, my soul will fly back to thee, and 
love shall share with death my last sigh! 
— More — more would I speak to thee ! — 
to pray ! — to bless ! But no ! — when T 
am less unworthy I will utter it to 
Heaven ! — I cannot trust myself to — 
{Turning to Deschappelles.) Your par- 



don, sir; — they are my last words — 
Farewell ! 

{Exit.) 
Damas. I will go after him. — France will 
thank me for this. 

{Exit.) 
Pauline. {Starting from her father's 
arms. ) Claude ! — Claude ! — my husband. 
M. Desehap. You have a father still ! 



ACT V. 

Two years and a half from the date of 
Act IV. 

Scene 1. The Streets of Lyons. 

{Enter First, Second, and Third Officers.) 

First Officer. Well, here we are at Lyons, 
with gallant old Damas: it is his native 
place. 

Second Officer. Yes; he has gained a step 
in the army since he was here last. The 
Lyonnese ought to be very proud of 
stout General Damas. 

Third Officer. Promotion is quick in the 
French army. This mysterious Morier, 
— the hero of Lodi,*^ and the favorite 
of the commander-in-chief, — has risen to 
a colonel's rank in two years and a half. 

{Enter Damas, as a General.) 

Damas. Good morrow, gentlemen; I hope 
you will amuse yourselves during our 
short stay at Lyons. It is a fine city: 
improved since I left it. Ah! it is a 
pleasure to grow old, — when the years 
that bring decay to ourselves do but 
ripen the prosperity of our country. 
You have not met with Morier? 

First Officer. No: we were just speaking 
of him. 

Second Officer. Pray, general, can you 
tell us wlio this Morier really is? 

Damas. Is ! — why a colonel in the French 
army. 

Third Officer. True. But what was he at 
first? 

Damas. At first? Why a baby in long 
clothes, I suppose. 

First Officer. Ha, ha! Ever facetious, 
general. 

Second Officer. {To Third.) The gen- 
eral is sore upon this point; you will 
onlv chafe him. — Any commands, gen- 
eral? 

Damas. None. Good day to you. 

{Exeunt Second and Third Officers.) 



6 At Lodi in Lombardy on the 10th May, 1796, Napoleon won a victory over the Austrians. 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



775 



Damas. Our comrades are very inquisi- 
tive. Poor Morier is the subject of a 
vast deal of curiosity. 

First Officer. Say interest, rather, gen- 
eral. His constant melancholy, the lone- 
liness of his habits, — his daring valor, 
his brilliant rise in the profession, — your 
friendship, and the favors of the com- 
mander-in-chief, — all tend to make him 
as much the matter of gossip as of 
admiration. But where is he, general? 
I have missed him all the morning. 

Damas. Why, captain, I '11 let you into a 
secret. My young friend has come with 
me to Lyons in hopes of finding a mira- 
cle. 

First Officer. A miracle! 

Damas. Yes, a miracle ! in other words, — 
a constant woman. 

First Officer. Oh ! an affair of love ! 

Damas. Exactly so. No sooner did lie 
enter Lyons than he waved his hand to 
me, threw himself from his horse, and is 
now, I warrant, asking every one who 
can know anything about the matter, 
whether a certain lady is still true to a 
certain gentleman ! 

First Officer. Success to him! — and of 
that success there can be no doubt. The 
gallant Colonel Morier, the hero of Lodi, 
might make his choice out of the proud- 
est families in France. 

Damas. Oh, if pride be a recommenda- 
tion, the lady and her mother are most 
handsomely endowed. By the way, cap- 
tain, if you should chance to meet with 
Morier, tell him he will find me at the 
hotel. 

First Officer. I will, general. 
{Exit.) 

Damas. Now will I go to the Deschap- 
pelles, and make a report to my young 
Colonel. Ha ! by Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, 
Virorum, — here comes Monsieur Beau- 
seant ! 

{Enter Beauseant.) 

Good morrow, Monsieur Beauseant I How 
fares it with you? 

Beau. {Aside.) Damas! that is unfortu- 
nate; — if the Italian campaign should 
have filled his pockets, he may seek to 
baffle me in the moment of my victory. 
{Aloud.) Your servant, general, — for 
such, I think, is your new distinction ! 
Just arrived in Lyons? 

Damas. Not an hour ago. Well, how go 
on the Deschappelles ? Have they for- 



given you in that affair of young Mel- 
notte? You had some hand in that nota- 
ble device, — eh? 

Beau. Why, less than you think for! The 
fellow imposed upon me. I have set it 
all right now. What has become of 
him? He could not have joined the 
army, after all. There is no such name 
in the books. 

Damas. I know nothing about Melnotte. 
As you say, I never heard the name in 
the Grand Army. 

Beau. Hem ! — You are not married, gen- 
eral? 

Damas. Do I look like a married man, 
sir? — No, thank Heaven! My profes- 
sion is to make widows, not wives. 

Beau. You must have gained much booty 
in Italy ! Pauline will be your heiress 
—eh? 

Damas. Booty ! Not I ! Heiress to what ? 
Two trunks and a portmanteau, — four 
horses, — three swords, — two suits of regi- 
mentals, and six pair of white leather 
inexpressibles ! ^ A pretty fortune for 
a young lady ! 

Beau. {Aside.) Then all is safe. {Aloud.) 
Ha ! ha ! Is that really all your capital, 
General Damas? Why, I thought Italy 
had been a second Mexico to you soldiers. 

Damas. All a toss-up, sir. I was not one 
of the lucky ones! My friend Morier, 
indeed, saved something handsome. But 
our commander-in-chief took care of 
him, and Morier is a thrifty, economical 
dog, — not like the rest of us soldiers, 
who spend our money as carelessly as if 
it were our blood. 

Beau. Well, it is no matter! I do not 
want fortune with Pauline. And you 
must know. General Damas, that your 
fair cousin has at length consented to 
reward my long and ardent attachment. 

Damas. You! — the devil! Why, she is 
already man'ied ! There is no divorce ! 

Beau. True; but this very day she is for- 
mally to authorize the necessary pro- 
ceedings, — this very day she is to sign 
the contract that is to make her mine 
within one week from the day on which 
her present illegal marriage is annulled. 

Damas. You tell me wonders ! — Wonders I 
No ; I believe anything of women ! 

Beau. I must wish you good morning. 
{As he is going, enter Deschappelles.) 

M. Deschap. Oh, Beauseant! well met. 
Let us come to the notary at once. 

Damas. {To Deschap.) Why, cousin! 



7 Breeches. 



776 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



M. Deschap. Damas, welcome to Lyons. 
Pray call on us; my wife will be de- 
lighted to see you. 

Damas. Your wife be — blessed for her 
condescension! But {taking him aside) 
what do I hear? Is it possible that your 
daughter has consented to a divorce'? — 
that she will marry Monsieur Beauseant? 

M. Deschap. Certainly! What have you 
to say against it! A gentleman of birth, 
fortune, character. We are not so 
proud as we were ; even my wife has had 
enough of nobility and princes! 

Damas. But Pauline loved that young 
man so tenderly! 

M. Deschap. {Taking snuff.) That was 
two years and a half ago ! 

Damas. Very true. Poor Melnotte! 

M. Deschap. But do not talk of that im- 
postor; I hope he is dead or has left the 
country. Nay, even were he in Lyons 
at this moment, he ought to rejoice that, 
in an honorable and suitable alliance, 
my daughter may forget her sufferings 
and his crime. 

Damas. Nay, if it be all settled, I have 
no more to say. Monsieur Beauseant 
informs me that the contract is to be 
signed this very day. 

M. Deschap. It is; at one o'clock pre- 
cisely. Will you be one of the wit- 
nesses ? 

Damas. I? — No; that is to say — yes, cer- 
tainly! — at one o'clock I will wait on 
you. 

M. Deschap. Till then adieu — come, Beau- 
seant. 
{Exeunt Beauseant and Deschappelles.) 

Damas. The man who sets his heart upon 
a woman 
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air; 
From air he takes his colors — holds his 

life,— 
Changes with every wind, — grows lean 

or fat. 
Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy, 
Or pallid with despair — just as the gale 
Varies from north to south — from heat 

to cold! 
Oh, woman! woman! thou shouldst have 

few sins 
Of thine own to answer for! Thou art 

the author 
Of such a book of follies in a man, 
That it would need the tears of all the 

angels 
To blot the record out! 

{Enter Melnotte, pale and agitated.) 



I need not tell thee ! Thou hast heard — 
Mel. The worst! 

I have! 
Damas. Be cheer'd; others are fair as she 

is! 
Mel. Others! — The world is crumbled at 
my feet! 
She ivas my world; fill'd up the whole of 

being — 
Smiled in the sunshine — walk'd the glo- 
rious earth — 
Sate in my heart — was the sweet life of 

life. 
The Past was hers; I dreamt not of a 

Future 
That did not wear her shape! Mem'ry 

and Hope 
Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless! 

Henceforth 
The universal space is desolate! 
Damas. Hope yet. 

Mel. Hope, yes! — one hope is left me 

still— 
A soldier's grave! Glory has died with 

love. 
I look into my heart, and, where I saw 
Pauline, see Death! 

{After a pause.) 
— But am I not deceived? 
I went but by the rumor of the town; 
Rumor is false, — I was too hasty! 

Damas, 
Whom hast thou seen? 
Damas. Thy rival and her father. 

Arm thyself for the truth. — He heeds 
not — 
Mel. She 

Will never know how deeply she was 

loved ! 
The charitable night, that wont to bring 
Comfort to-day, m bright and eloquent 

dreams. 
Is henceforth leagued with misery! 

Sleep, farewell. 
Or else become eternal ! Oh, the waking 
From false oblivion, and to see the 

sun, 
And know she is another's! 
Damas. Be a man! 

Mel. I am a man! — it is the sting of woe 

Like mine that tells us we are men! 
Damns. The false one 

Did not deserve thee. 
Mel. Hush — No word against her! 

Why should she keep, through years and 

silent alisenee, 
The holy tablets of her virgin faith 
True to a traitor's name ! Oh, blame her 
not; 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



777 



It were a sharper grief to think her 

worthless 
Than to be what I am! To-day, — to- 
day! 
They said "To-day!" This day, so 

wildly welcomed — 
This day, my soul had singled out of 

time 
And mark'd for bliss! This day! oh, 

could I see her, 
See her once more unknown; but hear 

her voice. 
So that one echo of its music might 
Make ruin less appalling in its silence. 
Damas. Easily done! Come with me to 

her house; 
Your dress — your cloak — moustache — the 

bronzed hues 
Of time and toil — the name you bear — 

belief 
In your absence, all will ward away 

suspicion. 
Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have 

you come. 
There may be hope! Pauline is yet so 

young, 
They may have forced her to these sec- 
ond bridals 
Out of mistaken love. 
Mel. No, bid me hope not! 

Bid me not hope ! I could not bear 

again 
To fall from such a heaven ! One gleam 

of sunshine, 
And the ice breaks and I am lost! Oh, 

Damas, 
There 's no such thing as courage in a 

man; 
The veriest slave that ever crawl'd from 

danger 
Might spurn me now. When first I lost 

her, Damas, 
I bore it, did I not? I still had hope, 
And now I — I — 

{Bursts into an agony of grief.) 
Damas. What, comrade ! all the women 

That ever smiled destruction on brave 

hearts 
Were not worth tears like these ! 
Mel. 'T is past — forget it. 

I am prepared ; life has no farther ills ! 
The cloud has broken in that stormy 

rain, 
And on the waste I stand, alone with 

Heaven. 
Damas. His very face is changed; a 

breaking heart 
Does its work soon! — Come, Melnotte, 

rouse thyself: 



One effort more. Again thou 'It see her. 
Mel. See her! 

There is a passion in that simple sen- 
tence 
That shivers all the pride and power of 

reason 
Into a chaos! 
Damas. Time wanes; — come, ere yet 

It be too late. 
Mel. Terrible words — ''Too late!" 

Lead on. One last look more, and 
then — 
Damas. Forget her! 

Mel. Forget her! yes. — For death remem- 
bers not. 

(Exeunt.) 



Scene 2. A room in the house of Mon- 
sieur Deschappelles; Pauline seated in 
great dejection.) 

Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false 

to Love, 
Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude, 
My lover, and my husband! Have I 

lived 
To pray that thou mayst find some fairer 

boon 
Than the deep faith of this devoted 

heart, 
Nourish'd till now — now broken? 

{Enter Monsieur Deschappelles.) 

M. Deschap. My dear child. 

How shall I thank — how bless thee? 
Thou hast saved, 

I will not say my fortune — I could bear 

Reverse, and shrink not — but that 
prouder wealth 

Which merchants value most — my name, 
my credit — 

The hard-won honors of a toilsome 
life:— 

These thou hast saved, my child! 
Pauline. Is there no hope? 

No hope but this? 
M. Deschap. None. If, without the sum 

Which Beauseant offers for thy hand, 
this day 

Sinks to the west — to-morrow brings our 
ruin ! 

And hundreds, mingled in that ruin, 
curse 

The bankrupt merchant! and the in- 
solent herd 

We feasted and made merry cry in scorn, 

"How pride has fallen! — Lo, the bank- 
rupt merchant!" 



778 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



My daughter, thou hast saved us! 
Pauline. And am lost! 

M. Deschap. Come, let me hope that 

Beauseant's love — 
Pauline. His love ! 

Talk not of love. Love has no thought 

of self! 
Love huys not with the ruthless usurer's 

gold 
The loathsome prostitution of a hand 
Without a heart! Love sacrifices all 

things 
To bless the thing it loves! He knows 

not love. 
Father, his love is hate — his hope re- 
venge ! 
My tears, my anguish, my remorse for 

falsehood — 
These are the joys he wrings from our 

despair ! 
M. Deschap. If thou deem'st thus, reject 

him ! Shame and ruin 
Were better than thy misery; — think no 

more on 't. 
My sand is wellnigh run — what boots it 

when 
The glass is broken ? We '11 annul the 

contract : 
And if to-morrow in the prisoner's cell 
These aged limbs are laid, why still, my 

child, 
I '11 tliink thou art spared ; and wait the 

liberal hour 
That lays the beggar by the side of 

kings! 
Pauline. No — no — forgive me! You, my 

honor'd father, — 
You, who so loved, so cherish'd me, 

whose lips 
Never knew one harsh word ! I 'm not 

ungrateful ; 
I am but human! — hush! Now, call the 

bridegroom — 
You see I am prepared — no tears — all 

calm ; 
But, father, talk no more of love! 
M. Deschap. My child, 

'T is but one struggle ; he is young, rich, 

noble ; 
Thy state will rank first 'mid the dames 

of Lyons ; 
And when this heart can shelter thee no 

more. 
Thy youth will not be guardianless. 
Pauline. I have set 

My foot upon the ploughshare — I will 

pass 
The fiery ordeal. (Aside.) Merciful 

Heaven, support me! 



And on the absent wanderer shed the 

light 
Of happier stars — lost evermore to me. 

(Enter Madame Deschappelles, Beauseant, 
Glavis, and Notary.) 

Mme. Deschap. Why, Pauline, you are 
quite in deshabille — you ought to be 
more alive to the importance of this joy- 
ful occasion. We had once looked 
higher, it is true; but you see, after all, 
Monsieur Beauseant's father was a Mar- 
quis, and that 's a great comfort. Pedi- 
gree and jointure ! — you have them both 
in Monsieur Beauseant. A young lady 
decorously brought up should only have 
two considerations in her choice of a 
husband: first, is his birth honorable? 
secondly, will his death be advantage- 
ous? All other trifling details should 
be left to parental anxiety. 

Beau. (Approaching and waving aside 
Madame.) Ah, Pauline! let me hope 
that you are reconciled to an event which 
confers such rapture upon me. 

Pauline. I am reconciled to my doom. 

Beau. Doom is a harsh word, sweet lady. 

Pauline. (Aside.) This man must have 
some mere}' — his heart cannot be marble. 
(Aloud.) Oh, sir, be just — be generous! 
Seize a noble triumph — a great revenge. 
Save the father, and spare the child. 

Beau. (Aside.) Joy — joy alike to my 
hatred and my passion! The haughty 
Pauline is at last my suppliant. 
(Aloud.) You ask from me what I have 
not the sublime virtue to grant — a vir- 
tue reserved only for the gardener's son ! 
I cannot forego my hopes in the moment 
of their fulfilment ! I adhere to the con- 
tract — your father's ruin or your hand. 

Pauline. Then all is over. Sir, I have 
decided. 

(The clock strikes one.) 

(Enter Damas and Melnotte.) 

Damas. Your servant, cousin Deschap- 
pelles. Let me introduce Colonel Mo- 
rier. 

Mme. Deschap. (Curtsying very low.) 
What, the celebrated hero? This is, in- 
deed, an honor! 

(Melnotte hows, and remains in the hack- 
ground. ) 

Damas. (To Pauline.) My little cousin, 
I congratulate you. What, no smile — no 
blush? You are going to be divorced 
from poor Melnotte, and marry this rich 



THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 



779 



gentleman. You ought to be excessively 
happy ! 

Pauline. Happy ! 

Damas. Why, how pale you are, child ! — 
Poor Pauline! Hist — confide in me! 
Do they force you to this? 

Pauline. No ! 

Damas. You act with your OM^n free con- 
•sent? 

Pauline. My own consent — yes. 

Damas. Then you are the most — I will 
not say what you are. 

Pauline. You think ill of me — be it so — 
yet if you knew all — 

Damas. There is some mystery — speak 
out, Pauline. 

Pauline. {Suddenly.) Oh, perhaps you 
can save me ! you are our relation — our 
friend. My father is on the verge of 
bankruptcy — this day he requires a large 
sum to meet demands that cannot be de- 
nied; that sum Beauseant will advance — 
this hand the condition of the barter. 
Save me if you have the means — save 
me! You will be repaid above! 

Damas. {Aside.) I recant — Women are 
not so bad after all! {Aloud.) 
Humph, child! I cannot help you — I 
am too poor. 

Pauline. The last plank to which I clung 
is shivered ! 

Damas. Hold — you see my friend Morier: 
Melnotte is his most intimate friend — 
fought in the same fields — slept in the 
same tent. Have you any message to 
send to Melnotte? any word to soften 
this blow? 

Pauline. He knows Melnotte — he will see 
him — he will bear to him my last fare- 
well. — {Approaches Melnotte.) — He has 
a stern air — he turns away irom me — 
he despises me ! — Sir, one word I beseech 
you. 

Mel. Her voice again ! How the old time 
comes o'er me! 

Damas. {To Madame.) Don't interrupt 
them. He is going to tell her what a 
rascal young Melnotte is; he knows him 
well, I promise you. 

Mme. Deschap. So considerate in you, 
cousin Damas ! 

{Damas approaches Deschappelles; con- 
verses apart with him in dumb show — 
Deschappelles shows him a paper, which 
he inspects and takes.) 

Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak; 
my courage fails me.- — 
Sir, is it true that you have known — 
nay, are 



The friend of— Melnotte ? 
Mel. Lady, yes! — Myself 

And misery know the man! 
Pauline. And you will see him, 

And you will bear to him — ay — word for 

word, 
All that this heart, which breaks in 

parting from liim. 
Would send, ere still for ever. 
3Iel. He hath told me 

You have the right to choose from out 

the world 
A worthier bridegroom; — he foregoes all 

claim, 
Even to murmur at his doom. Speak 

on! 
Pauline. Tell him, for years I never 

nursed a thought 
That was not his; — that on his wander- 

ing way. 
Daily and nightly, pour'd a mourner's 

prayers. 
Tell him ev'n now that I would rather 

share 
His lowliest lot,— walk by his side, an 

outcast, — 
Work for him, beg with him, — live upon 

the light 
Of one kind smile from him, — than wear 

the crown 
The Bourbon lost! 
3Iel. {Aside.) Am I already mad? 
And does delirium utter such sweet 

words 
Into a dreamer's ear? {Aloud.) You 

love him thus, 
And yet desert him? 
Pauline. Say, that, if his eye 

Could read this heart, — its struggles, its 

temptations, — 
His love itself would pardon that deser- 
tion! 
Look on that poor old man, — he is my 

father ; 
He stands upon the verge of an abyss ! — 
He calls his child to save him! Shall I 

shrink 
From him who gave me birth? — with- 
hold my hand. 
And see a parent perish? Tell him this, 
And say — that we shall meet again in 

Heaven ! 
Mel. {Aside.) The night is past — joy 

cometh with the morrow. 
{Aloud.) Lady — I — I — what is this rid- 
dle?— what 
The nature of this sacrifice? 
Pauline. {Pointing to Damas.) Go, ask 

him! 



780 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUTJY 



Beau. {From the table.) The papers are 
prepared — we only need 
Your hand and seal. 
Mel. Stay, lady — one word more. 

Were but your duty with your faith 

united, 
Would you still share the low-born peas- 
ant's lot? 
Pauline. Would I? Ah, better death 
with him I love 
Than all the pomp — which is but as the 

flowers 
That crown the victim! — {Turning 
away.) I am ready. 
{Melnotte rushes to Damas.) 
Damas. There— 

This is the schedule — this the total. 
Beau. {To Deschappelles, showing notes.) 
These 
Are yours the instant she has sign'd; 

you are 
Still the great House of Lyons! 
{The Notary is about to hand the contract 
to Pauline, when Melnotte seizes it and 
tears it.) 
Beau. Are you mad? 

M. Desehap. How, sir ! What means this 

insult? 
Mel. Peace, old man ! 

I have a prior claim. Before the face 
Of man and Heaven I urge it; I out- 
bid 
Yon sordid huckster for your priceless 
jewel. 

{Giving a pocket-book.) 
There is the sum twice told! Blush not 

to take it: 
There's not a coin that is not bought 

and hallow'd 
In the cause of nations with a soldier's 
blood! 
Beau. Torments and death! 
Pauline. That voice! Thou art — 

Mel. Thy husband! 

{Pauline rushes into his arms.) 
Look up ! Look up, Pauline ! — for I can 

bear 
Thine eyes! The stain is blotted from 

my name. 
I have redeem'd mine honor. I can 

call 
On France to sanction thy divine for- 
giveness ! 
Oh, joy! — Oh, rapture! By the mid- 
night watchfires 
Thus have I seen thee ! thus foretold this 
hour ! 



And 'midst the roar of battle, thus have 

heard 
The beating of thy heart against my 

own! 
Beau. Fool'd, duped, and triumph'd over 

in the hour 
Of mine own victory ! Curses on ye 

both! 
May thorns be planted in the marriage- 
bed! 
And love grow sour'd and blacken'd into 

hate — 
Such as the hate that gnaws me ! 
Damas. Curse away! 

And let me tell thee, Beauseant, a wise 

proverb 
The Arabs have, — "Curses are like 

young chickens, 
{Solemnly.) And still come home to 

roost !" 
Beau. Their happiness 

Maddens my soul! I am powerless and 

revengeless ! 

{To Madame.) 
I wish you joy ! Ha ! ha ! the gardener's 

son! 

{Exit.) 
Damas. {To Glavis.) Your friend in- 
tends to hang himself! Metiiinks 
You ouG:ht to be his travelling com- 



Gla. 



panion 



Sir, you are exceedingly obliging! 
{Exit.) 

Pauline. Oh ! 

My father, you are saved, — and by my 

husband ! 
Ah, blessed hour! 
Mel. Yet you weep still, Pauline! 
Pauline. But on thy breast — these tears 

are sweet and holy! 
M. Desehap. You have won love and 
honor nobly, sir! 
Take her; — be happy both! 
Mme. Desehap. I'm all astonish'd! 

Who, then, is Colonel Morier? 
Damas. You behold him! 

Mel. Morier no more after this happy 
day ! 
I would not bear again my father's name 
Till I could deem it spotless! The 

hour 's come ! 
Heaven smiled on conscience ! As the 

soldier rose 
From rank to rank, how sacred w^as the 

fame 
That cancell'd crime, and raised him 
nearer thee! 





THE LADY OF LYONS, 


OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 781 


Mme. 


Deschap. A colonel and a hero ! 


If it be true love, works out its redemp- 




Well, that 's something ! 


tion; 


He 


's wondrously improved ! I wish you 


And he who seeks repentance for the 




joy, sir! 


Past 


Mel 


Ah! the same love that tempts us 


Should woo the Angel Virtue in the Fu- 




into sin, 


ture. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



Robert Browning (1812-1889), of a culti- 
vated but unassuming family, was not a uni- 
versity man, and gained his remarkably wide 
knowledge, as Shakespeare did, by himself. 
His early work he wrote especially under the 
influence of Shelley. He published his first 
poem, Pauline, in 1833, and The Ring and the 
Book, his longest and greatest, in 1868-9, 
and maintained his literary fertility till his 
death. His most original and characteristic 
poems are his dramatic lyrics, each the terse 
revelation of a soul. In 1846 he married 
Elizabeth Barrett, the poetess, and thereafter 
lived most of the time in Florence and Venice. 

A Blot in the 'Scutdicon, the most^ctable 
of Browning's nine or so of dramas, was'vvrit- 
ten in 1843 with marvelous speed — in four 
or five days — at the request of tlie actor and 
theater-manager Macready. Owing to finan- 
cial straits, when it came to the point the 
latter was unwilling to put it on, but instead 
of candidly telling Browning his difficulties, 
behaved in an indirect and churlish manner 
which was intended to give him a hint to with- 
draw the play, but which Browning did not 
understand. To foil Macready's attempts to 
alter the play excessively, Browning had it 
printed in a few hours, and published it as 
No. V of Bells and Pomegranates. As a play 
it was only moderately successful, owing 
partly to Macready's negligence. His ill 
conduct in the matter led to a breach in his 
long friendship with Browning, and this re- 
moved one of tlie poet's inducements to the 
writing of drama. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
has been revived numerous times down to the 
present, as in 1848, 1885 and 1888. 

Browning had in high degree certain of 
the qualifications of the dramatist, and 
lacked others. Of the latter the chief is in 
the construction of plots, which he usually, 
as in the present case, invented. In A Blot 
in the 'Scutcheon he admitted extraordinary 
improbabilities. Certain of the lovers' 
tragic errors are accounted for by their ex- 
treme and thoughtless youtli ; but it is too 
much that after Mildred had exclaimed (II. 
i) that her lover was lost if he returned that 
night, she should herself signal for him — 
and just as she was expecting him admit 
her brother. Strange too that the keen- 
witted Guendolen should not avert the lover's 
coming; and that titled families with adjoin- 
ing estates should barely know each other. 
The song in act II, one of the very finest 
of Browning's love-lyrics, becomes almost 



ludicrous when we realize that it is sung at a 
window-sill a great height above the ground. 
Elsewhere too the structure leaves something 
to be desired. That admirable bit of insight 
on Guendolen's part (one of the keenly 
modern touches), her guessing that the lover 
is Mertoun, leads to no result whatever.. 
There are also many long speeches and com- 
paratively little action ; Browning's like 
Shelley's interest in a' story was usually in 
its psychology. The poet is not to be cen- 
sured, though at first it shocks us, for mak- 
ing Mildred only fourteen years old, ob- 
viously in order to increase our tolerance 
and sympathy for her; under former social 
conditions people matured earlier than to- 
day; in the Middle Ages canon law recog- 
nized girls as marriageable at twelve. 

That we notice some of these defects is al- 
most a tribute to Browning's genius ; they 
stand out the more sharply against the 
trenchant reality of the play. And at other 
points it shows a wary foresight notable in a 
work so rapidly written. Tliere is a thrill 
of dramatic irony in act II, scene i, where 
the light-hearted Guendolen twice chaffs her 
cousin in his hidden anguish about finding 
an imaginary blot in Mertoun's 'scutcheon ; 
and another in act I. iii., when Guendolen is 
about to say that the women of their race are 
all chaste, and Mildred pitifully interrupts. 
Mildred's sudden death is made intelligible 
by her heart-seizures earlier (I, iii, II). 
In the first scene of all, the irascible indif- 
ference to the approaching marriage shown 
by old Gerard, the favorite of Mildred, who 
used to care about the least thing " that 
touched the House's honor," warns the seeing 
eye that all is not sound. We are thus al- 
lowed the pleasure, no small one, of pointed 
surmise. But such subtleties in structure 
are not what Browning chiefly cared for; in 
his dramas as in his other work, and as. 
Wordsworth said of his own poetry, it is the 
feeling which gives importance to the inci- 
dent, and not the incident to the feeling. 
Emotion and personality, these are the two 
things which made the world so inexhaustibly 
interesting to Browning; that they are the 
life and soul of drama, of which plot is only 
the body, is what drew him now and again 
to its stimulating domain. Whatever his 
people do or leave imdone, we certainly feel 
their reality. Guendolen is the embodiment 
of energetic sensitive life — with her merry 
heart, her tart, chaffing tongue, her intuition. 



782 



ROBERT BROWNING 



783 



her loyalty, almost a sister to Shakespeare's 
Beatrice; alas that she had not Beatrice's 
fortune! Thorold is the spring of the 
action, with his nobility and love, his stifl'ness 
and egoism, partly due to family pride, partly 
adopted to hold in his nervous impulsive na- 
ture, tense at times with the strain between 
hrs agitation and his self-control. He de- 
ceives himself; he is far less moved by 
brotherly love than by his notion of dignit}^ 
His worship of family honor is not intelli- 
gently and reasonably woven into his whole 
view of the world, it is a superstitious re- 
ligion which must not be adapted or dis- 
cussed. He liad half-meant to expose his sis- 
ter to Austin and Guendolen even before he 
learned the supposed culmination of her 
shame, her apparent resolve to marry yet to 
keep her lover. His reckless impulsiveness 
in calling in the two to face her makes in- 
telligible his suddenness in killing Mertoun. 
Mildred and Mertoun are' far less individu- 
alized, and justly so. They are high-bred 
emotional youth, and nothing else, the em- 
bodiment of an ever-recurring human tragedy : 

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin 1 

Over and over again their youth wins our 
compassion where tliey would excite only im- 
patience if they were adult. Their hateful 
false position requires of them the very thing 
their lack of which got them into it — cool 
wariness, worldly wisdom. They cannot nerve 
themselves to the brief sharp necessities of 
their situation. Mertoun at his first appear- 
ance half-betrays himself to Austin, who sees 
through his unskilful feigning. His boyish 
hero-worship for Thorold, of whicli he tells 
him as he is dying, makes the cool hypocrisy 
required of him at their first meeting doubly 
impossible to him. The lovers' childish wil- 
fulness and impatience in planning another 
secret meeting brings tlieir death ; JNlildrcd's 
childish timorous procrastination of her in- 
terview with her brother brings their death. 
Her moment of caution when she tries to call 
Mertovm back is defeated by his being out of 
hearing of her low voice. The play is wholly 
a tragedy of human individualities, not of so- 
cial conditions or of any particular age. It 
is vaguely in the not very remote past, an 
age of coaches and periwigs, long cloaks, 
swords and even cross-bows ; in the eighteenth 
century, Browning says. But externals 
are unimportant; there is nothing arbitrary. 
The strength of the play as a tragedy is that 
the ruin is not due to chance, but follows re- 
morselessly from the personalities involved, 
from the clash of Thorold's unthinking and 
impetuous sense of honor with ^lildred's, and 



Mertoun's, unthinking youth and impetuous 
love. Brother and sister have traits in com- 
mon; the tragedy is a family tragedy. It is 
the more intense because all the characters 
have our syinpathy, and all rise to the highest 
dignity at their ending. We admire Mertoun 
for passing from submission to severity in his 
last words to Thorold, and Mildred for pass- 
ing from severity to submission. But the 
intensity is most of all due to the sense of 
the needlessness of the ruin. As in the tragic 
story of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini in 
the fifth canto of Dante's Inferno, a way- 
ward twist has defeated what should have 
been beauty and happiness. 

In style the play shows Browning at his 
simplest. Aware that he must be instantly 
understood, he obviously strove to avoid the 
close-packed intricacy and subtlety of much 
of his poetry. There is a little of it, as even 
the actors have felt. Mr. Charles Fry, who 
was concerned in one of the last revivals dur- 
ing Browning's life, told the present editor in 
1911 a characteristic anecdote. At a re- 
hearsal Mr. Fry said to the poet, " Mr. 
Browning, I fear you will think me very 
stupid, but I don't understand the meaning 
of this line I have to speak." Browning took 
the book and looked at it, and said, " Dear me, 
I don't know what it means." Browning 
never liked to give the impression of taking 
his own work over-seriously ; still, the re- 
mark may console some of those whom he has 
puzzled. Tliere is but little, however, of such 
trouble in this play. It abounds in passages 
of significant brevity and simple distinction. 
Few poets have oftener rivaled Shakespeare 
in the dramatic nerve of his style. 

There could hardly be a greater contrast 
than between tliis play and The Lady of 
Lyons, even aside from tlieir dilfcrence in ex- 
cellence; yet both well illustrate the drama 
of the nineteenth century. Tlie interest of the 
latter play is dispersed, is in the plot and 
external showy incident; the characters are 
little studied, the morals popular and super- 
ficial, the style and tlie general type of play 
unoriginal and traditional. Tlie "^interest in 
Browning's play is condensed, intense, and in- 
ternal; is in the expression and clash of 
personalities. As we see in The Lady of 
Lyons certain of the literary currents and 
tastes of the century, we see here its freedom 
from the literary orthodoxies and compulsion 
which have so largely controlled the earlier 
drama, and withheld so many men Irom fully 
expressing tlieir larger selves. We may see 
here the modern love of concrete truth rather 
than of preconceived ideals. 



F 



A BLOT IN THE SCUTCHEON 



PERSONS 



Mildred Teesham. 

GUENDOLEN TKESHAM. 

Thoeold, Earl Tresham. 
Austin Teesham. 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. The interior of a lodge in 
Lord Tresham's park. Many Retainers 
crowded at the window, supposed to com- 
mand a view of the entrance to his man- 
sion. Gerard, the warrener, his hack to a 
table on which are flagons, etc. 

1st Retainer. Ay, do! push, friends, and 
then you '11 push down me ! 

— What for? Does any hear a runnei-'s. 
foot 

Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's 
cryf 

Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant ? 

But there 's no breeding in a man of you 

Save Gerard yonder : here 's a half -place 

yet, 

Old Gerard ! 
Gerard. Save your courtesies, my friend. 

Here is my place. 
2nd Ret. Now, Gerard, out with it ! 

What makes you sullen, this of all the 

days 
r the year? To-day that young rich 

bountiful 
Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone 

they match 
With our Lord Tresham through the 

countryside, 
Is coming here in utmost bravery ^ 
To ask our master's sister's hand? 
Ger. What then? 

2nd Ret. What then? Why, you, she 

speaks to, if she meets 
Your worship, smiles on as you hold 

apart 
The boughs to let her through her forest 

walks, 
You, always favorite for your no-deserts, 
You 've heard, these three days, how Earl 

Mertoun sues 



1 splendor. 



Heney, Earl Mertoun. 

Geeaed, and other retainers of Lord Tresham. 

Time, 17—. 

To lay his heart and house and broad 

lands too 
At Lady Mildred's feet : and while we 

squeeze 
Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss 
One congee - of the least page in bis 

train, 
You sit o' one side — "there's the Earl," 

say I — 
"What then?" say you! 
3rd Ret. I '11 wager he has let 

Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred 

swim 
Over the falls and gain the river ! 
Ger. Ralph, 

Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day 
For you and for your hawks? 
4th Ret. Let Gerard be ! 

He 's coarse-grained, like his carved black 

cross-bow stock. 
Ha, look now, while we squabble with 

him, look ! 
Well done, now — is not this beginning, 

now. 
To purpose? 
1st Ret. Our retainers look as fine — 

That's comfort. Lord, how Richard 

holds himself 
With his white staff! Will not a knave 

behind 
Prick him upright? 
4th Ret. He 's only bowing, fool ! 

The Earl's man bent us lower by this 

much. 
1st Ret. That 's comfort. Here 's a very 

cavalcade ! 
3rd Ret. I don't see wherefore Richard, 

and his troop 
Of silk and silver varlets there, should 

find 
Their perfumed selves so indispensable 
On high days, holidays! Would it so 

disgrace 

2 salutation, obeisance. 



784 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



785 



Our family, if I, for instance, stood — 
In my right hand a cast of Swedish 

hawks, 
A leash of greyhounds in my left? — 
Ger. —With Hugh 

The logman for supporter, in his right 
The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood- 
shears ! 
3rd Ret. Out on you, crab ! What next, 

what next? The Earl ! 
1st Ret. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, 
do they match 
The Earl's"? Alas, that first pair of the 

six — 
They paw the ground — Ah Walter ! and 

that brute 
Just on his haunches by the wheel ! 
6th Ret. Ay — ay! 

You, Philii:), are a special hand, I hear. 
At soups and sauces : what 's a horse to 

you? 
D' ye mark that beast they 've slid into 

the midst 
So cunningly? — then, Philip, mark this 

further ; 
No leg has he to stand on ! 
1st Ret. No? That's comfort. 

2ncl Ret. Peace, Cook! The Earl de- 
scends. Well, Gerard, see 
The Earl at least ! Come, there 's a 

proper man, 
I hope ! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or 

Swede, 
Has got a starrier eye. 
3rd Ret. His eyes are blue : 

But leave my hawks alone ! 
4th Ret. So young, and yet 

So tall and shapely ! 
5th Ret. Here's Lord Tresham's self! 

There now — there's what a nobleman 

should be ! 
He 's older, graver, loftier, he 's more like 
A House's head. 
2nd Ret. But you 'd not have a boy 

— And what's the Earl beside? — possess 

too soon 
That stateliness? 
1st Ret. Our master takes his hand — 
Richard and his white staff are on the 

move — 
Back fall our people — (tsh! — there's 

Timothy 
Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties. 
And Peter's cursed rosette 's a-coming 

off!) 
— At last I see our lord's back and his 

friend's ; 
And the whole beautiful bright company 
Close round them — in they go ! 



{Jumping down from the window-bench, 
and making for the table and its jugs.) 

Good health, long life. 
Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his 
House ! 
6th Ret. My father drove his father first 
to court, 
After his marriage day — ay, did he ! 
2nd Ret. God bless 

Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the 

Eari ! 
Here, Gerard, reach your beaker! 
Ger. Drink, my boys ! 

Don't mind me — all 's not right about me 
— drink ! 
2nd Ret. {Aside.) He 's vexed, now, that 
he let the show escape ! 
{To Gerard.) Remember that the Earl 
returns this way. 
Ger. That way? 
2nd Ret. Just so. 
Ger. Then my way 's here. 

{Goes.) 
2nd Ret. Old Gerard 

Will die soon — mind, I said it ! He was 

used 
To care about the pitifullest thing 
That touched the House's honor, not an 

eye 
But his could see wherein : and on a 

cause 
Of scarce a quarter this importance, 

Gerard 
Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away 
In cares that this was right, nor that Avas 

wrong, 
Such point decorous, and such square by 

rule — 
He knew such niceties, no herald more: 
And now — you see his humor: die he 
will! 
[1st] Ret. God help him! Who 's for the 
great servants'-hall 
To hear what 's going on inside? They 'd 
follow 
Lord Tresham into the saloon. 
3rd Ret. I !— 

4th Ret. I!— 

Leave Frank alone for catching, at the 

door. 
Some hint of how the parley goes inside ! 
Prosperity to the great House once more ! 
Here 's the last drop ! 
1st Ret. Have at you ! Boys, hurrah ! 

Scene 2. A Saloon in the Mansion. 

{Enter Lord Tresham, Lord Mertoun, Aus- 
tin, and Guendolen.) 



f 



786 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Tresham. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, 

yet once more, 
To this ancestral roof of mine. Your 

name 
— Noble among the noblest in itself, 
Yet taking in your person, fame avers, 
New price and lustre, — (as that gem you 

wear, 
Transmitted from a hundred knightly 

bi'easts, 
Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last 

lord, 
Seems to re-kindle at the core) — your 

name 
Would win you welcome ! — 
Mertoun. Thanks ! 

Tres. — But add to that, 

The worthiness and gTaee and dignity 
Of your proposal for uniting both 
Our Houses even closer than respect 
Unites them now — add these, and you 

must grant 
One favor more, nor that the least, — to 

think 
The welcome I should give; — 'tis given! 

My lord. 
My only brother, Austin : he 's the kiug-'s. 
Our cousin. Lady Guendolen — betrothed 
To Austin: all are yours. 
Mert. I thank you — less 

For the expressed commendings which 

your seal, 
And only that, authenticates — forbids 
My putting from me ... to my heart I 

take 
Your praise . . . but praise less claims 

my gratitude. 
Than the indulgent insight it implies 
Of what must needs be uppermost with 

one 
Who comes, like me, with the bare leave 

to ask. 
In weighed and measured unimpassioned 

words, 
A gift, which, if as calmly 't is denied, 
He must withdraw, content upon his 

cheek, 
Despair within his soul. That I dare ask 
Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence 
That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, 

Lord Tresham, 
I love your sister — as you 'd have one 

love 
That lady ... oh more, more I love her ! 

Wealth, 
Rank, all the world thinks me, they're 

yours, you know, 
To hold or part with, at your choice — 

but grant 



My true self, me without a rood of land, 
A piece of gold, a name of yestei'day. 
Grant me that lady, and you . . . Death 

or life? 
Guendolen. (Apart to Austin.) Why, this 

is loving, Austin ! 
Austin. He 's so young ! 

Guen. Young'? Old enough, I think, to 

half surmise 
He never had obtained an entrance here. 
Were all this fear and trembling needed. 
Aust. Hush ! 

He reddens. 
Guen. Mark him, Austin ; that 's 

true love ! 
Ours must begin again. 
Tres. We '11 sit, my lord. 

Ever with best desert goes dilfidence. 
I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. 
That I am wholly satisfied with you 
On this occasion, when a falcon's eye 
Were dull compared with mine to search 

out faults. 
Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to 

give 
Or to refuse. 
Mert. But you, you grant my suit? 

I have your word if hers *? 
Tres. My best of words 

If hers encourage you. I trust it will. 
Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way'? 
Mert. I . . . I . . . our two demesnes, re- 
member, touch ; 
I have been used to wander carelessly 
After my stricken game : the heron 

roused 
Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken 

wing- 
Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, — 

or else 
Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight 
And lured me after her from tree to tree, 
I marked not whither. I have come upon 
The lady's wondrous beauty imaware. 
And — and then ... I have seen her. 
Guen. {Aside to Austin.) Note that mode 
Of faltering out that, when a lady passed, 
He, having eyes, did see her! You had 

said — 
"On such a day I scanned her, head to 

foot; 
Observed a red, where red should not 

have been. 
Outside her elbow; but was pleased 

enough 
Upon the whole." Let such irreverent 

talk 
Be lessoned for the future ! 
Tres. What's to say 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



787 



May be said briefly. She has never 

known 
A mother's care; I stand for father too. 
Her beauty is not strange to you, it 

- seems — 
You cannot know the good and tender 

heart, 
Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, 
How pure yet passionate, how cahn yet 

kind, 
How gTave yet joyous, how reserved yet 

free 
As light where friends are — how imbued 

with lore 
The world most prizes, yet the simplest, 

yet 
The . . . one might know I talked of 

Mildred — thus 
We brothers talk ! 
Mert. I thank you. 

Tres. In a word. 

Control 's not for this lady ; but her wish 
To please me outstrips in its subtlety 
My power of being pleased : herself 

creates 
The want she means to satisfy. My 

heart 
Prefers your suit to her as 't were its 

own. 
Can I say more? 
Mert. No more — thanks, thanks 

— no more! 
Tres. This matter then discussed . . . 
Mert. — We '11 waste no breath 

On aught less precious. I 'm beneath 

the roof 
Wliich holds her : while I thought of that, 

my speech 
To you would wander — as it must not 

do, 
Since as you favor me I stand or fall, 
I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! 
Tres. With less regret 't is suffered, that 

again 
We meet, I hope, so shortly. 
Mert. We"? again?— 

Ah, yes, forgive me — when shall . . . 

you will crown 
Your goodness by forthwith apprising me 
When . . . if . . . the lady will appoint 

a day 
For me to wait on you — and her. 
Tres. So soon 

As I am made acquainted with her 

thoughts 
On your pi'oposal — howsoe'er they lean — 
A messenger shall bring you the result. 
Mert. You cannot bind me more to you, 

my lord. 



Farewell till we renew ... I trust, re- 
new 

A converse ne'er to disunite again. 
Tres. So may it prove ! 
Mert. You, lady, you, sir, take 

My humble salutation ! 
Guen. and Aust. Thanks ! 

Tres. Within there ! 

{Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mer- 
toun to the door. Meantime Austin re- 
marks, ) 

Well, 
Here I have an advantage of the Earl, 
Confess now ! I 'd not think that all was 

safe 
Because my lady's brother stood my 

friend ! 
Why, he makes sure of her — ''do you say, 

yes- 
She '11 not say, no," — what comes it to 

beside ? 
I should have prayed the brother, "speak 

this speech. 
For Heaven's sake urge this on her — 

put in this — 
Forget not, as you 'd save me, t' other 

thing, — 
Then set down what she says, and how 

she looks, 
And if she smiles, and" (in an under 

breath) 
"Only let her accept me, and do you 
And all the world refuse me, if you 

dare !" 
Guen. That way you 'd take, friend 

Austin? What a shame 
I was your cousin, tamely from the first 
Your bride, and all this fervor 's run to 

waste ! 
Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? 
The Earl 's a fool. 
Aust. Here 's Thorold. Tell him so ! 

Tres. {returning.) Now, voices, voices! 

'St ! the lady 's first ! 
How seems he? — seems he not . . . 

come, faith give fravid 
The mercy-stroke whenever they engage! 
Down with fraud, up with faith! How 

seems the Earl? 
A name ! a blazon ! if you knew their 

worth, 
As 5'ou^will never! come — the Earl? 
Guen. He 's young. 

Tres. Wliat 's she? an infant save in heart 

and brain. 
Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! 

and you . . . 
Austin, how old is she? 



r 



788 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Gucn. There 's tact for you ! 

I meant that being young was good ex- 
cuse 
If one should tax him . . . 
Tres. Well? 

Guen. — With lacking wit. 

Tres. He lacked wit? Where might he 

lack wit, so please you? 
Guen. In standing straighter than the 
steward's rod 
And making you the tiresomest harangue, 
Instead of slipping over to my side 
And softly whispering in my ear, ''Sweet 

lady. 
Your cousin there will do me detriment 
He little dreams of : he 's absorbed, I 

see, 
In my old name and fame — be sure he '11 

leave 
My Mildred, when his best account of 

me 
Is ended, in full confidence I wear 
My grandsire's periwig down either 

cheek. 
I'm lost imless your gentleness vouch- 
safes" . . . 
Tres. . . . "To give a best of best accounts, 
yourself. 
Of me and my demerits." You are 

right ! 
He should have said what now I say for 

him. 
Yon golden creature, will you help us all ? 
Here 's Austin means to vouch for much, 

but you 
— You are . . . what Austin only knows! 

Come up. 
All three of us : she 's in the library 
No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. 
Precede ! 
Guen. Austin, how we must — ! 
Tres. Must what? Must speak truth, 

Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in 

him ! 
I challenge yon ! 
Guen. Witchcraft's a fault in him, 

For you 're bewitched. 
Tres. What 's urgent we obtain 

Is, that she soon receive him — say, to- 
morrow — 
Next day at furthest. 
Guen. Ne'er instruct me! 

Tres. Come ! 

— He's out of your good graces, since 

forsooth. 
He stood not as he 'd carry ns by storm 
With his perfections ! You 're for the 
composed 



Manly assured becoming confidence! 

— Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I '11 

give you . . . 
I'll give you black Urganda, to be 

spoiled 
With petting and snail-paces. Will you ? 

Come ! 

Scene 3. Mildred's chamber. A painted 
window overlooks the park. Mildred and 
Guendolen. 

Guendolen. Now, Mildred, spare those 
pains. I have not left 

Our talkers in the library, and climbed 

Tlie wearisome ascent to this your bower 

In company with you, — I have not 
dared . . . 

Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing 
you 

Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood. 

Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell 

— Or bringing Austin to pluck up that 
most 

Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor's eyes. 

He would maintain, were gray instead of 
blue — 

I think I brought him to contrition ! — 
Well, 

I have not done such things, (all to de- 
serve 

A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,) 

To be dismissed so coolly. 
Mildred. Guendolen ! 

What have I done? what could sug- 
gest , . . 
Guen. There, there! 

Do I not comprehend you 'd be alone 

To throw those testimonies in a heap, 

Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities. 

With that poor silly heartless Guendo- 
len's 

Ill-timed misplaced attempted smart- 
nesses — 

And sift their sense out? now, I come to 
spare you 

Nearly a whole night's labor. Ask and 
have ! 

Demand, be answered ! Lack I ears and 
eyes? 

Am I perplexed which side of the rock- 
table 

The Conqueror dined on when he landed 
first, 

Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden 
take— 

The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great 
meed ? ^ 



3 7. e., did his ancestor sit on William the Conqueror's left or right hand at their first meal in Eng- 
land, on the shore at Hastings? 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



789 



Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! 
Mil. My brother — 

Did he . . . you said that he received 
him well? 
Guen. ' If I said only "well" I said not 
much. 
Oh, stay — which brother? 
3Iil. Thorold! who — who else? 

Guen. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by 
half,— 
Nay, hear me out — with us he 's even 

gentler 
Than we are with our birds. Of this 

great House 
The least retainer that e'er caught his 

glance 
Would die for him, real dying — no mere 

talk: 
And in the world, the court, if men 

would cite 
The perfect spirit of honor, Thorold's 

name 
Rises of its clear nature to their lips. 
But he should take men's homage, trust 

in it, 
And care no more about what drew it 

down. 
He has desert, and that, acknowledg- 
ment; 
Is he content? 
Mil. You wrong him, Guendolen. 

Guen. He 's proud, confess ; so proud with 
brooding o'er 
The light of his intei'minable line. 
An ancestry with men -all paladins. 
And women all . . . 
Mil. Dear Guendolen, 't is late ! 

When yonder purple pane the climbing 

moon 
Pierces, I know 't is midnight. 
Gven. Well,^that Thorold 

Should rise up from such musings, and 

receive 
One come audaciously to graft himself 
Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw. 
No slightest spot in such an one . . . 
Mil. Who finds 

A spot in Mertoun? 
Guen. Not your brother; therefore. 

Not the whole world. 
Mil. I am weary, Guendolen. 

Bear with me ! 
Guen. I am foolish. 

Mil. Oh no, kind ! 

But I would rest. 
Gum. Good night and rest to you ! 

T said how gracefully his mantle lay 
Beneath the rings of his light hair? 
Mil. Brown hair. 



Guen. Brown? why, it is brown: how 

could you know that? 
Mil. How? did not you — Oh, Austin 
't was, declared 
His hair was light, not brown — my head ! 

— and look. 
The moon-beam purpling the dark cham- 
ber! Sweet, 
Good night! 
Guen. Forgive me — sleep the soundlier 
for me ! 

{Going, she turns suddenhj.) 
Mildred ! 
Perdition ! all 's discovered ! Thorold 

finds 
— That the Earl's greatest of all grand- 
mothers 
Was grander daughter still — to that fair 

dame 
Whose garter slipped down at the famous 
dance ! 

{Goes.) 
Mil. Is she — can she be really gone at 
last? 
My heart ! I shall not reach the window. 

Needs 
Must I have sinned much, so to suffer. 
{She lifts the small lamp which is sus- 
pended before the Virgin's image in the 
windoio, and places it by the purple 
pane.) 

There ! 
{She returns to the seat in front.) 
Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with 

consent 
Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's 

bride ! 
Too late ! 'T is sweet to think of, sweeter 

still 
To hope for, that this blessed end soothes 

The euree of the beginning; but I know 
It comes too late : 't will sweetest be of 

all 
To dream my soul away and die upon. 

{A noise without.) 
The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the 

snake 
Into the paradise Heaven meant us both ? 
{The window opens softly. A low voice 
sings. ) 

There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's 
so purer than the purest; 

And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, 
and her sure faith 's the surest: 

And her eyes are dark and humid, like 
the depth on depth of lustre 



790 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, 
sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, 

Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
neck's rose-misted marble: 

Then her voice 's music . . . call it the 
well's bubbling, the bird's warble! 

(A figure wrapped in a mantle appears 
{at the window.) 

And this woman sags, "My days were 
sunless and my nights were moon- 
less, 

Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
the lark's heart's outbreak timeless, 

If you loved me not!" And I who — 
{ah, for words of flame!) adore her, 

Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
palpably before her — 

{He enters, approaches her seat, and 
bends over her.) 

I may enter at her portal soon, as noto 

her lattice takes me. 
And by noontide as by midnight make 

her mine, as hers she makes me! 

{The Earl throws of his slouched hat 
and long cloak.) 

My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved ! 
Mil. Sit, Heniy — do not take my hand ! 
Mcrtoun. 'T is mine. 

The meeting that appalled us both so 

much 
Is ended. 
Mil. What begins now? 
Mert. Happiness 

Such as the world contains not. 
Mil. That is it. 

Our happiness would, as you say, exceed 
The whole world's best of blisses: we — 

do we 
Deserve that"? Utter to your soul, what 

mine 
Long since. Beloved, has grown used to 

hear, 
Like a death-knell, so much regarded 

once, 
And so familiar now; this will not be! 
Mert. Oh, Mildred, have I met your 

brother's face? 
Compelled myself — if not to speak un- 

tnith, 
Yet to disguise, to sliun, to put aside 
The truth, as — what had e'er prevailed 

on me 
Save you, to venture? Have I gained at 

last 
Your brother, the one scarer of your 

dreams, 



And waking thoughts' sole apprehension 
too? 

Does a new life, like a young sunrise, 
break 

On the strange unrest of our night, con- 
fused 

With rain and stormy flaw — and will you 
see 

No dripjoing blossoms, no fire-tinted 
drops 

On each live spray, no vapor steaming 
up, 

And no expressless glory in the East? 

When I am by you, to be ever by you, 

When I have won you and may worship 

Oh, Mildred, can you say "this Avill not 
be"? 
Mil. Sin has surprised us, so will punish- 
ment. 
Mert. No — me alone, who sinned alone! 
Mil. The night 

You likened our past life to — was it 

storm 
Throughout to you then, Henry? 
Mert. Of your life 

I spoke — what am I, what my life, to 

waste 
A thought about when you are by me? — 

you 
It was, I said my folly called the storm 
And pulled the night ui^on. 'T was day 

with me — 
Perpetual dawn with me. 
Mil. • Come, what come will, 

You have been happy : take my hand ! 
Mert. {after a pause.) How good 

Your brother is ! I figured him a cold — 
Shall I say, haughty man? 
Mil. They told me all. 

I know all. 
Mert. It will soon be over. 

Mil. Over? 

Oh, what is over? what must I live 

through 
And say, *"t is over"? Is our meeting 

over? 
Have I received in presence of them all 
The partner of my guilty love — with 

brow 
Trying to seem a maiden's brow — with 

lips 
Which make believe that when they strive 

to form 
Replies to you and tremble as they 

strive, 
It is the nearest ever they approached 
A stranger's . . . Henry, yours that 
stranger's . . . lip — 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



791 



With cheek that looks a virgin's, and 

that is . . . 
Ah, God, some prodigy of thine will 

stop 
This planned j^iece of deliberate wicked- 
ness 
In its birth even ! some fierce leprous 

spot 
Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I 
Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by 

heart, 
But, frenzied, pour forth all our Avoeful 

story. 
The love, the shame, and the despair — 

with them 
Round me aghast as round some cursed 

fount 
That should spirt water, and spouts 

blood. I'll not 
. . . Henry, you do not wish that I 

should draw 
This vengeance down f I '11 not affect a 

grace 
That 's gone from rae — gone once, and 

gone for ever! 
Mert. Mildred, my honor is your own. 

I '11 share 
Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. 
A word informs your brother I retract 
This morning's offer; time will yet bring 

forth 
Some better way of saving both of us. 
Mil. I '11 meet their faces, Henry ! 
Mert. Whenf to-morrow! 

Get done with it ! 
Mil. Oh, Henry, not to-morroAv ! 

Next day! I never shall j^repare my 

words 
And looks and gestures sooner. — How 

you must 
Despise me ! 
Mert. Mildred, break it if you choose, 

A heai't the love of you uplifted — still 
Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, 
To heaven ! but Mildred, answer me, — 

first pace 
The chamber with me — once again — 

now, say 
Calmly the part, the . . . what it is of 

me 
You see contempt (for you did say con- 
tempt) 
— Contempt for you in ! I will pluck 

it ofe 
And cast it from me! — but no — no, you '11 

not 
Repeat that? — will vou, Mildred, repeat 

that? 
Mil. Dear Henry! 



Mert. I was scarce a boy — e'en now 

What am I more? And you were in- 
fantine 
When first I met you ; why, your hair fell 

loose 
On either side ! My f ool's-cheek reddens 

now 
Only in the recalling how it burned 
That morn to see the shape of many a 

dream — 
You know we boys are prodigal of 

charms 
To her we dream of — I had heard of 

one, 
Had dreamed of her, and I was close to 

her, 
Might sjieak to her, might live and die 

her own. 
Who knew? I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel 

you not 
That now, while I remember eveiy 

glance 
Of yours, each word of yours, Avith 

power to test 
And weigh them in the diamond scales of 

pride. 
Resolved the treasure of a first and last 
Heart's love shall have been bartered at 

its worth, 
— Tliat now I think upon 3'our jiurity 
And utter ignorance of guilt — your own 
Or other's guilt — the girlish undisgaiised 
Delight at a strange novel prize — (I talk 
A silly language, but interpret, you!) 
If I, with fancy at its full, and reason 
Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy. 
If you had pity on my passion, pity 
On my protested sickness of the soul 
To sit beside you, hear you bi^eathe, and 

watch 
Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — if 

you 
Accorded gifts and knew not they were 

gifts — 
If I grew mad at last with enterprise 
And must behold my beauty in her bower 
Or perish — (I was ignorant of even 
My own desires — what then were you?) 

if sorrow — 
Sin — if the end came — must I now re- 
nounce 
My reason, blind myself to light, say 

trutli 
Is false and lie to God and my own 

soul ? 
Contempt were all of this! 
Mil. Do you believe. . . . 

Or, Henry, I '11 not wrong you — you be- 
lieve 



792 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 



That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve 

o'er 
The past. We'll love on; you will love 

me still. 
Mert. Oh, to love less what one has in- 
jured! Dove, 
Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my 

breast — 
Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee 

into strength"? 
Flower I have crushed, shall I not care 

for thee? 
Bloom o'er my crest, my tight-mark and 

device ! 
Mildred, I love you and you love me. 
Mil Go ! 

Be that your last word. I shall sleep to- 
night. 
Mert. This is not our last meeting'? 
Mil. One night more. 

Mert. And then — lliink, then ! 
Mil. Then, no sweet courtship-days, 

No dawning consciousness of love for 

us. 
No strange and palpitating births of 

sense 
From words and looks, no innocent fears 

and hopes. 
Reserves and confidences: morning's 

over! 
Mert. How else should love's perfected 

noon-tide follow? 
All the dawn promised shall the day per- 

forro. 

Mil. So may it be! but 

You are cautious. Love? 
Are sure that unobserved you scaled the 

walls? 
3Iert. Oh, trust me! Then our final 

meeting 's fixed 
To-morrow night? 
Mil. Farewell! Stay, Henry . . . 

whei"efore? 
His foot is on the yew-tree bough ; the 

turf 
Receives him ; now the moonlight as he 

runs 
Embraces him — but he must go — is 

gone. 
Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, 

my Love! 
He 's gone. Oh, I '11 believe him every 

word! 
I was so young, T loved him so, I had 
No mother, God forgot me, and I fell. 
There may be pardon yet : all 's doubt 

beyond. 
Surely the bitterness of death is 

past. 



ACT IL 

Scene. — The Library. Enter Lord Tres- 
ham, hastily. 

Tresham. This way ! In, Gerard, quick ! 

{As Gerard enters, Tresham secures 
the door.) 

Now speak! or, wait — 
I '11 bid you speak directly. 
{Seats himself.) 

Now repeat 
Firmly and circumstantially the tale 
You just now told me; it eludes me; 

either 
I did not listen, or the half is gone 
Away from nae. How long have you 

lived here? 
Here in my house, your father kept our 

woods 
Before you? 
Gerard. — As his father did, my lord. 

I have been eating, sixty years almost, 
Your bread. 
Tres. Yes, yes. You ever were of all 

The servants in my father's house, I 

know. 
The trusted one. You'll speak the 
truth. 
Ger. 1 '11 speak 

God's truth. Night after night . . . 
Tres. Since when? 

Ger. At least 

A month — each midnight has some man 

access 
To Lady Mildred's chamber. 
Tres. Tush, "access" — 

No wide words like "access" to me ! 
Ger. He runs 

Along the woodside, crosses to the South, 
Takes the left tree that ends the ave- 
nue . . . 
Tres. The last great yew-tree? 
Ger. You might stand upon 

The main boughs like a platform. Then 
he . . . 
Tres. Quick ! 

Ger. Clhnbs up, and, where they lessen at 
the top, 
— I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, 
I think — for this I do not vouch — a line 
That reaches to the lady's casement — 
Tres. — Which 

He enters not ! Gerard, some wretched 

fool 
Dares pry into my sister's privacy! 
When such are young, it seems a precious 
thing 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



793 



To have approached, — to merely have ap- 
proached, 
Got Slight of, the abode of her they set 
Their frantic thoughts upon. He does 

not enter? 
Gerard ? 
Ger. There is a himp that 's full i' the 
midst, 
Under a red square in the painted glass 
Of Lady Mildred's . . . 
Tres. Leave that name out ! Well? 

That lamp ? 
Ger. — Is moved at midnight higher up 

To one pane — a small dark-blue pane ; he 

waits 
For that among the boughs : at sight of 

that, 
I see him, i)]ain as I see you, my loi'd. 
Open the lady's casement, enter there . . . 
Tres. —And stay? 

Ger. An hour, two hours. 

Tres. And this you saw 

Once ? — twice ? — quick ! 
Ger. Twenty times. 

Tres. And what brings you 

Under the yew-trees? 
Ger. The first night I left 

My range so far, to track the stranger 

stag 
That broke the pale, I saw the man. 
Tres. Yet sent 

No cross-bow shaft through the marau- 
der? 
Ger. But 

He came, my lord, the first time he was 

seen. 
In a great moonlight, light as any day. 
From Lady Mildred's chamb(>r. 
Tres. {after a pause.) You have no 

cause 
— Who could have cause to do my sister 
wrong? 
Ger. Oh, my lord, only once — let me this 
once 
Speak what is on my mind ! Since first I 

noted 
All this, I 've groaned as if a fiery net 
Plucked me this way and tliat — fire if T 

turned 
To her, fire if I turued to you, and fire 
If down I flung myself and strove to die. 
The lady conld not have been seven years 

old 
When T was trusted to conduct her safe 
Througli the deer-herd to stroke the snow- 
white fawn 
I brought to eat bread from her tiny 

hand 
Within a month. She ever had a smile 



To ^'eet me with — she ... if it could 

undo 
What 's done, to lop each limb from off 

this trunk . . . 
All that is foolish talk, not fit for you — 
I mean, I could not speak and bring her 

hurt 
For Heaven's compelling. But when I 

was fixed 
To hold my peace, each morsel of your 

food 
Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place 

too, 
Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in 

doubts 
What it behoved me do. This morn it 

seemed 
Eithei" I must confess to you, or die : 
Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
That crawls, to have betrayed my lady. 
Tres. No — 

No, Gerard ! 
Ger. Let me go! 

Tres. A man, you say: 

What man? Young? Not a vulgar 

hind? What dress? 
Ger. A slouched hat and a large dark 

foreign cloak 
Wraps his whole form ; even his face is 

hid; 
But I should judge him young: no hind, 

be sui'e ! 
Tres. \\niy? 
Ger. He is ever armed : his sword projects 

Beneath the cloak. 
Tres. Gerard — I will not say 

No word, no breath of this ! 
Ger. Thanks, thanks, my lord ! 

{Goes.) 
Tres. {paces the room. After a pause.) 

Oh, thought 's absurd ! — as with 

some monstrous fact 
Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems 

to give 
Merciful God tliat made the sun and 

stars, 
Tlie waters and the green delights of 

earth. 
The lie! I apprehend the monstrous 

fact- 
Yet knoAV the maker of all worlds is 

good, 
And yield my reason up, inadequate 
To reconcile what yet I do behold — 
Blasting- my sense ! , There 's cheerful 

day outside : 
Tliis is my library, and this the chair 
My father used to sit in carelessly 
After his soldier-fashion, while I stood 



^^^ 



794 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Between his knees to question him: and 

here 
Gerard our gray retainer, — as he says, 
Fed with our food, from sire to son, an 

age,— 
Has told a story — I am to believe ! 
That Mildred ... oh, no, no ! both tales 

are true, 
Her pure cheek's story and the forester's ! 
Would she, or could she, err — much less, 

confound 
All guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . 

Heaven 
Keep me within its hand ! — I will sit here 
Until thought settle and I see my course. 
Avert, oh God, only this woe from me! 

{As he sinks his head between his arms on 
the table, Guendolen's voice is heard at 
the door.) 

Lord Tresham! 

{She knocks.) 

Is Lord Tresham there? 
{Tresham, hastily turning, pulls down the 

first book above him and opens it.) 
Tres. Come in ! 

{She enters.) 

Ha, Guendclen ! — good 
morning. 
Guen. Nothing more? 

Tres. What should I say more"? 
Guen. Pleasant question ! more % 

This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's 

brain 
Last night till close on morning with "the 

Earl," 
"The Earl" — whose worth did I assever- 
ate 
Till I am very fain to hope that . . . 

Thorold, 
What is all this? You are not well! 
Tres. Who, I? 

You laugh at me. 
Guen. Has what I 'm fain to hope. 

Arrived then? Does that huge tome 

show some blot 
In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer 

back 
Than Arthur's time? 
Tres. When left you Mildred's chamber? 
Guen. Oh, late enough, I told you! The 
main thing 
To ask is, how I left her chamber, — sure. 
Content yourself, she '11 grant this para- 
gon 
Of Earls no such ungracioiis . . . 
Tres. Send her here! 

Guen. Thorold ? 



Tres. I mean — acquaint her, Guendolen, 

—But mildly! 
Guen. Mildly ? 

Tres. Ah, you guessed aright ! 

I am not well : there is no hiding it. 
But tell her I would see her at her 

leisure — 
That is, at once ! here in the library ! 
The passage in that old Italian book 
We hunted for so long is found, say, 

found — 
And if I let it slip again . . . you see, 
That she must come — and instantly! 
Guen. I '11 die 

Piecemeal, record that, if there have not 

gloomed 
Some blot i' the 'scutcheon ! 
Tres. Go ! or, Guendolen, 

Be you at call, — with Austin, if you 

choose, — 
In the adjoining gallery! There, go! 

{Guendolen goes.) 
Another lesson to me! You might bid 
A child disguise his heart's sore, and con- 
duct 
Some sly investig'ation point by point 
With a smooth brow, as well as bid me 

catch 
The inquisitorial cleverness some praise. 
If you had told me yesterday, "There 's 

one 
You needs must circumvent and practise 

with, 
Entrap by policies, if you would wonn 
The truth out : and that one is — Mil- 
dred !" There, 
There — reasoning is thrown away on it ! 
Prove she 's unchaste . . . why, you may 

after prove 
That she 's a poisoner, traitress, what 

you will ! 
Where I can comprehend nought, 

nought 's to say. 
Or do, or think. Force on me but the 

first 
Abomination, — then outpour all plagues, 
And I shall ne'er make count of them. 

{Enter Mildred.) 

Mildred. What book 

Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen 
Thought you were pale ; you are not pale. 

That book? 
That 's Latin surely. 
Tres. Mildred, here 's a line, 

(Don't lean on me : I '11 English it for 

you) 
"Love conquers all things." What love 

conquers them ? 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



795 



What love should you esteem — best love*? 
Mil. True love. 

Tres. I mean, and should have said, whose 

love is best 
Of all that love or that profess to love? 
Mil. The list 's so long : there 's father's, 

mother's, husband's ... 
Tres. Mildred, I do believe a brother's 

love 
For a sole sister must exceed them all. 
For see now, only see ! there 's no alloy 
Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st 

gold 
Of other loves — no gratitude to claim; 
You never gave her life, not even aught 
That keeps life — never tended her, in- 
structed, 
Enriched her — so, your love can claim no 

right 
O'er her save pure love's claim : that 's 

what I call 
Freedom from earthliness. You '11 never 

hope 
To be such friends, for instance, she and 

you. 
As when you hunted cowslips in the 

woods 
Or played together in the meadow hay. 
Oh, yes — with age, respect comes, and 

your worth 
Is felt, there 's growing sympathy of 

tastes, 
There 's ripened friendship, there 's eon- 
firmed esteem : 
— Much head these make against the new- 
comer ! 
The startling apparition, the strange 

youtli — 
Whom one half -hour's conversing with, 

or, say. 
Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all 

change 
This Ovid ever sang about) your soul 
. . . Her soul, that is, — the sister's soul ! 

With her 
'T was winter yesterday ; now, all is 

warmth, 
The green leaf 's springing and the 

turtle's voice, 
"Arise and come away!" Come whither'? 

— far 
Enough from the esteem, respect, and all 
The brother's somewhat insignificant 
Array of rights ! All which he knows 

before. 
Has calculated on so long ago ! 
I think such love, (apart from yours and 

mine,) 
Contented with its little term of life, 



Intending to retii-e betimes, aware 

How soon the background must be place 
for it, 

— I think, am sure, a brother's love ex- 
ceeds 

All the world's love in its unworldliness. 
Mil. What is this for? 
Tres. This, Mildred, is it for! 

Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon ! 

That 's one of many points my haste left 
out — 

Each day, each hour throws forth its 
silk-slight film 

Between the being tied to you by birth, 

And you, until those slender threads com- 
pose 

A web that shrouds her daily life of 
holies 

And fears and fancies, all her life, from 
yours : 

So close you live and yet so far apart! 

And must I rend this Aveb, tear up, break 
down 

The sweet and paljiitating mystery 

That makes her sacred f You — for you 
I mean, 

Shall I speak, shall I not speak? 
3fil. Speak ! 

Tres. I will. 

Is there a stoiy men could — any man 

Could tell of you, you would conceal 
from me? 

I '11 never think there 's falsehood on that 
lip. 

Say "There is no such story men could 
tell," 

And I '11 believe you, though I disbelieve 

The world — the world of better men than 

I, 
And women such as I suppose you. 

Speak ! 

{After a pause.) 
Not speak? Explain then! Clear it up 

then ! Move 
Some of the miserable weight away 
That i^resses lower than the gTave ! Not 

sj^eak ? 
Some of the dead Aveight, Mildred ! Ah, 

if I 
Could bring myself to plainly make their 

charge 
Against vou! Must I, Mildred? Silent 

still? 

{After a pause.) 
Is there a gallant that has night by night 
Admittance to your chamber? 
{After a pause.) 

Tlien, his name! 
Till now, I only had a thought for you : 



796 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



But now, — his name! 
Mil. Thorold, do you devise 

Fit expiation for my S'uilt, if fit 
There be ! 'T is nought to say that I '11 

endure 
And bless you, — that my spirit yearns to 

purge 
Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire : 
But do not plunge me into other guilt ! 
Oh, guilt enough ! I cannot tell his 

name. 
Tres. Then judge yourself! How shouild 

I act? Pronounce! 
Mil. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt 

me thus ! 
To die here in this chamber by that 

sword 
Would seem like punishment: so should 

I glide, 
Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss! 
'T were easily arranged for me: but 

you— 
What would become of you? 
Tres. And what will now 

Become of me ? I '11 hide your shame 

and mine 
From every eye; the dead must heave 

their hearts 
Under the marble of our chapel-floor; 
They cannot rise and blast you. You 

may wed 
Your paramour above our mother's 

tomb; 
Our mother cannot move from 'neath 

your foot. 
We too will somehow wear this one day 

out: 
But with to-morrow hastens here — the 

Earl ! 
The youth without suspicion face can 

come 
From Heaven, and heart * from . . . 

whence proceed such hearts'? 
I have despatched last night at your 

command 
A missive bidding him present himself 
To-morrow — here — thus much is said ; 

the rest 
Is understood as if 'twere written 

down — 
''His suit finds favor in your eyes." 

Now dictate 
This morning-'s letter that shall counter- 
mand 
Last nio'ht's — do dictate that ! 
Mil ' But, Thorold— if 

I will receive him as I said? 
Tres. The Earl? 



Mil. I will receive him. 
Tres. {starting up). Ho there! Guendo- 
len! 

{Guendolen and Austin enter.) 

And, Austin, you are welcome, too ! 

Look there! 
The woman there ! 
Austin and Guendolen. How? Mildred? 
Tres. Mildred once ! 

Now the receiver night by night, when 

sleep 
Blesses the inmates of her father's house, 
— I say, the soft sly wanton that receives 
Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof 

which holds 
You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held 
A thousand Treshams — never one like 

her! 
No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick 
Foul breath near quenches in hot eager- 
ness 
To mix with breath as foul! no loosener 
0' the lattice, practised in the stealthy 

tread. 
The low voice and the noiseless come-and- 



go 



Not one composer of the bacchant's mien 
Into — what you thought Mildred's, in a 

word ! 
Know her! 
Guen. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least ! 
Thorold — she 's dead, I 'd say, but that 

she stands 
Rigid as stone and whiter! 
Tres. You have heard . . . 

Guen. Too much ! You must proceed no 

further. 
Mil. Yes — 

Proceed! All's truth. Go from me! 
Tres. All is truth, 

She tells you ! Well, you know, or ought 

to know. 
All this I would forgive in her. I 'd con 
Each precept the harsh world enjoins, 

I 'd take 
Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one. 
I 'd bind myself before them to exact 
The pi'escribed vengeance — and one word 

of hers, 
The sight of her, the bare least memory 
Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's 

pride 
Above all prides, my all in all so long, 
Would scatter every trace of my resolve. 
What were it silently to waste away 
And see her waste away from this day 
forth, 



4 7. e., Mildred's face and heart. 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



797 



Two scathed things with leisure to i-e- 

pent, 
And grow acquainted with the grave, and 

die 
Tired out if not at peace, and be for- 
gotten °l 
It were not so impossible to bear. 
But this — that, fresh from last night's 

pledge renewed 
Of love with the successful gallant there, 
She calmly bids me help her to entice, 
Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
Who thinks her all that 's chaste and 

good and pure, 
— Invites me to betray him . . . who so 

fit 
As honor's self to cover shame's arch- 
deed? 
— That she '11 receive Lord Mertoun — 

(her own phrase) — 
This, who could bear? Why, you have 

heard of thieves, 
Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet 

have laughed, 
"Talk not to me of torture — I '11 betray 
No comrade I 've pledged faith to !" — 

you have heard 
Of wretched women — all but Mildreds-^ 

tied 
By wild illicit ties to losels vile 
You 'd tempt them to forsake ; and 

they '11 reply 
"Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I 

find 
In him, why should I leave him then for 

gold. 
Repute or friends'?" — and you have felt 

your heart 
Respond to such poor outcasts of the 

world 
As to so many friends; bad as you 

please, 
You've felt they were God's men and 

women still. 
So, not to be disowned by you. But 

she 
That stands there, calmly gives her lover 

up 
As means to wed the Earl that she may 

hide 
Their intercourse the surelier: and, for 

this, 
I curse her to her face before you all. 
Shame hunt her from the earth ! Then 

Heaven do right 
To both ! It hears me now — shall judge 

her then ! 

(As Mildred faints and falls, TresJiam 
rushes out.) 



Aust. Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany 

you! 
Guen. We? 

What, and leave Mildred? We? Why, 

where 's my j^lace 
But by her side, and where yours but by 

mine ? 
Mildred — one word ! Only look at me, 

then ! 
Aust, No, Guendolen ! I echo Thorold's 

voice. 
She is unworthy to behold ... 
Guen. Us two? 

If you spoke on reflection, and if I 
Approved your speech — if you (to put 

the thing 
At lowest) you the soldier, bound to 

make 
The king's cause yours and fight for it, 

and throw 
Regard to others of its right or wrong, 
— If Avith a death-white woman you can 

help. 
Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, 
You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend 
This morning, playfellow but yesterday. 
Who said, or thought at least a thousand 

times, 
"I 'd serve you if I could," should now 

face round 
And say, "Ah, that 's only to signify 
I 'd serve you while you 're fit to serve 

yourself : 
So long as fifty eyes await the turn 
Of yours to forestall its yet half-fonned 

wish, 
I '11 proffer my assistance you '11 not 

need — 
When every tongue is praising you, I '11 

join 
The praisers' chorus — when you 're 

hemmed about 
With lives between you and detraction — 

lives 
To be laid down if a rude voice, rash 

eye, 
Rough hand should violate the sacred 

ring 
Their worship throws about you, — then 

indeed. 
Who '11 stand up for you stout as I ?" 

If so 
We said, and so we did, — not Mildred 

there 
Would be unworthy to behold us both. 
But we should be unworthy, both of us. 
To be beheld by — by — your meanest dog, 
Which, if that sword were broken in 

your face 



798 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Before a crowd, that badge torn off your 

breast, 
And you east out with hootiui;' and eon- 
tern]) t, 
— Wouhl i)ush his way thro' all (lie hoot- 
ers, gain 
Your side, go off with you and all your 

shame 
To the next ditch you choose to die in ! 

Austin, 
Do you love mel Plere 's Austin, Mil- 
dred, — here 's 
Your brother says he does not believe 

half- 
No, nor half that— of all he heard! He 

says, 
Look up and take his hand ! 
Aust. Look up and take 

My hand, dear Mildred! 
Mil. I — r was so young! 

Beside, I loved him, TlK)rold — and T had 
No mother; God forgot me: so, I fell. 
Guen. Mildred ! 

Mil. Require no further! Did I dream 
That I could palliate what is done"? 

All 's true. 
Now, punish me! A woman takes mv 

hand? 
Let go my hand! You do not know, I 

see. 
I thought that Thoi-old told yon. 
Gtien. What is this? 

Where start you to"? 
Mil. Oh, Austin, loosen me ! 

You heard the whole of it — your eyes 

were worse, 
In their surprise, than Tliorold's ! Oh, 

unless 
You stay to execute his sentence, loose 
My hand ! Has Thorold gone, and are 

you here? 
Guen. Here, Mildred, we two friends of 

yours will wait 
Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or 

muse ! 
Only, when you shall want your bidding 

done, 
How can we do it if Ave are not by? 
Here's Austin waiting patiently your 

will! 
One spirit to command, and one to love 
And to believe in it and do its best, 
Poor as that is, to help it — why, the 

world 
Has been won many a time, its length 

and breadth. 
By just such a beginning! 
Mil. T believe 

If once T threw my arms about your neck 



And sunk my head upon your breast, 

that I 
Should weep again. 
Guen. Let go her hand now, Austin ! 

Wait for me. Pace the gallery and 

think 
On the world's seemings and realities, 
LTntil 1 call you. 

{Austin goes.) 
Mil. No — I cannot weeji. 

No more tears from this brain — no sleep 

— no tears ! 
O Guendolen, I love you! 
Guen. Yes: and "love" 

Is a short word that says so very much ! 
It says that you confide in me. 
Mil. Confide ! 

Guen. Your lover's name, then ! I 've so 
nnu'h to learn. 
Ere I can work in your behalf! 
Mil. My friend. 

You know I cannot tell his name. 
Guen. At least 

He is your lover? and you love him too? 
Mil. Ah, do you ask me that? — but I am 
fallen 
So low ! 
Guen. You love him still, then? 

Mil. My sole prop 

Against the guilt that crushes me! I 

say. 
Each night ere I lie down, "I was so 

young — 
T had no mother, and I loved him so !" 
And then God seems indulgent, and I 

dare 
Trust him my soul in sleep. 
Guen. How could you let us 

E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun 
then? 
Mil. There is a cloud around me. 
Guen. But you said 

You would receive his suit in spite of 
this? 
Mil. I say there is a cloud . . . 
Guen. No cloud to me ! 

Ijord Mertoun and your lover are the 
same ! 
Mil. What maddest fancy . . . 
Guen. {Calling aloud.) Austin! (spare 
your pains — 
When I have got a truth, that truth I 
keep) — 
Mil. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, for- 
bear! 
Have I confided in you . . . 
Guen. Just for this ! 

Austin! — Oh, not to guess it at the first! 
But I did guess it — that is, I divined. 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



799 



Felt by an instinct how it was : why else 
Should I pronounce you free from all 

that heap 
Of sins which had been irredeemable"? 
I felt they were not yours — what other 

way 
Than tliis, not yours f The secret's 
wholly mine ! 
Mil. If you would see me die before his 

face . . . 
Guen. I 'd hold my peace ! And if the 
Earl returns 
To-night? 
Mil. Ah Heaven, he 's lost ! 
Guen. I thought so. Austin ! 

{Enter Austin.) 

Oh, where have you been hiding 1 
Aust: Thorold 's gone, 

I know not how, across the meadow-land. 
I watched him till I lost him in the skirts 
0' the beech-wood. 
Guen. Gone? All thwarts us. 

Mil. Thorold too? 

Guen. I have thought. First lead this 
Mildred to her room. 
Go on the other side ; and then we '11 seek 
Your brother : and I '11 tell you, by the 

way. 
The greatest comfoi't in the world. You 

said 
There was a clue to all. Remember, 

Sweet, 
He said there was a clue ! I hold it. 
Come ! 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. The end of the Yew-tree Avenue 
under Mildred's window. A light seen 
through a central red pane. 

{Enter Tresham through the trees.) 

Again here! But I cannot lose myself. 
The heath — the orchard — I have traversed 

glades 
And dells and bosky paths which used to 

lead 
Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering 
My boy's adventurous step. And now 

they tend 
Hither or soon or late; the blackest shade 
Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the 

trees ope wide, 
And the dim turret I have fled from, 

fronts 
Again my step ; the very river put 
Its ann about me and conducted me 



To this detested spot. Why then, I'll 

shun 
Their will no longer: do your will with 

me! 
Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering 

scheme 
Of happiness, and to behold it razed. 
Were nothing : all men hope, and see their 

hopes 
Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope 

anew. 
But I ... to hojie that from a line like 

ours 
No horrid prodigy like this would spring, 
Were just as though I hoped that from 

these old 
Confederates against the sovereign day, 
(^hildren of older and yet older sires, 
Whose living coral berries dropped, as 

now 
On me, on many a baron's surcoat once. 
On many a beauty's wimple — would pro- 
ceed 
No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its 

root. 
Hither and thither its strange snaky 

arms. 
Wliy came I here? What must I do? 

{A bell strikes.) A bell? 
Midnight ! and 't is at midnight . . . Ah, 

I catch 
— Woods, river, plains, I catch your 

meaning now, 
And I obey you ! Hist ! This tree will 

serve. 
{He retires behind one of the trees. After 
a pause, enter Mertoun cloaked as be- 
fore.) 
Mertoun. Not time! Beat out thy last 

voluptuous beat 
Of hope and fear, my heart ! I thought 

the clock 
I' the chapel struck as I was pushing 

through 
The ferns. And so I shall no more see 

rise 
My love-star! Oh, no matter for the 

past! 
So much the more delicious task to watch 
Mildred revive : to pluck out, thorn by 

thorn, 
All traces of the rough forbidden path 
My rash love lured her to ! Each day 

must see 
Some fear of hers effaced, some hope re- 
newed : 
Then there will be surprises, unforeseen 
Delights in store. I '11 not regret the 

past. 



800 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



{The light is placed above in the purple 
pane. ) 
And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star! 
I never saw it lovelier than now 
It rises for the last time. If it sets, 
'T is that the re-assuring- sun may dawn. 
{As he prepares to ascend the last tree of 
the avenue, Tresham arrests his arm.) 
Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp ! 

Here 's gold. 
'T was a mad freak of mine. I said I 'd 

pluck 
A branch from the white-blossomed shrub 

beneath 
The casement there. Take this, and hold 
your peace. 
Tres. Into the moonlight yonder, come 
with me ! 
Out of the shadow ! 
Mert. I am armed, fool! 

Tres. Yes, 

Or no? You'll come into the light, or 

no? 
My hand is on your throat — refuse ! — 
Blert. That voice ! 

Where have I heard . . . no — that was 

mild and slow. 
I '11 come with you. 

{They advance.) 
Tres. You 're armed : that 's 

well. Declare 
Your name : who are you ? 
Mert. (Tresham! — she is lost!) 

Tres. Oh, silent 1 Do you know, you bear 
yourself 
Exactly as, in curious dreams I 've had 
How felons, this wild earth is full of, 

look 
When they 're detected, still your kind 

has looked ! 
The bravo holds an assured countenance. 
The thief is voluble and plausible, 
But silently the slave of lust has crouched 
When I have fancied it before a man. 
Your name ! 
Mert. I do conjure Lord Tresham — ay. 
Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail — 
That he for his own sake forbear to ask 
My name ! As heaven 's above, his 

future weal 
Or woe depends upon my silence ! Vain ! 
I read your white inexorable face. 
Know me. Lord Tresham ! 

{He throivs off his disguises.) 
Tres. Mertoun ! 

{After a pause.) 

Draw now ! 
Mert. Hear me 

But speak first! 



Tres. Not one least word on your life ! 
Be sure that I will strangle in your throat 
The least word that informs me how you 

live 
And yet seem what you seem ! No doubt 

't was you 
Taught Mildred still to keep that face 

and sin. 
We should join hands in frantic sym- 
pathy 
If you once taught me the unteachable, 
Explained how you can live so, and so lie. 
With God's help I retain, despite my 

sense, 
The old belief — a life like yours is still 
Impossible. Now draw! 
Mert. Not for my sake. 

Do I entreat a hearing — for your sake. 
And most, for her sake ! 
Tres. Ha ha, what should I 

Know of your ways? A miscreant like 

yourself. 
How must one rouse his ire? A blow? 

— that 's pride 
No doubt, to him ! One spurns him, does 

one not? 
Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits 
Into his face ! Come ! Which, or all of 
these ? 
Mert. 'Twixt him and me and Mildred, 
Heaven be judge ! 
Can I avoid this? Have your will, my 
lord ! 
{He draws and, after a few passes, falls.) 
Tres. You are not hurt ? 
Mert. You '11 hear me now ! 

Tres. But rise! 

Mert. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you '11 hear 
me now !" 
And what procures a man the right to 

speak 
In his defence before his fellow man. 
But — I suppose — the thought that pres- 
ently 
He may have leave to speak before his 

God 
His whole defence? 
Tres. Not hurt? It cannot be! 

You made no effort to resist me. Where 
Did my sword reach you? Why not 

have returned 
My thrusts ? Hurt where ? 
3Iert. My lord — 

Tres. ' How young he is ! 

Mert. Lord Tresham, I am very young, 
and yet 
I have entangled other lives with mine. 
Do let me speak, and do believe my 
speech ! 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



801 



That when I die before you presently, — 
Ires. Can you stay here till I return with 

help."? 
Mert. Oh, stay by me ! When I was less 

than boy 
I did you grievous wrong and knew it 

not — 
Ul^on my honor, knew it not ! Once 

known, 
I could not find what seemed a better way 
To right you than I took : my life — you 

feel 
How less than nothing were the giving 

you 
The life you 've taken ! But I thought 

my way 
The better — only for your sake and hers : 
And as you have decided otherwise, 
Would I had an infinity of lives 
To offer you ! Now say — instruct me — 

think ! 
Can you, from the brief minutes I have 

left, 
Eke out my reparation'? Oh think — 

think ! 
For I must wring a partial — dare I say, 
Forgiveness from you, ere I die? 
Tres. I do 

Forgive you. 
Mert. Wait and ponder that great word ! 
Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope 
To speak to you of — Mildred ! 
Tres. Mertoun, haste 

And anger have undone us. 'T is not 

you 
Should tell me for a novelty you 're 

yomig, 
Thoughtless, unable to recall the past. 
Be but your pardon ample as my own ! 
Mert. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke 

and a drop 
Of blood or two, should bring all this 

about ! 
Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my 

love 
Of you — (what passion like a boy's for 

one 
Like youf) — that ruined me ! I dreamed 

of you — 
You, all accomplished, courted every- 
where. 
The scholar and the gentleman. I burned 
To knit myself to you : but I was young, 
And 3'our surpassing reputation kept me 
So far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that 

love? 
With less of love, my glorious yesterday 
Of praise and gentlest words and kindest 

looks, 



Had taken jilaee perchance six months 

ago. 
Even now, how happy we had been! 

And yet 
I know the thought of this escaped you, 

Tresham ! 
Let me look up into your face; I feel 
'T is changed above me : yet my eyes are 

glazed. 
Where? where? 
[As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye 
catches the lamp.) 
Ah, Mildred ! What will Mildred do ? 
Tresham, her life is bound up in the 

life 
That 's bleeding fast away ! I '11 live — 

must live, — 
There, if you '11 only turn me I shall live 
And save her! Tresham — oh, had you 

but heard ! 
Had you but heard ! What right was 

yours to set 
The thoughtless foot upon her life and 

mine. 
And then say, as we perish, ''Had I 

thought. 
All had gone otherwise" ? We 've sinned 

and die : 
Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll 

die, 
And God will judge you. 
Tres. Yes, be satisfied! 

That process is begun. 
Mert. And she sits there 

Waiting for me ! Now, say you this to 

her — 
You, not another — say, I saw him die 
As he breathed this, "I love her" — you 

don't know 
What those three small words mean ! 

Say; loving her 
Lowers me down the bloody slope to 

death 
With memories ... I speak to her, not 

you. 
Who had no pity, will have no remorse, 
Perchance intend her . . . Die along with 

me, 
Dear Mildred ! 't is so easy, and you '11 

'scape 
So much unkindness ! Can I lie at rest, 
With rude speech spoken to you, ruder 

deeds 
Done to you? — heartless men shall have 

my heart, 
And I tied down with grave-clothes and 

the worm, 
Aware, perhaps, of every blow — oh 

God!— 



802 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Upon those lips — yet of no power to 
tear 

The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mil- 
dred ! Leave 

Their honorable world to them! For 
God 

We 're good enough, though the world 
casts us out. 

{A tvhistle is heard.) 
Tres. Ho, Gerard! 

{Enter Gerard, Austin and Guendolen, iritli 
lights.) 

No one speak ! You see what 's done. 
I cannot bear another voice. 
Mert. There 's light — 

Light all about me, and I move to it, 
Tresham, did I not tell you — did you 

not 
Just promise to deliver words of mine 
To, Mildred? 
Tres. I will bear those Avords to her. 

Mert. Now ? 

Tres. Now. Lift you the body, 

and leave me 
The head. 
{As they have half raised Mertoun, he 

turns suddenlij.) 
Mert. I knew they turned me : turn me 
not from her! 
There ! stay you ! there ! 
{Dies.) 
Guen. {After a pause.) Austin, remain 
you here 
With Thorold until Gerard comes with 

help : 
Then lead him to his chamber. I must 

go 
To Mildred. 
Tres. Guendolen, I hear each word 

You utter. Did you hear him bid me 

give 
His message? Did you hear my prom- 
ise? I, 
And only I, see Mildred. 
Guen. She will die. 

Tres. Oh no, she will not die ! I dare not 
hope 
She '11 die. What ground have you to 

think she'll die? 
Why, Austin 's with you ! 
Aust. Had we but arrived 

Before you fought ! 
Tres. There was no fight at all. 

He let me slaughter him — the boy ! I '11 

trust 
The body there to you and Gerard — thus ! 
Now bear him on before me. 
Aust. Whither bear him? 



Tres. Oh, to my chamber ! When we meet 

there next. 
We shall be friends. 
{They bear out the body of Mertoun.) 

Will she die, Guendolen? 
Giles. Where are you taking me? 
Tres. He fell just here. 

Now answer me. Shall you in your 

whole life 
— You who have nought to do with Mer- 

toun's fate. 
Now you have seen his breast upon the 

turf. 
Shall you e'er walk this way if you can 

help? 
When you and Austin wander arm-in- 
arm 
Through our ancestral grounds, will not 

a shade 
Be ever on the meadow and the waste — 
Another kind of shade than when the 

night 
Shuts the woodside with all its whispers 

up? 
But will you ever so forget his breast 
As carelessly to cross this bloody turf 
Under the black yew avenue ? That 's 

well! 
You turn your head: and I then? — 
Guen. What is done 

Is done. My care is for the living. 

Thorold, 
Bear up against this burden : more re- 
mains 
To set the neck to ! 
Tres. Dear and ancient trees 

My fathers planted, and I loved so well! 
WTiat have I done that, like some fabled 

crime 
Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus 
Her miserable dance amidst you all? 
Oh, never more for me shall winds intone 
With all your tops a vast antiphony, 
Demanding and responding in God's 



praise 



Hers ye are now, not mine ! Farewell — 
farewell ! . 



Scene 2. Mildred's chamber. 
{Mildred alone.) 

He comes not ! I have heard of those 

who seemed 
Resourceless in prosperity, — you thought 
Sorrow might slay them when she listed; 

yet 
Did they so gather up their diffused 

strength 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



803 



At her first menace, that they bade her 

strike, 
And stood and laughed her subtlest skill 

to scorn. 
Oh, 't is not so with me ! The first woe 

fell, 
And the i^est fall upon it, not on me : 
Else should I bear that Henry comes not ? 

— fails 
Just this first night out of so many 

nights ? 
Loving is done with. Were he sitting 

now, 
As so few hours since, on that seat, we 'd 

love 
No more — contrive no thousand happy 

ways 
To hide love from the loveless, any more. 
I think I might have urged some little 

point 
In my defence, to Thorold; he was 

breathless 
For the least hint of a defence : but no, 
The first shame over, all that would might 

fall. 
No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think 
The mom's deed o'er and o'er. I must 

have crept 
Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost 
Her lover — oh, I dare not look upon 
Such woe ! I crouch away f I'om it ! 

'T is she, 
Mildred, will break her heart, not I ! 

The world 
Forsakes me : only Henry 's left me — 

left? 
When I have lost him, for he does not 

come. 
And I sit stupidly ... Oh Heaven, 

break up 
This worse than anguish, this mad 

apathy. 
By any means or any messenger! 
Tres. (without.) Mildred! 
Mil. Come in ! Heaven hears me ! 

{Enter Tresham.) 

You? alone! 
Oh, no more cursing! 
Tres. Mildred, I must sit. 

There — you sit! 
Mil. Say it, Thorold— do not look 

The curse ! deliver all you come to say ! 
What must become of me? Oh, speak 

that thought 
Which makes your brow and cheeks so 
pale! 
Tres. My thought? 

Mil. All of it I 



Tres. How we waded — years ago — 

After those water-lilies, till the plash, 
I know not how, surprised us; and you 

dared 
Neither advance nor turn back: so, we 

stood 
Laughing and crying until Gerard came — 
Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, 
For once more reaching the relinquished 

prize ! 
How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying 

men's ! 
Mildred ! 
Mil. You call me kindlier by my name 

Than even yesterday: what is in that? 
Tres. It weighs so much ujjon my mind 

that I 
This morning took an office not my own ! 
I might ... of course, I must be glad 

or grieved, 
Content or not, at every little thing 
That touches you. I may with a wrung 

heart 
Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more: 
Will you forgive me? 
Mil. Thorold? do you mock? 

Or no . . . and yet you bid me . . . say 

that word ! 
Tres. Forgive me, Mildred! — are you 

silent, Sweet? 
Mil. (Starting up.) Why does not Henry 

Mertoun come to-night? 
Are you, too, silent? 
(Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to 

his scabbard, lohich is empty.) 

Ah, this speaks for you ! 
You 've murdered Henry Mertoun ! Now 

proceed ! 
What is it I must pardon ? This and all ? 
Well, I do pardon you — I think I do. 
Thorold, how very wretched you must 

be! 
Tres. He bade me tell vou . . . 
Mil. ' What I do forbid 

Your utterance of! So much that you 

may tell 
And will not — how you murdered him 

. . . but, no ! 
You '11 tell me that he loved me, never 

more 
Than bleeding out his life there : must I 

say 
"Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon 

you. 
Tres. You cannot, Mildred ! for the harsh 

words, yes : 
Of this last deed Another 's judge ; whose 

doom 
I wait in doubt, despondency and fear. 



804 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Mil. Oh, true ! There 's nought for me to 
pardon ! True ! 

You loose my soul of all its cares at once. 

Death makes me sure of him forever! 
You 

Tell me his last words'? He shall tell me 
them, 

And take my answer — not in words, but 
reading 

Himself the heart I had to read him late, 

Which death . . . 
Tres. Death"? You are dy- 

ing tool Well said 

Of Guendolen ! I dared not hope you 'd 
die: 

But she was sure of it. 
Mil Tell Guendolen 

I loved her, and tell Austin . . . 
Tres. Him you loved : 

And me"? 
Mil. Ah, Thorold ! Was 't not rashly done 

To quench that blood, on fire with youth 
and hope 

And love of me — whom you loved too, 
and yet 

Suffered to sit here waiting his approach 

While you were slaying him"? Oh, doubt- 
lessly 

You let him speak his poor confused 
boy's-speeeh 

— Do his poor utmost to disarm your 
wrath 

And respite me ! — you let him try to give 

The story of our love and ignorance, 

And the brief madness and the long de- 
spair — 

You let him plead all this, becai;se your 
code 

Of honor bids you hear before you strike : 

But at the end, as he looked up for life 

Into your eyes — you struck him down ! 
Tres. No ! No ! 

Had I but heard him — had I let him 
speak 

Half the truth — less — had I looked long 
on him 

I had desisted ! Why, as he lay there. 

The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered 
all 

The story ere he told it : I saw through 

The troubled surface of his crime and 
yours 

A depth of purity immovable. 

Had I but glanced, where all seemed 
turbidest 

Had gleamed some inlet to the calm be- 
neath ; 

I would not glance : my punishment 's at 
hand. 



There, Mildred, is the truth! and you — 

say on — 
You curse me"? 
Mil. As I dare api^roaeh that Heaven 

Which has not bade a living thing de- 
spair. 
Which needs no code to keep its grace 

from stain. 
But bids the vilest worm that turns on it 
Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not, 
But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of 

souls ! 

(Falls on his neck.) 
There ! Do not think too much upon the 

past! 
The cloud that 's broke was all the same a 

cloud 
While it stood up between my friend and 

you; _ 
You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is 

that 
So past retrieve'? I have his heart, you 

know; 
I may disj^ose of it : I give it you ! 
It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm me, 

Henry ! 

(Dies.) 
Tres. I wish thee joy. Beloved ! I am 

glad 
In thy full gladness! 
Guen. (Without.) Mildred! Tresham! 

(Entering with Austin.) 

Thorold, 
I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons ! 
That 's well. 
Tres. Oh, better far than that ! 

Guen. She's dead! 

Let me unlock her arms! 
Tres. She threw them thus 

About my neck, and blessed me, and then 

died : 
You '11 let them stay now, Guendolen ! 
Aust. Leave her 

And look to him! What ails you, 
Thorold'? 
Guen. White 

As she, and whiter! Austin! quick — 
this side ! 
Aust. A froth is oozing through his 
clenched teeth ; 
Both lips, where they're not bitten 

through, are black : 
Speak, dearest Thorold ! 
Tres. Something does weigh down 

My neck beside her weight: thanks: I 

should fall 
But for you, Austin, I believe !— there, 
there, 



A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 



805 



'T will pass away soon ! — ah, — I had for- 
gotten : 

I am dying'. 
Guen. Thorold — Thorokl — why 

was this? 
Tres. I said, just as I drank the poison oK, 

The earth would be no longer earth to 
me, 

The life out of all life was gone from me. 

There are blind ways provided, the fore- 
done 

Heart-weary player in this pageant- 
world 

Drops out by, letting the main masque 
defile 

By the conspicuous portal : I am 
through — 

Just through ! 
Guen. Don't leave him, Austin ! 

Death is close. 
Tres. Already Mildred's face is peace- 
fuller. 

I see you, Austin — feel you : here 's my 
hand, 



Put yours in it — you, Guendolen, yours 

too! 
You 're lord and lady now — you 're Tres- 

hams; name 
And fame are yours : you hold our 

'scutcheon up. 
Austin, no blot on it ! You see how blood 
Must wash one blot away: the first blot 

came 
And the first blood came. To the vain 

world's eye 
All 's gules again : no care to the vain 

world. 
From whence the red was drawn ! 
Aust. No blot shall come ! 

Tres. I said that : yet it did come. Should 

it come. 
Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remem- 
ber me ! 

(Dies.) 
Guen. (Letting fall the pulseless arm.) 

Ah, Thorold, we can but — remember 

you! 



OSCAR WILDE 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), like so many 
writers of comedy during the last two cen- 
turies, was born in Ireland, tlie son of well- 
known and brilliant, but somewhat ill-bal- 
anced, parents. During the years 1874-8 he 
made his mark in scholarship and literary 
work at Oxford; and in the latter year began 
a career of artistic pose, social conspicu- 
ousness, and literary success in London. Be- 
sides his plays he wrote poems, novels, essays, 
and lectures; his first light comedy, the pres- 
ent one, came out with great success in 1892. 
He died in obscurity. 

Wilde was a chief exponent of the so- 
called esthetic movement among certain 
clever young men in the eighties and nineties. 
It began under the influence of such men as 
Euskin, William Morris, and Pater; but 
while their love of beauty broadened and 
deepened into something more manful and 
humane, high artistic creation and work to- 
ward social betterment, Wilde's was too shal- 
low and unstable a nature to drive him to 
any more solid achievement than polished 
literary form and superficial brilliance. His 
plays are his best work, and are interesting 
for two reasons. Tliey are admirable so far 
as they go, and indicate and helped on an im- 
portant change in dramatic style. 

Lady Windermere's Fan is a comedy of 
manners, brilliantly constructed and written, 
with much clever satire on social vapidity, 
some insight into human nature, and some 
appearance of depth, sympathy, and earnest- 
ness. When it first appeared, the influence 
on it of such earlier dramatists as Congreve 
and Sheridan was remarked at once, and 
also (less obvious to the general reader) 
that of nineteenth-century French comedy. 
The sparkling dialogue is what especially re- 
calls Sheridan and Congreve. Airy unex- 
pectedness and paradox are even more essen- 
tial in Wilde, especially that which consists 
in contradicting or inverting a proverbial 
saying or a social commonplace — '' the youtii 
of the present have absolutely no respect for 
dyed hair," " he has one of these weak na- 
tures that are not susceptible to influence " 
[An Ideal Husband) , "I can resist anything 
except temptation." Some of his agile 
twists passed from Wilde's plays into tlie 
common talk. Further, no one can fail to 
be reminded of the screen-scene in The School 
for Scandal by the third act in Lady Winder- 
mere's Fan, where Mrs. Erlynne and Lady 



Windermere are concealed in Lord Darling- 
ton's rooms. It cannot be said that in 
dramatic eflectiveness Wilde has fallen be- 
hind his master. The situation is as prob- 
able, the final sensation as well led up to, the 
complication is greater yet as clear, the emo- 
tional state of things is more intricate and 
more serious — the conventionally good 
woman shows her real flimsy character, and 
the bad woman rises to the sort of self-sacri- 
fice which meant most heroism for her. Tlie 
scene is masterly. It is admirably planned, 
from the extraordinary meeting of the two 
women, and Dumby's rmconscious dramatic 
irony ("The lively part of the evening is 
only just beginning"), to the device by which 
Lady Windermere escapes. The fine feeling 
which the scene shows is rare in Wilde, whose 
moral tone is not greatly different from Con- 
greve's, and embodies that of the class of 
social life which he constantly satirizes, but 
really respected and chose to identify himself 
with. One feels dissatisfaction with the end- 
ing — that Lady Windermere's folly should 
be huddled up from her husband, so that, in- 
stead of facing it down, she may forget it, 
i:)recisely as any worldly and superficial 
woman in the audience would have done. 
Tlie decent and satisfying ending Wilde prob- 
ably rejected as too " obvious." This last 
scene has the emotional complexity men- 
tioned earlier, husband and wife each know- 
ing something essential to the situation un- 
known to the other, and all the threads cen- 
tering in Mrs. Erlynne's hand. Again she 
stands on a dramatic pedestal. She is the 
sort of person in portraying whom Wilde 
shows most insight and depth; the people in 
whom he is most fond of showing possibilities 
of goodness and s;<orifice are women "with a 
past " and languid dandies. He makes a 
specialty of the heroism that may lurk beliind 
the rouged or expressionless face, and in this 
he has been followed by many a later plaj'- 
wright; for nothing makes less demand from 
the moral feelings of the superficial, or ex- 
cites more the genial mood of charity which 
is one of the pleasantest products of a dra- 
matic performance. 

In dramatic history, Wilde and his first 
comedy mark the rise of a realistic prose 
drama of genuine literary worth. It was a 
reaction against the literary mediocrity, the 
sentimentality, the somewhat narrow con- 
ventionalism, the moral primness, which are 



806 



OSCAR WILDE 



807 



sometimes associated with the middle part 
of the reign of Queen Victoria.. In Wilde, 
and more or less in his like, we find in con- 
trast a fine literary finish, more or less real- 
ity, cynicism or an affectation of it, and an 
inclination to treat the relations of the sexes 
as freely as modern decorum will allow. 
Dramatic writing refused longer to be bound, 
it claimed more truth and more art. Much 
of this is true of the entire prose drama 
which was the forna characteristic of the end 
of the nineteenth century. Without imply- 
ing that they wA'e chiefly influenced by 
Wilde, and without ignoring new influences, 
like that of Ibsen, we find much the same 
literary finish, the same or more freedom, 
the same interest in the relations of the 
sexes and in the woman " with a past," with 
much more insight and moral earnestness in 
tlieir treatment, in the '' problem plays " of 
such men as Sir Arthur W. Pinero and Mr. 
ri. A. Jones. 



Since the present collection stops at the 
verge of the contemporary drama, it can do 
no more than_ barely mention such new tend- 
encies as tliose toward plays on living social 
problems and issues, and toward a vitalized 
poetic drama. The former style has been 
most able and revolutionary, though not 
most agreeable, with Mr. George Bernard 
Shaw. Poetic drama in America has been 
most worthy and significant in the hands of 
Mr. Percy MacKaye and Mrs. Josephine Pea- 
body Marks; in the British Isles (besides the 
rather weak plays of the late Stephen 
Phillips) with a school of Irish dramatists; 
a most original form of imaginative drama 
(not always in verse) has developed in Ire- 
land, in the plays of Mr._W. B. Yeats. Lady 
Gregory, and the late J. M. Synge, as a part 
of the wonderful renascence of Irish na- 
tional spirit which was one of the most 
remarkable spectacles in the first decade of 
the twentieth century. 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



Lord Windermere 

Lord Darlington 

Lord Augustus Lorton 

Mr. Cecil Graham 

Mr. Dumby 

Mr. Hopper 

Parker {Butler) 

Lady Windermere 

The Duchess of Berwick 

Lady Agatha Carlisle 

Lady Plymdale 

Lady Jedburg h 

Lady Stutfield 

Mrs. Cowper-Cowper 

Mrs. Erlynne 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Rosalie (Maid) 



Act 

Act 

Act 
Act 

The 



The Scenes of the Play 
Morning-room in Lord Winder- 
mere's House. 
Drawing-room in Lord Winder- 
mere's House. 
Lord Darlington's rooms. 
Same as Act I. 

Time — The Present. 
Place — London. 
Action of the Play takes place within 
twenty-four hours, beginning on a Tues- 
day afternoon at five o'clock, and ending 
the next day at 1.30 p. m. 



II. 



III. 

IV. 



ACT I. 

Scene — Morning-room of Lord Winder- 
mere's house in Carlton House Terrace. 
Doors c. and r. Bureau with books and 
papers r. Sofa with small tea-table I. 
Windoiv opening on to terace I. 
Table r. 

(Ladij Windermere is at table r. Ar- 
ranging roses in a blue boivl.) 

(Enter Parker.) 

Parker. Is your ladyship at home this 
afternoon ? 



Lady W. Yes — who has called? 
Parker. Lord Darlington, my lady. 
Ladij W. (Hesitates for a moment.) 
Show him up — and I 'm at home to any 
one who calls. 
Parker. Yes, my lady. 

(Exit c.) 
Lady W. It 's best for me to see him be- 
fore to-night. I 'm glad he 's come. 
(Enter Parker c.) 
Parker. Lord Darlington. 

(Enter Lord D. c. Exit Parker.) 
Lord D. How do you do, Lady Winder- 
mere ? 



808 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Lady W. How do you do, Lord Darling- 
ton? No, I can't shake hands with you. 
My hands are all wet with these roses. 
Aren't they lovely? They came up 
from Selby this morning. 

Lord D. They are quite perfect. {Sees 
a fan lying on the table.) And what a 
wonderful fan! May I look at it? 

Lady W. Do. Pretty, is n't it ! It 's got 
my name on it, and everything. I have 
only just seen it myself. It 's my hus- 
band's birthday present to me. You 
know to-day is my birthday? 

Lord D. No? Is it really? 

Lady W. Yes ; I 'm of age to-day. Quite 
an important day in my life, is n't it ? 
That is why I am giving this party to- 
night. Do sit down. 

{Still arranging flowers.) 

Lord D. {Sitting down.) I wish I had 
known it was your birthday. Lady Win- 
dermere. I would have covered the 
whole street in front of your house with 
flowers for you to walk on. They are 
made for you. 

{A short pause.) 

Lady W. Lord Darlington, you annoyed 
me last night at the Foreign Office. I 
am afraid you are going to annoy me 
again. 

Lord D. I, Lady Windermere? 

{Enter Parker and Footman c. with tray 
and tea-things.) 

Lady W. Put it there, Parker. That will 
do. {Wipes her hands with her pocket- 
handkerchief, goes to tea-table I. and 
sits down.) Won't you come over. Lord 
Darlington ? 

{Exit Parker c.) 

Lord D. {Takes chair and goes across 
I. c.) I am quite miserable, Lady Win- 
dermere. You must tell me what I did. 
{Sits down at table I.) 

Lady W. Well, you kept paying me 
elaborate compliments the whole evening. 

Lord D. {Smiling.) Ah, now-a-days we 
are all of us so hard up, that the only 
pleasant things to pay are compliments. 
They 're the only thing we can pay. 

Lady W. {Shaking her head.) No, I am 
talking very seriously. You must n't 
laugh, I am quite serious. I don't like 
compliments, and I don't see why a man 
should think he is pleasing a woman 
enormously when he says to her a whole 
heap of things that he does n't mean. 

Lord D. Ah, but I did mean them. 
{Takes tea which she offers him.) 



Lady W. {Gravely.) I hope not. I 
should be sorry to have to quarrel with 
you. Lord Darlington. I like you very 
much, you know that. But I should n't 
like you at all if I thought you were 
what most other men are. Believe me, 
you are better than most other men, and 
I sometimes think you pretend to be 
worse. 

Lo7-d D. We all have our little vanities. 
Lady Windermere. 

Lady W. Why do you make that your 
special one? 

{Still seated at table I.) 

Lord D. {Still seated I. c.) Oh, now- 
a-days so many conceited people go 
about Society pretending to be good, 
that I think it shows rather a sweet and 
modest disposition to pretend to be bad. 
Besides, there is this to be said. If you 
pretend to be good, the world takes you 
very seriously. If you pretend to be 
bad, it does n't. Such is the astounding 
stupidity of optimism. 

Lady W. Don't you want the world to 
take you seriously then, Lord Darling- 
ton? 

Lord D. No, not the world. Who are 
the people the world takes seriously? 
All the dull people one can think of, 
from the Bishops down to the bores. I 
should like you to take me very seriously. 
Lady Windermere, you more than any 
one else in life. 

Lady W. Why — why me? 

Lord D. {After a slight hesitation.) Be- 
cause I think we might be great friends. 
Let us be great friends. You may want 
a friend some day. 

Lady W. Why do you say that? 

Lord D. Oh ! — we all want friends at 
times. 

Lady W. I think we 're very good friends, 
already. Lord Darlington. We can al- 
ways remain so as long as you don't 

LordD. Don't what? 

Lady W. Don't spoil it by saying ex- 
travagant, silly things to me. You think 
I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I 
have something of the Puritan in me. I 
was brought up like that. I am glad of 
it. My motlier died when I was a mere' 
child. I lived always with Lady Julia, 
my father's eldest sister, you know. She 
was stern to me, but she taught me, what 
the world is forgetting, the difference' 
that there is between what is right and 
what is wrong. She allowed of no com- 
promise. I allow of none. 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



809 



Lord B. My dear Lady Windermere! 
Lady W, {Leaning hack on the sofa.) 

You look on me as being behind the age. 

— Well, I am! I should be sorry to be 

on the same level as an age like this. 
Lord D. You think the age very bad? 
Lady W. Yes, now-a-days people seem 

to look on life as a speculation. It is 

not a speculation. It is a sacrament. 

Its ideal is Love. Its purification is 

sacrifice. 
Lord D. (Smiling.) Oh, anything is 

better than being sacrificed ! 
Lady W. (Leaning forward.) Don't sa,y 

that. 
Lord D. I do say it. I feel it — I know it. 

(Enter Parker c.) 

Parker. The men want to know if they 
are to put the carpets on the terrace for 
to-night, my lady? 

Lady W. You don't think it will rain. 
Lord Darlington, do you? 

Lord D. I won't hear of its raining on 
your birthday ! 

Lady W. Tell them to do it at once, 
Parker. 

(Exit Parker c.) 

Lord D. (Still seated.) Do you think 
then — of course I am only putting an 
imaginary instance — do you think, that 
in the case of a young married couple, 
say about two years married, if the hus- 
band suddenly becomes the intimate 
friend of a woman of; — well, more than 
doubtful character, is always calling 
upon her, lunching with her, and prob- 
ably paying her bills — do you think that 
the wife sliould not console herself? 

Lady W. (Froivning.) Console herself? 

Lord D. Yes, I think she should — I think 
she has the right. 

Lady W. Because the husband is vile 
should the wife be vile also? 

Lord D. Vileness is a terrible word. Lady 
Windermere. 

Lady W. It is a terrible thing, Lord Dar- 
lington. 

Lord D. Do you know I am afraid that 
good people do a great deal of harm in 
this world. Certainly the greatest harm 
they do is that they make badness of 
such extraordinary importance. It is 
absurd to divide people into good and 
bad. People are either charming or 
tedious. I take the side of the cliarm- 
ing, and you. Lady Windermere, can't 
help belonging to them. 

Lady W. Now, Lord Darlington, (Bis- 



ing and crossing r., front of him.) 
Don't stir, I am merely going to finish 
my flowers. 

(Goes to table r. c.) 

Lord D. (Rising and moving chair.) 
And I must say I think you are very 
hard on modern life, Lady Windermere. 
Of course there is much against it, I 
admit. Most women, for instance, now- 
a-days, are rather mercenary. 

Lady W. Don't talk about such people. 

Lord D. Well, then, setting mercenary 
people aside, who, of course, are dread- 
ful, do you think seriously that women 
who have committed what the world calls 
a fault should never be forgiven? 

Lady W. (Standing at table.) I think 
they should never be forgiven. 

Lord D. And me? Do you think that 
there should be the same laws for men 
as there are for women? 

Lady W. Certainly! 

Lord D. I think life too complex a thing 
to be settled by these hard and fast rules. 

Lady W. If we had "these hard and fast 
rules," we should find life much more 
simple. 

Lord D. You allow of no exceptions? 

Lady W. None ! 

Lord D. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan 
you are. Lady Windermere ! 

Lady W. The adjective was unnecessary, 
Lord Darlington. 

Lord D. I couldn't help it. I can resist 
everything except temptation. 

Lady W. You have the modern affectation 
of weakness. 

Lord T). (Looking at her.) It's only an 
affection, Lady Windermere. 

(Enter Parker c.) 

Parker. The Duchess of Berwick and. 
Lady Agatha Carlisle. 

(Enter the Duchess of B. and Lady A: 
C. c.) 

(Exit Parker c.) 

Duchess of B. (Coming down c. and 
shaking hands.) Dear Margaret, I am 
so pleased to see you. You remember • 
Agatha, don't you? (Crossing I. c.) • 
How do you do. Lord Darlington? I 
won't let you know my daughter, you 
are far too wicked. 

Lord D. Don't say that. Duchess. As a 
wicked man I am a complete failure. 
Why, there are lots of people who say 
I have never really done anything wrong 
in the whole cx)urse of my life. Of 



810 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



course they only say it behind my 
back. 
Duchess of B. Isn't he dreadful? Aga- 
tha, this is Lord Darlington. Mind 
you don't believe a word he says. {Lord 
Darlington crosses r. c.) No, no tea, 
thank you, dear. {Crosses and sits on 
sofa.) We have just had tea at Lady 
Markby's. Such bad tea, too. It was 
quite lindrinkable. I wasn't at all sur- 
prised. Her own son-in-law supplies it. 
Agatha is looking forward so much to 
your ball to-night, dear Margaret. 
Lady W. {Seated I. c.) Oh, you 
mustn't think it is going to be a ball. 
Duchess. It is only a dance in honor of 
my birthday. A small and early. 
Lord D. {Standing I c.) Very small, 

very early, and very select, Duchess. 
Duchess of B. {On sofa I.) Of course 
it 's going to be select. But we know 
that, dear Margaret, about your house. 
It is really one of the few houses in 
London where I can take Agatlia, and 
where I feel perfectly secure about poor 
Berwick. I don't know what Society is 
coming to. The most dreadful people 
seem to go everywhere. They certainly 
come to my parties — the men get quite 
furious if one does n't ask them. Really, 
some one should make a stand against it. 
Lady W. I will, Dueliess. I will hiive no 
one in my house about whom there is any 
scandal. 
Lord D. {r. c.) Oh, don't say that. Lady 
Windermere. I should never be admit- 
ted! 

{Sitting.) 
Duchess of B. Oh, men don't matter. 
With women it is different. We're 
good. Some of us are, at least. But 
we are positively getting elbowed into 
the corner. Our husbands would really 
forget our existence if we did n't nag at 
them from time to time, just to remind 
them that we have a perfect legal right 
to do so. 
Lord D. It's a curious thing, Duchess, 
about the game of marriage— a game, by 
the way, that is going out of fashion — 
the wives hold all the honors, and in- 
variably lose the odd trick. 
Duchess 'of B. The odd trick? Is that 

the husband, Lord Darlington? 
Lord D. It would be rather a good name 

for the modern husband. 
Duchess of B. Dear Lord Darlington, how 

thoroughly depraved you are! 
Lady W. Lord Darlington is trivial. 



Lord D. Ah, don't say that, Lady Win- 
dermere. 
Lady W. Why do you talk so trivially 

about life, then? 
Lord D. Because I think that life is far 
too important a thing ever to talk seri- 
ously about it. 

{Moves up c.) 
Duchess of B. What does he mean? Do, 
as a concession to my poor wits. Lord 
Darlington, just explain to me what you 
really mean? 
Lord D. {Coming down hack of table.) 
I think I had better not. Duchess. 
Now-a-days to be intelligible is to be 
found out. Good-bye! {Shakes hands 
with Duchess.) And now {Goes up 
stage.), Lady Windermere, good-bye. I 
may come to-night, may n't I ? Do let 
me come. 
Lady W. {Standing up stage with Lord 
D.) Yes, certainly. But you are not to 
say foolish, insincere things to people. 
Lord D. {Smiling.) Ah, you are be- 
ginning to reform me. It is a dangerous 
thing to reform any one. Lady Winder- 
mere. 

{Bows, and exit c.) 
Duchess of B. {Who has risen, goes c.) 
What a charming, wicked creature! I 
like him so much. I 'm quite delighted 
he 's gone ! How sweet you 're looking ! 
Where do you get your gowns? And 
now I mi;st tell you how sorry I am for 
you, dear Margaret. {Crosses to sofa 
and sits with Lady W.) Agatha, dar- 
ling! 
Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

{Rises.) 
Duchess of B. Will you go and look over 
the photograph clbum that I see there? 
Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

{Goes to table L.) 
Duchess of B. Dear girl ! She is so fond 
of photographs of Switzerland. Such a 
pure taste, I tliink. But I really am 
so sorry for you, Margaret. 
Lady W. {Smiling.) Why, Duchess? 
Duchess of B. Oh, on account of that hor- 
rid woman. She dresses so well, too, 
which makes it much worse, sets such a 
dreadful example. Augustus — you know 
my disreputable brother — such a trial to 
us all — well, Augustus is completely in- 
fatuated about her. It is quite scandal- 
ous, for she is absolutely inadmissible into 
society. Many a woman has a past, but 
I am told that she has at least a dozen, 
and that they all fit. 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



811 



Lady W. Whom are you talking about, 
Dueliess ? 

Duchess of B. Aliout Mrs. Erlynne. 

Lady W. Mrs. Erlynne? I never heard 
of her, Duchess. And wliat 7ms she to 
do with me? 

Duchess of B. My poor child. Agatha, 
darling ! 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

Duchess of B. Will you go out on the 
terrace and look at the sunset ? 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

{Exit through window I.) 

Duchess of B. Sweet girl ! So devoted 
to sunsets! Shows such refinement of 
feeling, does it not? After all, there is 
nothing like nature, is there? 

Lady W. But what is it, Duchess? Why 
do you talk to me about this person? 

Duchess of B. Don't you really know? I 
assure you we 're all so distressed about 
it. Only last night at dear Lady Fan- 
sen's every one was saving how extra- 
ordinary it was that, of all men in Lon- 
don, Windermere should behave in such 
a way. 

Lady W. My husband — what has he got 
to do with any woman of that kind? 

Duchess of B. Ah, what indeed, dear? 
That is the point. He goes to see her 
continually, and stops for hours at a 
time, and while he is there she is not at 
home to any one. Not that many ladies 
call on her, dear," but she has a great 
many disreputable men friends — my own 
brother in particular, as I told you — 
and that is wliat makes it so dreadful 
about Windermere. We looked upon 
him as being such a model husband, but 
I am afraid there is no doubt about it. 
My dear nieces — you know the Saville 
girls, don't you? — such nice domestic 
creatures — plain, dreadfully plain, but 
so good — well, they 're always at the 
window doing fancy work, and making 
ugly things for the poor, which I think 
so useful of them in these dreadful so- 
cialistic days, and this terrible woman 
has taken a house in Curzon Street, right 
opposite them — such a respectable street, 
too. I don't know what we 're coming 
to! And they tell me that Windermere 
goes there four and five times a week — 
they see him. They can't help it — and 
although they never talk scandal, they — 
well, of course — they remark on it to 
every one. And the worst of it all is, 
that I have been told that this woman 
has got a great deal of money out of 



somebody, for it seems that she came to 
London six months ago without anything 
at all to speak of, and now she has this 
charming house in Mayfair, drives her 
pony in the Park every afternoon, and 
all — well all — since she has known poor 
dear Windermere. 

Lady W. Oh, I can't believe it! 

Duchess of B. But it's quite true, my 
dear. The whole of London knows it. 
That is why I felt it was better to come 
and talk to you, and advise you to take 
Windermere away at once to Homburg 
or to Aix, where he '11 have something 
to amuse him, and where you can watch 
him all day long. I assure you, my 
dear, that on several occasions after I 
was first married I had to pretend to be 
very ill, and was obliged to drink the 
most unpleasant mineral waters, merely 
to get Berwick out of town. He was so 
extremely susceptible. Though I am 
bound to say he never gave away any 
large sums of money to anybody. He 
is far too high-principled for that. 

Lady W. (Interrupting.) Duchess, Duch- 
ess, it's impossible! {Rising and cross- 
ing stage c.) We are only married two 
years. Our child is but six months old. 
{Sits in chair r. of I. table.) 

Duchess of B. Ah, the dear, pretty baby! 
How is the little darling? Is it a boy 
or a girl? I hope a girl — Ah, no, I 
remember it 's a boy ! I 'm so sorry. 
Boys are so wicked. M.y boy is exces- 
sively immoral. You would n't believe 
at wliat hours he comes home. And he 's 
only left Oxford a few months — I really 
don't know what they teach them there. 

Lady W. Are all men bad? 

Duchess of B. Oh, all of them, my dear, 
all of them, without any exception. And 
they never groAv any better. Men be- 
come old, but they never l)ecome good. 

Lady W. Windermere and I married for 
love. 

Duchess of B. Yes, we begin like that. 
It was only Berwick's brutal and inces- 
sant threats of suicide that made me ac- 
cept him at all, and before the year waS 
out he was running after all kinds of 
petticoats, every color, every shape, 
every material. In fact, before the 
honeymoon was over, I caught him wink- 
ing at my maid, a most pretty, respect- 
able girl. I dismissed her at once with- 
out a character. — No, I remember, I 
passed her on to my sister ; poor dear Sir 
George is so short-sighted, I thought it 



812 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



would n't matter. But it did, though [ — ] 
it was most unfortunate. {Eises.) And 
now, my dear child, I must go, as we are 
dining out. And mind you don't take 
this little aberration of Windermere's too 
much to heart. Just take him abroad, 
and he '11 come back to you all right. 

Lady W. Come back to me? (c.) 

Duchess of B. (l. c.) Yes, dear, these 
wicked women get our husbands away 
from us, but they always come back, 
slightly damaged, of course. And don't 
make scenes, men hate them ! 

Lady W. It is very kind of you Duchess, 
to come and tell me all this. But I can't 
believe tliat my husband is untrue to me. 

Duchess of B. Pretty child ! I was like 
that once. Now I know that all men are 
monsters. {Lady W. rings bell.) The 
only thing to do is to feed the wretches 
well. A good cook does wonders, and 
that I know you have. My dear Mar- 
garet, you are not going to cry? 

Lady W. You need n't be afraid. Duch- 
ess, I never cry. 

Duchess of B. That's quite right, dear. 
Crying is the refuge of plain women, but 
the ruin of pretty ones. Agatha, dar- 
ling! 

Lady A. {Entering I.) Yes, mamma. 
{Stands hack of table I. c.) 

Duchess of B. Come and bid good-bye to 
Lady Windermere, and thank her for 
your charming visit. {Coming down 
again.) And by the way, I must thank 
you for sending a card to Mr. Hopper — 
he 's that rich young Australian, people 
are taking such notice of just at present. 
His father made a great fortune by sell- 
ing some kind of food in circular tins — 
most palatable, I believe — I fancy it is 
the thing the servants always refuse to 
eat. But the son is quite interesting. I 
think he 's attracted by dear Agatha's 
clever talk. Of course, we should be 
very sorry to lose her, but I think that a 
mother who does n't part with a daugh- 
ter every season has no real affection. 
We 're coming to-night, dear. {Parker 
opens c. doors.) And remember my ad- 
vice, take the poor fellow out of town at 
once, it is the only thing to do. Good- 
bye, once more; come, Agatha. 
{Exeunt Duchess and Lady A. c.) 

Lady W. How horrible ! I understand 
now what Lord Darlington meant by the 
imaginary instance of the couple not two 
years married. Oh ! it can't be true — she 
spoke of enormous sums of money paid 



to this woman. I know where Arthur 
keeps his bank-book — in one of the draw- 
ers of that desk. I might find out by 
that. I will find out. {Opens drawer.) 
No, it is some hideous mistake. {Rises 
and goes c.) Some silly scandal! He 
loves me! He loves me! But why 
should I not look? I am his wife, I 
have a right to look! {Returns to bu- 
reau, takes out book and examines it, 
page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of 
relief.) I knew it, there is not a word 
of truth in this stupid story. {Puts 
book back in drawer. As she does so, 
starts and takes out another hook.) A 
second l)ook — private — locked ! ( Tries 
to open it, but fails. Sees paper knife 
on bureau, and ivith it cuts cover from 
hook. Begins to start at the first page.) 
Mrs. Eriynne — £600— Mrs. Erlynne — 
£700— Mrs. Erlynne— £400. Oh! it is 
true ! it is true ! How horrible ! 
{Throws book on floor.) 

{Enter Lord W. c.) 

Lord W. Well, dear, has the fan been 
sent home yet? {Going r. c. sees hook.) 
Margaret, you have cut open my bank 
book. You have no right to do such a 
thing ! 

Lady W. You think it wrong that you are 
found out, don't you? 

Lord W. I think it wrong that a wife 
should spy on her husband. • 

Lady W. I did not spy on you. I never 
knew of this woman's existence till half 
an hour ago. Some one who pitied me 
was kind enough to tell me what every 
one in London knows already — your 
daily visits to Curzon Street, your mad 
infatuation, the monstrous sums of 
money you squander on this infamous 
woman ! 

{Crossing I.) 

Lord W. Margaret, don't talk like that of 
Mrs. Erlynne, you don't know how un- 
just it is! 

Lady W. {Turning to him.) You are 
very jealous of Mrs. Erlynne's honor. I 
wish 3'ou had been as jealous of mine. 

Lord W. Your honor is untouched, Mar- 
garet. You don't think for a moment 

that 

{Puts book back into desk.) 

Lady W. I think that you spend your 
money strangely. That is all. Oh, 
don't imagine I mind about the money. 
As far as I am concerned, you may 
squander everything we have. But what 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



813 



I do mind is that you who have loved 
me, you who have taught me to love you, 
should pass from the love that is given 
to the love that is bought. Oh, it 's 
horrible! [Sits on sofa.) And it is I 
who feel degraded. You don't feel any- 
thing. I feel stained, utterly stained. 
You can't realize how hideous the last 
six months seem to me now — every kiss 
you have given me is tainted in my 
memory. 

Lord W. (Crossing to her.) Don't say 
that, Margaret, I never loved any one in 
the whole world but you. 

Lady W. (Rises.) Who is this woman, 
then? Why do you take a house for 
her? 

Lord W. I did not take a house for her. 

Lady W. You gave her the money to do 
it, which is the same thing. 

Lord W. Margaret, as far as I have 
known Mrs. Erlynne 

Lady W. Is there a Mr. Erlynne — or is 
he a myth? 

Lord W. Her husband died many years 
ago. She is alone in the world. 

Lady W. No relations? 
(A pause.) 

Lord W. None. 

Lady W. Rather curious, isn't it? (I.) 

Lord W. (I. e.) Margaret, I was say- 
ing to you — and I beg you to listen to me 
— that as far as I have known Mrs. Er- 
lynne, she has conducted herself well. 
If years ago 

Lady W. Oh! (Crossing r. c.) I don't 
want details about her life. 

Lord W. I am not going to give you any 
details about her life. I tell you simply 
this — Mrs. Erlynne was once honored, 
loved, respected. She was well born, slie 
had a position — she lost everything — 
threw it away, if you like. That makes 
it all the more bitter. Misfortunes one 
can endure — they come from outside, 
they are accidents. But to suffer for 
one's own faults — ah ! there is the sting 
of life. It was twenty years ago, too. 
She was little more than a girl then. 
She had been a wife for even less time 
than you have. 

Lady W. I am not interested in her — 
and — you should not mention this woman 
and me in the same breath. It is an 
error of taste. 

(Sitting r. at desk.) 

Lord W. Margaret, you could save this 
woman. She wants to get back into so- 
ciety, and she wants you to help her. 



(Crossing to her.) 

Lady W. Me! 

Lord W. Yes, you. 

Lady W. How impertinent of her! 
(A pause.) 

Lord W. Margaret, I came to ask you a 
great favor, and I still ask it of you, 
though you have discovered what I had 
intended you should never have known, 
that I have given Mrs. Erlynne a large 
sum of money. I want you to send her 
an invitation for our party to-night. 
(Standing I. of her.) 

Lady W. You are mad. 
(Rises.) 

Lord W. 1 entreat you. People may 
chatter about her, do chatter about her, 
of course, but they don't know anything 
definite against her. She has been to 
several houses — not to houses where you 
would go, I admit, but still to houses 
where women who are in what is called 
Society now-a-days do go. That does 
not content her. She wants you to re- 
ceive her once. 

Lady W. As a triumph for her, I sup- 
pose? 

Lord W. No; but because she knows that 
you are a good woman — and that if she 
comes here once she will have a chance 
of a happier, a surer life, than she has 
had. She will make no further effort to 
know you. Won't you help a woman 
who is tr>'ing to get back? 

Lady W. No ! If a woman really re- 
pents, she never wislies to return to the 
society that has made or seen her ruin. 

Lord W. I beg of you. 

Lady W. (Crossing to door r.) I am 
going to dress for dinner, and don't men- 
tion the subject again this evening. 
Arthur (Going to him c), you fanc,y be- 
cause I have no father or motlier that I 
am alone in the world and that you can 
treat me as you choose. You are wrong, 
I have friends, many friends. 

Lord W. (I. c.) Margaret, you are talk- 
ing foolishly, recklessly. I won't argue 
with you, but I insist upon your asking 
Mrs. Ei-lynne to-night. 

Lady W. (r. e.) I shall do nothing of 
the kind. 

(Crossing I. e.) 

Lord W. You refuse? 
(c.) 

Lady W. Absolutely! 

Lord W. All, Margaret, do this for my 
sake; it is lier last chance. 

Lady W. What has that to do with me? 



814 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Lord W. How hard good women arel 

Lady W. How weak bad men are ! 

Lord W. Margaret, none of us men may 
be good enough for the women we marry 
— that is quite true — but you don't 
imagine I would ever — oh, the sugges- 
tion is monstrous ! 

Lady W. Why should you be different 
from other men? I am told that there 
is hardly a husband in London who does 
not waste his life over some shameful 
passion. 

Lord W. I am not one of them. 

Lady W. I am not sure of that. 

Lord W. You are sure in your heart. 
But don't make chasm after chasm be- 
tween us. God knows the last few min- 
utes have thrust us wide enough apart. 
Sit down and write the card. 

Lady W. Nothing in the whole world 
would induce me. 

Lord W. {Crossing to the bureau.) 
Then I will. 

{Rings electric hell, sits down and writes 
card. ) 

Lady W. You are going to invite this 
woman ? 

{Crossing to Mm.) 

Lord W. Yes. 

{Pause.) 

{Enter Parker.) 

Lord W. Parker! 

Parker. Yes, my lord. 

{Comes down I. c.) 

Lord W. Have this note sent to Mrs. Er- 
lynne at No. 84a Curzon Street. ( Cross- 
ing to I. e. and giving note to Parker.) 
There is no answer. 

{Enter Parker c.) 

Lady W. Arthur, if that woman comes 
here, I shall insult her. 

Lord W. Margaret, don't say that. 

Lady W. I mean it. 

Lord W. Child, if you did such such a 
thing, there 's not a woman in London 
who wouldn't pity you. 

Lady W. There is not a good woman in 
London who would not applaud me. 
We have been too lax. We must make 
an example. I propose to begin to- 
night. {Picking up fan.) Yes, you 
gave me this fan to-day, it was your 
birthday present. If that woman crosses 
my threshold, I shall strike her across 
the face with it. 

Lord W. Margaret, you could n't do such 
a thing. 



Lady W. You don't know me ! 
{Moves r.) 

{Enter Parker.) 

Lady W. Parker! 

Parker. Yes, my lady. 

Lady W. I shall dine in my own room. 
I don't want dinner, in fact. See that 
everything is ready by half-past ten. 
And, Parker, be sure you pronounce the 
names of the guests very distinctly to- 
night. Sometimes you speak so fast 
that I miss them. I am particularly 
anxious to hear the names quite clearly, 
so as to make no mistake. You under- 
stand, Parker? 

Parker. Yes, my lady. 

Lady W. That will do! {Exit Parker 
c.) {Speaking to Lord W.) Arthur, if 
that woman comes here — I warn you — 

Lord W. Margaret, you '11 ruin us ! 

Lady W. Us! From this moment my 
life is separate from yours. But if you 
wish to avoid a public scandal, write at 
once to this woman, and tell her that I 
forbid her to come here ! 

Lord W. I will not — I cannot — she must 
come! 

Lady W. Then I shall do exactly as I 
have said. {Goes r.) You leave me no 
choice. 

{Exit r.) 

Lord W. {Calling after her.) Margaret! 
Margaret! {A pause.) My God! What 
shall I do ! I dare not tell her who this 
woman really is. The shame would kill 
her. 
{Sinks down into a chair and buries his 
face in his hands.) 
{Act-drop.) 



ACT II. 

Scene — Drawing-room in Lord W.'s house. 
Door r. u. opening into ball-room, where 
band is playing. Door I. through which 
guests are entering. Door I. u. opens on 
an illuminated terrace. Palms, flowers, 
and brilliant lights. Room crowded with 
guests. Lady W. is receiving them. 

Duchess of B. {Up c.) So strange Lord 
Windermere isn't here. Mr. Hopper is 
very late, too. You have kept those five 
dances for him, Agatha! 
{Comes down.) 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

Duchess of B. {Sitting on sofa.) Just 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



815 



let me see your card. I 'm so glad Lady 
Windermere has revived cards. — They 're 
a mother's only safeguard. You dear 
simple little thing! {Scratches out two 
names.) No nice girl should ever waltz 
with such particularly younger sons ! It 
looks so fast ! The last two dances you 
must pass on the terrace with Mr. Hop- 
per. 

(Enter Mr. Dumby and Lady Plymdale 
from the ball-room.) 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

Duchess of B. {Fanning herself.) The 
air is so pleasant there. 

Parker. Mrs. Cowper-Cowper. Lady Stut- 
field. Sir James Royston. Mr. Guy 
Berkeley. 
{These people enter as announced.) 

Dumby. Good evening, Lady Stutfield. 
I suppose this will be the last ball of the 
season ? 

Lady S. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. It 's 
been a delightful season, has n't it ? 

Dumby. Quite delightful! Good evening, 
Duchess. I suppose this will be the last 
ball of the season? 

Duchess of B. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. 
It has been a very dull season, has n't it "? 

Dumby. Dreadfully dull ! Dreadfully dull ! 

Mrs. C.-C. Good evening, Mr. Dumby. 
I suppose this will be the last ball of the 
season ? 

Dumby. Oh, I think not. There '11 prob- 
ably be two more. {Wanders back to 
Lady P.) 

Parker. Mr. Rutford. Lady Jedburgh 
and Miss Graham. Mr. Hopper. 
{These people enter as announced.) 

Hopper. How do you do. Lady Winder- 
mere? How do you do, Duchess? 
{Boivs to Lady A.) 

Duchess of B. Dear Mr. Hopper, how 
nice of you to come so early. We all 
know how you are run after in London. 

Hopper. Capital place, London! They 
are not nearly so exclusive in London as 
they are in Sydney. 

Duchess of B. Ah! we know your value, 
Mr. Hopper. We wish there were more 
like you. It would make life so much 
easier. Do you know, Mr. Hopper, dear 
Agatha and I are so muck interested in 
Australia. It must be so pretty with 
all the dear little kangaroos flying about. 
Agatha has found it on the map. What 
a curious shape it is! Just like a large 
packing case. However, it is a very 
young country, is n't it ? 



Hopper. Was n't it made at the same 

time as the others. Duchess? 
Duchess of B. How clever you are, Mr. 

Hopper. You have a cleverness quite 

of your own. Now I must n't keep you. 
Hopper. But I should like to dance with 

Lady Agatha, Duchess. 
Duchess of B. Well, I hope she has a 

dance left. Have you got a dance left, 

Agatha? 
Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
Duchess of B. The next one? 
Lady Agatha. Yes, mamma. 
Hopper. May I have the pleasure? 

{Lady Agatha bows.) 
Duchess of B. Mind you take great care 

of my little chatter-box, Mr. Hopper. 
{Lady A. and Mr. H. pass into ball-room.) 

{Enter Lord W. I.) 

Lord W. Margaret, I want to speak to 

you. 
Lady W. In a moment. 

{The music stops.) 
Parker. Lord Augustus Lorton. 

{Enter Lord A.) 

Lord A. Good evening, Lady Winder- 
mere. 

Duchess of B. Sir James, will you take 
me into the ball-room? Augustus has 
been dining with us to-night. I really 
have had quite enough of dear Augustus 
for the moment. 

{Sir James r. gives the Duchess his arm 
and escorts her into the ball-room.) 

Parker. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bowden. 
Lord and Lady Paisley. Lord Darling- 
ton. 

{These people enter as announced.) 

Lord A. {Coming up to Lord W.) Want 
to speak to you particularly, dear boy. 
I 'm worn to a shadow. Kiiow I don't 
look it. None of us men do look what 
we really are. Demmed good thing, too. 
What I want to know is this. Who is 
she? Where does she come from? 
Why has n't she got any demmed rela- 
tions? Demmed nuisance, relations! 
But they make one so demmed respecta- 
ble. 

Lord W. You are talking of Mrs. Er- 
lynne, I suppose? I only met her six 
months ago. Till then I never knew of 
her existence. 

Lord A. You have seen a good deal of 
her since then. 

Lord W. {Coldly.) Yes, I have seen a 



gl6 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



good deal of her since then. I have just 
seen her. 

Lord A. Egad ! the women are very down 
on her. I have been dining with Ara- 
bella this evening ! By Jove ! you should 
have heard what she said about Mrs. 
Erlynne. She did n't leave a rag on 
her. . . . {Aside.) Berwick and I told 
her that did n't matter much, as the 
lady in question must have an extremely 
fine figure. You should have seen Ara- 
bella's expression ! . . . But, look here, 
dear boy. I don't know what to do 
about Mrs. Erlynne. Egad! I might 
be married to her; she treats me with 
such demmed indifference. She 's deuced 
clever, too ! She explains everything. 
Egad! She explains you. She has got 
any amount of explanations for you — 
and all of them different. 

Zjord W. No explanations are necessary 
about my friendship with Mrs. Erlynne. 

Tjord A. Hem ! Well, look here, dear old 
fellow. Do you think she will ever get 
into this demmed thing called Society? 
Would you introduce her to your wife? 
No use beating about the confounded 
bush. Would you do that? 

Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne is coming here 
to-night. 

Lord A. Your wife has sent her a card? 

Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne has received a 
card. 

Lord A. Then she 's all right, dear boy. 
But why did n't you tell me that before ? 
It would have saved me a heajD of worry 
and demmed misunderstandings ! 

{Lady A. and Mr. H. cross and exit on 
terrace I. u. e.) 

Parker. Mr. Cecil Graham! 

{Enter Mr. Cecil G.) 

Cecil G. {Bows to Lady W.^ passes over 
and shakes hands with Lord W.) Good 
evening, Arthur. Why don't you ask 
me how I am? I like people to ask me 
how I am. It shows a wide-spread in- 
terest in my health. Now to-night I am 
not at all well. Been dining with my 
people. Wonder why it is one's people 
are always so tedious ? My father would 
talk morality after dinner. I told him 
he was old enough to know better. But 
my experience is that as soon as people 
are old enough to know better, they don't 
know anything at all. Hullo, Tuppy! 
Hear you 're going to be married again ; 
thought you were tired of that game. 



Lord A. You 're excessively trivial, my 
dear boy, excessively trivial ! 

Cecil G. By the way, Tuppy, which is 
it? Have you been twice married and 
once divorced, or twice divorced and once 
married ? I say, you 've been twice 
divorced and once married. It seems so 
much more probable. 

Lord A. I have a very bad memory. I 
really don't remember which. 
{3Ioves away r.) 

Lady P. Lord Windermere, I 've some- 
thing most particular to ask you. 

Lord W. I am afraid — if you will excuse- 
me — I must join my wife. 

Lady P. Oh, you must n't dream of such 
a thing. It 's most dangerous now-a- 
days for a husband to pay any attention 
to his wife in public. It always makes 
people think that he beats her when 
they 're alone. The world has grown so 
suspicious of anything that looks like a 
happy married life. But I '11 tell you 
what it is at supper. 
{Moves towards door of ball-room.) 

Lord TV. (c.) Margaret, I must speak 
to you. 

Lady W. Will you hold my fan for me. 
Lord Darlington? Thanks. 

{Comes down to him.) 

Lord W. {Crossing to her.) Margaret, 
what you said before dinner was, of 
course, impossible? 

Lady W. That woman is not coming here 
to-night ! 

Lord W. (r. c.) Mrs. Erlynne is com- 
ing here, and if you in any way annoy 
or wound her, you will bring shame and 
sorrow on us both. Remember that! 
Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife 
should trust her husband! 

Lady W. (c.) London is full of women 
who trust their husbands. One can al- 
ways recognize them. They look so 
thoroughly unhappy. I am not going to 
be one of them. {Moves up.) Lord 
Darlington, will you give me back my 
fan, please? Thanks ... A useful 
thing, a fan, is n't it ? ... I want a 
friend to-niglit, Lord Darlington. I 
did n't know I would want one so soon. 

Lord D. Lady Windermere ! I knew the 
time would come some day; but wliy to- 
night? 

Lord W. I will tell her. I must. It 
would be terrible if there were any 
scene. Margaret . . . 

Parker. Mrs. Erlynne. 

{Lord W. starts. Mrs. E. enters, very 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



817 



beautifully dressed and very dignified. 
Lady W. clutches at her fan, then lets 
it drop on the floor. She bows coldly to 
Mrs. E,, who bows to her sweetly in turn, 
and sails into the room.) 

Lord D. You have dropped your fan, 
Lady Windermere. 

{Picks it up and hands it to her.) 

Mrs. E. (c.) How do you do, again, 
Lord Windermere? How charming your 
sweet wife looks ! Quite a picture ! 

Lord W. {In a low voice.) It was ter- 
ribly rash of you to come ! 

Mrs. E. {Smiling.) The wisest thing I 
ever did in my life. And, by the way, 
you must pay me a good deal of atten- 
tion this evening. I am afraid of the 
women. You must introduce me to some 
of them. The men I can always man- 
age. How do you do. Lord Augustus? 
You have quite neglected me lately. I 
have not seen you since yesterday. I am 
afraid you 're faithless. Eveiy one told 
me so. 

Lord A. (r.) Now really, Mrs. Erlynne, 
allow me to explain, 

Mrs. E. {r. c.) No, dear Lord Augustus, 
you can't explain anything. It is your 
chief charm. 

Lord A. Ah! if you find charms in me, 
Mrs. Erlynne — 

{They converse together. Lord W. moves 
uneasily about the room watching Mrs. 
E.) 

Lord D. {To Lady W.) How pale you 
are! 

Lady W. Cowards are always pale. 

Lord D. You look faint. Come out on 
the terrace. 

Lady W. Yes. {To Parker.) Parker, 
send my cloak out. 

Mrs. E. {Crossing to her.) Lady Win- 
dermere, how beautifully your terrace is 
illuminated. Reminds me of Prince 
Doria's at Rome. {Lady W. bows 
coldly, and goes off with Lord D.) Oh, 
how do you do, Mr. Graham ? Is n't 
that your aunt, Lady Jedburgh? I 
should so much like to know her. 

Cecil G. {After a moment's hesitation 
and embarrassment.) Oh, certainly, if 
you wish it. Ai;nt Caroline, allow me to 
introduce Mrs. Erlynne. 

Mrs. E. So pleased to meet you. Lady 
Jedburgh. {Sits beside her on the sofa.) 
Your nephew and I are great friends. 
I am so much interested in his political 
career. I think he 's sure to be a won- 
derful success. He thinks like a Tory, 



and talks like a Radical, and that 's so 
important now-a-days. He 's such a 
brilliant talker, too. But we all know 
from whom he inherits that. Lord Al- 
lendale was saying to me only yesterday 
in the Park, that Mr. Graham talks al- 
most as well as his aunt. 

Lady J. (r.) Most kind of you to say 
these charming things to me! 

{Mrs. E. smiles and continues conversa- 
tion. ) 

Dumby. {To Cecil G.) Did you intro- 
duce Mrs. Erlynne to Lady Jedburgh? 

Cecil G. Had to, my dear fellow. 
Could n't help it. That woman can 
make one do anything she wants. How, 
I don't know. 

Dumby. Hope to goodness she won't 
speak to me ! 

{Saunters towards Lady P.) 

Mrs. E. (c. To Lady J.) On Thursday? 
With great pleasure. {Rises and speaks 
to Lord W., laughing.) What a bore it 
is to have to be civil to these old dow- 
agers. But they alwaj^s insist on it. 

Lady P. {To Mr. D.) Who is that well- 
dressed woman talking to Windermere? 

Dumby. Have n't got the sliglitest idea. 
Looks like an edition de luxe of a wicked 
French novel, meant specially for the 
English market. 

Mrs. E. So that is poor Dumby with 
Lady Plymdale? I hear she is fright- 
fully jealous of him. He doesn't seem 
anxious to speak to me to-night. I sup- 
pose he is afraid of her. Those straw- 
colored women have dreadful tempers. 
Do you know, I think I '11 dance with 
you first, Windermere. {Lord W. bites 
his lip and frowns.) It will make Lord 
Augustus so jealous! Lord Augustus! 
{Lord A. comes down.) Lord Winder- 
mere insists on my dancing with him 
first, and, as it 's his own house, I can't 
well refuse. You know I would much 
sooner dance Avith you. 

Lord A. {With a low boiv.) I wish I 
could think so, Mrs. Erlynne. 

3Irs. E. You know it far too well. I can 
fancy a person dancing tlu'ough life with 
you and finding it charming. 

Lord A. {Placing his liand on his xvhite 
umistcoat.) Oh, thank you, thank you. 
You are the most adorable of all ladies! 

Mrs. E. What a nice speech ! So simple 
and so sincere! Just the sort of speech 
I like. Well, you shall hold my bouquet. 
{Goes towards ball-room on Lord W.'s 
arm.) Ah, Mr. Dumby, how are you? 



818 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



I am so sorry I have been out- the last 
three times you have called. Come and 
lunch on Friday. 

Diimhy. {With perfect nonchalance.) 
Delighted. 

{Lady P. glares with indignation at Mr. 
D. Lord A, follows Mrs. E. and Lord 
W. into the hall-room holding bouquet.) 

Lady P. {To Mr. D.) What an absolute 
brute you are! I never can believe a 
word you say! Why did you tell me 
you didn't know her? What do you 
mean by calling on her three times run- 
ning? You are not to go to lunch there; 
of course you understand that? 

Bumby. My dear Laura, I wouldn't 
dream of going ! 

Lady P. You have n't told me her name 
yet. Who is she? 

Dumhy. {Coughs slightly and smooths his 
hair.) She's a Mrs. Erlynne. 

Lady P. That woman! 

Dumby. Yes, that is what every one calls 
her. 

Lady P. How very interesting! How 
intensely interesting! I really must 
have a good stare at her. {Goes to door 
of ball-room and looks in.) I have 
heard the most shocking things about 
her. They say she is ruining poor Win- 
dermere. And Lady Windermere, who 
goes in for being so proper, invites her! 
How extremely amusing ! It takes a 
thoroughly good woman to do a thor- 
oughly stupid thing. You are to lunch 
there on Friday. 

Dumby. Why ? 

Lady P. Because I want you to take my 
husband with you. He has been so at- 
tentive lately, that he has become a per- 
fect nuisance. Now, this woman is just 
the thing for him. He '11 dance attend- 
ance i;pon her as long as she lets him, 
and won't bother me. I assure you, 
women of that kind are most useful. 
They form the basis of other people's 
marriages. 

Dumhy. What a mystery' you are! 

Lady P. {Looking at him.) I wish you 
were! 

Dumhy. I am — to myself. I am the only 
person in the world I should like to know 
thoroughly; but I don't see any chance 
of it just at present. 

{They pass into the hall-room, and Lady 
W. and Lord D. enter from the terrace.) 

Lady W. Yes. Her coming here is mon- 
strous, unbearable. I know now what 



you meant to-day at tea time. Why 
did n't you tell me right out ? You 
should have ! 

Lord D. I could n't ! A man can't tell . 
these things about another man ! But 
if I had known he was going to make 
you ask her here to-night, I think I 
would have told you. That insult, at 
any rate, you would have been spared. 

Lady W. I did not ask her. He insisted 
on her coming — against my entreaties — 
against my commands. Oh ! the house 
is tainted for me. I feel that every 
woman here sneers at me as she dances 
by with my husband. What have I done 
to deserve this? I gave him all my life. 
He took it — used it — spoiled it! I am 
degraded in my own eyes; and I lack 
courage — I am a coward! 

{Sits dotvn on sofa.) 

Lord D. If I know you at all, I know 
that you can't live with a man who treats 
you like this! What sort of life would 
you have with him? You would feel 
that he was lying to you every moment 
of the day. You would feel that the 
look in his eyes was false, his voice false, 
his touch false, his passion false. He 
would come to you when he was weary 
of others; you would have to comfort 
him. He would come to you when he 
was devoted to others; you would have 
to charm him. You would have to be to 
him the mask of his real life, the cloak 
to hide his secret. 

Lady W. You are right — you are terribly 
right. But where am I to turn? You 
said you would be my friend. Lord Dar- 
lington. — Tell me, what am I to do? Be 
my friend now. 

Lord D. Between men and women there 
is no friendship possible. There is pas- 
sion, enmity, worship, love, but no 
friendship. I love you 

Lady W. No, no! 

{Bises.) 

Lord D. Yes, I love you! You are more 
to me than anything in the whole world. 
What does your husband give you? 
Nothing. Whatever is in him he gives 
to this wretched woman, whom he has 
thrust into your society, into your home, 
to shame you before every one. I offer 
you my life 

Lady W. Lord Darlington ! 

Lord D. My life — my whole life. Take 
it, and do with it what you will. ... I 
love you — love you as I have never loved 
any living thing. From the moment I 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



819 



met you I loved you, loved you blindly, 
adoringly, madly ! You did not know 
it then — you know it now! Leave this 
house to-night. I won't tell you that the 
world matters nothing, or the world's 
voice, or the voice of society. They mat- 
ter a good deal. They matter far too 
much. But there are moments when one 
has to choose between living one's own 
life, fully, entirely, completely — or drag- 
ging out some false, shallow, degrading 
existence that the world in its hypocrisy 
demands. You have that moment now. 
Choose! 0, my love, choose! 

Lady W. {Moving slowly away from 
him, and looking at him with startled 
eyes.) I have not the courage. 

Lord D. {Following her.) Yes; you 
have the courage. There may be six 
months of pain, of disgrace even, but 
when you no longer bear his name, when 
you bear mine, all will be well. Mar- 
garet, my love, my wife that shall be 
some day — yes, my wife ! You know it ! 
What are you now? This woman has 
the place that belongs by right to you. 
Oh! go — go out of this house, w'ith head 
erect, with a smile upon your lips, with 
courage in your eyes. All London will 
know why you did it; and who will 
blame youf No one. If they do, what 
matter. Wrong? What is wrong? 
It 's wrong for a man to abandon his 
wife for a shameless woman. It is 
wrong for a wife to remain with a man 
who so dishonors her. You said once 
you would make no compromise with 
things. Make none now. Be brave ! 
Be yourself! 

Lady W. I am afraid of being myself. 
Let me think! Let me w^ait! My hus- 
band may return to me. 

{Sits down on sofa.) 

Lord D. And you would take him back! 
You are not what I thought you were. 
You are just the same as every other 
woman. You would stand anything 
rather than face the censure of a world 
whose praise you would despise. In a 
week you wall be driving with this 
woman in the Park. She w^ill be your 
constant guest — your dearest friend. 
You would endure anything rather than 
break witli one blow this monstrous tie. 
You are right. You have no courage; 
none! 

Lady W. Ah, give me time to think. I 
cannot answer you now. 

(Passes her hand nervously over her brow.) 



Lord D. It must be now or not at all. 

Lady W. {Rising from the sofa.) Then 
not at all ! 

{A pause.) 

Lord D. You break my heart! 

Lady W. Mine is already broken. 
{A pause.) 

Lord D. To-morrow I leave England. 
This is the last time I shall ever look on 
you. You will never see me again. For 
one moment our lives met — our souls 
touched. They must never meet or touch 
again. Good-bye, Margaret. 
{Exit.) 

Lady W. How alone I am in life! How 
terribly alone! 

{The music stops. Enter the Duchess of 
B. and Lord P. laughing and talking. 
Other guests come on from ball-room.) 

Duchess of B. Dear Margaret, I 've just 
been having such a delightful chat with 
Mrs. Erlynne. I am so sorry for what 
I said to you this afternoon about her. 
Of course, she must be all right if you 
invite her. A most attractive woman, 
and has such sensible views on life. 
Told me she entirely disapproved of 
people marrying more than once, so I 
feel quite safe about poor Augustus. 
Can't imagine why people speak against 
her. It 's those horrid nieces of mine — 
the Saville girls — they 're always talking 
scandal. Still, I should go to Homburg, 
dear, I really should. She is just a little 
too attractive. But where is Agatha? 
Oh, there she is. {Lady A. and Mr. H. 
enter from the terrace I. u. e.) Mr. 
Hopper, I am very angry with you. 
You have taken Agatha ovit on the ter- 
race, and she is so delicate. 

Hopper. {I. c.) Awfully sorry, Duchess. 
We went out for a moment and then got 
chatting together. 

Duchess of B. (c.) Ah, about dear Aus- 
tralia, I suppose? 

Hopper. Yes. 

Duchess of B. Agatha, darling! 
{Beckons her over.) 

Lady A. Yes, mamma! 

Duchess of B. {Aside.) Did Mr. Hopper 
definitely 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

Duchess of B. And what answer did you 
give him, dear child? 

Lady A. Yes, mamma. 

Duchess of B. {Affectionately.) My dear 
one! You always say the right tiling. 
Mr. Hopper! James! Agatha has told 



820 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



me everything. How cleverly you have 
both kept your secret. 

Hopper. You don't mind my taking 
Agatha off to Australia, then, Duchess"? 

Duchess of B. {Indignantly.) To Aus- 
tralia? Oh, don't mention that dreadful 
vulgar place. 

Hopper. But she said she 'd like to come 
with me. 

Duchess of B. {Severely.) Did you say 
that, Agatha"? 

Lady A. Yes> mamma. 

Duchess of B. Agatha, you say the most 
silly things possible. I think on the 
whole that Grosvenor Square would be a 
more healthy place to reside in. There 
are lots of vulgar people live in Grosve- 
nor Square, but at any rate there are no 
horrid kangaroos crawling about. But 
we '11 talk about that to-morrow. James, 
you can take Agatha down. You '11 
come to lunch, of course, James. At 
half-past one instead of two. The Duke 
will wish to say a few words to you, I 
am sure. 

Hopper. I should like to have a chat with 
the Duke, Duchess. He has not said a 
single word to me yet. 

Duchess of B. I think you '11 find he will 
have a great deal to say to you to-mor- 
row. {Exit Lady A. with Mr. H.) And 
now good-night, Margaret. I 'm afraid 
it's the old, old story, dear. Love — 
well, not love at first sight, but love at 
the end of the season, which is so much 
more satisfactory. 

Lady W. Good-night, Duchess. 

{Exit the Duchess of B. on Lord P.'s arm.) 

Lady P. My dear Margaret, what a hand- 
some woman your husband has been 
dancing with ! I should be quite jealous 
if I were you! Is she a gTeat friend of 
vours ? 

Lady TF. No ! 

Lady P. Really? Good-night, dear. 
{Looks at Mr. D. and exit.) 

Dumhy. Awful manners young Hopper 
has ! 

Cecil G. Ah ! Hopper is one of Nature's 
gentlemen, the worst type of gentlemen 
I know. 

Biimby. Sensible woman, Lady Winder- 
mere. Lots of wives would have ob- 
jected to Mrs. Erlynne coming. But 
Lady Windermere has that uncommon 
thing called common sense. 

Cecil G. And Windermere knows that 
nothing looks so like innocence as an in- 
discretion. 



Dumhy. Yes; dear Windermere is becom- 
ing almost modern. Never thought he 
would. 

{Bows to Lady W. and exit.) 

Lady J. Good-night, Lady Windermere. 
What a fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne 
is! She is coming to lunch on Thurs- 
day, won't you come too? I expect the 
Bishop and dear Lady Merton. 

Lady W. I am afraid I am engaged, 
Lady Jedburgh. 

Lady J. So soriy. Come, dear. 

{Exeunt Lady J. and Miss G.) 

{Enter Mrs. E. and Lord W.) 

Mrs. E. Charming ball it has been! 
Quite reminds me of old days. {Sits on 
the sofa.) And I see that there are just 
as many fools in society as there used to 
be. So pleased to find that nothing 
has altered ! Except Margaret. She 's 
grown quite pretty. The last time I saw 
her — twenty years ago, she was a fright 
in flannel. Positive fright, I assure you. 
The dear Duchess ! and that sweet Lady 
Agatha ! Just the type of girl I like ! 
Well, really, Windermere, if I am to be 
the Duchess's sister-in-law 

Lord W. {Sitting I. of her.) But are 



you "/ 

{Exit Mr. Cecil G. icith rest of guests. 
Lady W. watches, with a look of scorn 
and pain, Mrs. E. and her husband. 
They are unconscious of her presence.) 

Mrs. E. Oh yes ! He 's to call to-morrow 
at twelve o'clock. He wanted to propose 
to-night. In fact he did. He kept on 
proposing. Poor Augustus, you knoAV 
how he repeats himself. Such a bad 
habit ! But I told him I would n't give 
him an answer till to-morrow. Of cour.se 
I am going to take him. And I dare say 
I '11 make him an admirable wife, as 
wives go. And there is a gTeat deal of 
good in Lord Augustus. Fortunately it 
is all on the surface. Just where good 
qualities should be. Of course you must 
help me in this matter. 

Lord W. I am not called on to encourage 
Lord Augustus, I suppose? 

Mrs. E. Oh, no ! I do the encouraging. 
But you will make me a handsome settle- 
ment, Windermere, won't you? 

Lord W. {Frowning.) Is that what you 
want to talk to me about to-night? 

Mrs. E. Yes. 

Lord W. {With a gesture of impatience.) 
I will not talk of it here. 

Mrs. E. {Laughing.) Then we will talk 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



821 



of it on the terrace. Even business 
should have a picturesque background. 
Should it not, Windermere f With a 
proper background Avomen can do any- 
thing. 

Lord W. Won't to-morrow do as well? 

Mrs. E. No; you see, to-morrow I am go- 
ing to accept him. And I think it would 
be a good thing if I was able to tell him 
that— well, what shall I say— £2,000 a 
year left to me by a third cousin — or a 
second husband — or some distant relative 
of that kind. It would be an additional 
attraction, would n't it ? You have a de- 
lightful opportunity now of paying me a 
compliment, Windermere. But you are 
not very clever at paying compliments. 
I am afraid Margaret does n't encourage 
you in that excellent hal)it. It 's a great 
mistake on her part. When men give up 
saying what is charming, they give up 
thinking what is charming. But ser- 
iously, what do you say to £2,000*? 
£2,500, I think. In modern life margin 
is eveiything. Windermere, don't you 
think the world an intensely amusing 
place? I do! 

{Exit on terrace ivitli Lord W. Music 
strikes m/j in ball-room.) 

Lady W. To stay in this house any longer 
is impossible. To-night a man who loves 
me otfered me his whole life. I refused 
it. It was foolish of me. I will offer 
him mine now. I will give him mine. I 
will go to him! (Puis on cloak and goes 
to door, then turns back. Sits down at 
table and writes a letter, puts it into an 
envelope, and leaves it on table.) Arthur 
has never understood me. When he 
reads this, he will. He may do as he 
chooses now Avith his life. I have done 
with mine as I think best, as I think right. 
It is he who has bi-oken the bond of mar- 
riage — not I. I (mly break its bondage. 
{Exit.) 

(Parker enters I. and crosses towards the 
hall-room r. Enter Mrs. E.) 

Mrs. E. Is Lady Windermere in the 1)all- 
room ? 

Parker. Her lad^yshij^ has just gone out. 

Mrs. E. Gone out ? She 's not on the ter- 
race? 

Parker. No, madam. Her ladyship has 
just gone out of the house. 

Mrs. E. (Starts, and looks at the servant 
tvith a puzzled expression on her face.) 
Out of the house? 



Parker. Yes, madam — her ladyship told 
me she had left a letter for his lordship 
on the table. 

Mrs. E. A letter for Lord Windermere? 

Parker. Yes, madam. 

Mrs. E. Thank you. (Exit Parker. The 
music in the ball-room stops.) Gone out 
of her house! A letter addressed to her 
husband! (Goes over to bureau and 
looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it 
down again with a shudder of fear.) 
No, no ! It would be impossible ! Life 
does n't repeat its tragedies like that ! 
Oh, why does this horrible fancy come 
across me? Why do I I'eniember now the 
one moment of my life I most wish to 
forget? Does life repeat its tragedies? 
( Tears letter open and reads it, then sifiks 
down into a chair with a gesture of an- 
guish.) Oh, how terrible! the same 
words that twenty years ago I wrote to 
her father! and how bitterly I have been 
punished for it ! No ; my punishment, 
my real punislunent is to-night, is now ! 
(Still seated r.) 

(Enter Lord W. I. u. e.) 

Lord ir. Have you said good-night to my 
wife? 

(Comes c.) 

Mrs. E. (Crushing letter in her hand.) 
Yes. 

Lord W. Where is she? 

Mrs. E. She is very tired. She has gone 
to bed. She said she had a headache. 

Lord W. I must go to her. You '11 excuse 
me? 

Mrs. E. (Rising hurriedly.) Oh, no! 
It 's notliing serious. She 's only very 
tired, that is all. Besides, there are peo- 
ple still in the supper-i'oom. She wants 
you to make her ajjologies to them. She 
said she did n't wish to be disturbed. 
(Drops letter.) She asked me to tell you. 

Lord W. (Picks up letter.) You have 
dropped something. 

Mrs. E. Oh, yes, thank you, that is mine. 
(Puts out her hand to take it.) 

Lord W. (Still looking at letter.) But 
it's my wife's handwriting, isn't it? 

Mrs. E. (Takes the letter quickly.) Yes, 
it 's — an address. Will you ask them to 
call my cai'riage, please? 

Lord W. Certainly. 

(Goes I. and exit.) 

Mrs. E. Thanks. What can I do? What 
can I do? I feel a passion awakening 
within me that I never felt before. What 
can it mean? The daughter must not be 



822 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



like the mother — that would be terrible. 
How can I save her? How can I save 
my child'? A moment may ruin a life. 
Who knows that better than II Winder- 
mere must be got out of the house; that is 
absolutely necessary. {Goes I.) But 
how shall I do it ? It must be done some- 
how. Ah ! 

{Enter Lord A. r. u. e. carrying bouquet.) 

Lord A. Dear lady, I am in such suspense ! 
May I not have an answer to my request "? 

Mrs. E. Lord Augustus, listen to me. 
You are to take Lord Windermere down 
to your club at once, and keep him there 
as long as possible. You imderstand? 

Lord A. But you said you wished me to 
keep early hours! 

Mrs. E. {Nervously.) Do what I tell you. 
Do what I tell you. 

Lord A. And my reward? 

Mrs. E. Your reward? Your reward? 
Oh ! ask me that to-morrow. But don't 
let Windermere out of your sight to-night. 
If you do I will never forgive you. I 
will never speak to you agaiu. I '11 have 
nothing to do with you. Remember you 
are to keei^ Windermere at your club, and 
don't let him come back to-night. 
(Exit.) 

Lord A. Well, really, I might be her hus- 
band already. Positively I might. 
{Follows her in a bewildered manner.) 
Aet-drop. 

ACT IIL 

Scene — Lord Darlington's rooms. A large 
sofa is in front of fireplace r. At the 
back of the stage a curtain is drawn 
across the window. Doors I. and r. 
Table r. tvith writing materials. Table 
c. with syphons, glasses, and Tantalus 
frame. Table I. with cigar and cigarette 
box. Lamps lit. 

Lady W. {Standing by the fireplace.) 
Why doesn't he come? This waiting is 
horrible. He should be here. Why is 
he not here, to wake by passionate words 
some fire within me? I am cold — cold as 
a loveless thing. Arthur must have read 
my letter by this time. If he cared for 
me, he would have come after me, would 
have taken me back by force. But he 
does n't care. He 's entrammelled by this 
woman — fascinated by her — dominated 
by her. If a woman wants to hold a 
man, she has merely to appeal to what is 



worst in him. We make gods of men, 
and they leave us. Others make brutes 
of them and they fawn and are faithful. 
How hideous life is ! ... Oh ! it was 
mad of me to come here, horribly mad. 
And yet which is the worst, I wonder, to 
be at the mercy of a man who loves one, 
or the wife of a man who in one's own 
house dishonors one? What woman 
knows? What woman in the whole 
world ? But will he love m« always, this 
man to whom I am giving my life? 
W^hat do I bring him? Lips that have 
lost the note of joy, eyes that are blighted 
by tears, chill hands and icy heart. I 
bi'ing him nothing. I must go back — no ; 
I can't go back, my letter has put me in 
their power — Arthur would not take me 
back! That fatal letter! No! Lord 
Darlington leaves England to-morrow. I 
will go with him — I have no choice. 
{Sits down for a few moments. Then 
starts up and puts on her cloak.) No, 
no ! I will go back, let Arthur do with 
me what he pleases. I can't wait here. 
It has been madness my coming. I must 
go at once. As for Lord Darlington — 
Oh ! here he is ! What shall I do ? What 
can I say to him? Will he let me go 
away at all? I have heard that men are 
brutal, hon'ible. . . .Oh ! 

{Hides her face in her hands.) 

{Enter Mrs. E. I.) 

Mrs. E. Lady Windermere! {Lady W. 
starts and looks up. Then recoils in con- 
tempt.) Thank Heaven I am in time. 
You must go back to your husband's 
house immediately. 

Lady W. Must? 

Mrs. E. {Authoritatively.) Yes, you 

must! There is not a second to be lost. 
Lord Darlington may return at any mo- 
ment. 

Lady W. Don't come near me! 

Mrs. E. Oh ! you are on the brink of 
ruin; you are on the brink of a hideous 
precipice. You must leave this place at 
once, my carriage is waiting at the corner 
of the street. You must come with me 
and drive straight home. {Lady W. 
throws off her cloak and flings it on the 
sofa.) What are you doing? 

Lady W. Mrs. Ei'lynne — if you had not 
come here, I would have gone back. But 
now that I see you, I feel that nothing in 
the whole world would induce me to live 
under the same roof as Lord Winder- 
mere. You fill me with horror. There 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



823 



is something about you that stirs the wild- 
est rage within me. And I know why you 
are here. My husband sent you to lure 
me back that I might serve as a blind to 
whatever relations exist between you and 
him. 

Mrs. E. Oh! you don't think that — you 
can't. 

Lady W. Go back to my husband, Mrs. 
Erlynne. He belongs to you and not to 
me. I suppose he is afraid of a scandal. 
Men are such cowards. They outrage 
eveiy law of the world, and are afraid of 
the world's tongue. But he had better 
prepare himself. He shall have a scan- 
dal. He shall have the worst scandal 
there has been in London for years. He 
shall see his name in every vile paper, 
mine on every hideous placard. 

Mrs. E. No — no 

Lady W. Yes! he shall. Had he come 
himself, I admit I would have gone back 
to the life of degradation you and he had 
prepared for me — I was going' back — but 
to stay himself at home, and to send you 
as his messenger — oh ! it was infamous — 
infamous. 

Mrs. E. {c.) Lady "Windermere, you 
wrong me horribly — you wrong your hus- 
band horribly. He does n't know you are 
here — he thinks you are safe in your own 
house. He thinks you are asleep in your 
own room. He never read the mad letter 
you wrote to him! 

Lndy W. (r.) Never read it ! 

Mrs. E. No — he knows nothing about it. 

Lady W. How simple j^ou think me! 
{Going to her.) You are lying to me! 

Mrs. E. (Eestraining herself.) I am not. 
I am telling you the truth. 

Lady W. If my husband did n't read my 
letter, how is it that you are here'? Who 
told you I had left the house you were 
shameless enough to enter? Who told 
you where I had gone to"? ^fy husband 
told you, and sent you to decoy me back. 
(Crosses I.) 

Mrs. E. (r. e.) Your husband has never 
seen the letter. I — saw it, I opened it. 
I — read it. 

Lady W. {Turning to her.) You opened 
a letter of mine to my husband? You 
would n't dare ! 

Mrs. E. Dare ! Oh ! to save you from the 
abyss into which you are falling, there is 
nothing in the world I would not dare, 
nothing in the whole world. Here is the 
letter. Your husband has never read it. 
He never shall read it. {Going to fire- 



place.) It should never have been writ- 
ten. {Tears it and throws it into the 
fire.) 

Lady W. {With infinite contempt in her 
voice and look.) How do I know that 
that was my letter after all? You seem 
to think the commonest device can take 
me in ! 

3Irs. E. Oh ! why do you disbelieve every- 
thing I tell you! What object do you 
think I have in coming here, except to 
save you from utter ruin, to save you 
from the consequence of a hideous mis- 
take? That letter that is burning now 
was your letter. I swear it to you ! 

Lady W. (Slowly.) You took good care 
to burn it before I had examined it. I 
cannot trust you. You, whose whole life 
is a lie, how could you speak the truth 
about anything? 

(Sits down.) 

Mrs. E. (Hurriedly.) Think as you like 
about me — say what you choose against 
me, but go back, go back to the husband 
you love. 

Lady W. (Sullenly.) I do not love him! 

Mrs. E. You do, and you know that he 
loves you. 

Lady W. He does not understand what 
love is. He understands it as little as 
you do — but I see what you want. It 
Avould be a great advantage for you to 
get me back. Dear Heaven ! wliat a life 
I would have then ! Living at the mercy 
of a woman who has neither mercy nor 
])ily in her, a woman whom it is an in- 
famy to meet, a degradation to know, a 
vile woman, a woman who comes between 
husband and wife ! 

Mrs. E. (With a gesture of despair.) 
Lady Windermere, Lady Windermere, 
don't say such terrible things. You don't 
know how terrible thoy are, how terrible 
and how unjust. Listen, you must listen ! 
Only go back to your husband, and I 
promise you never to communicate with 
him again on any pretext — never to see 
liim — never to have anything to do with 
his life or yours. The money that he 
gave me, he gave me not tlirough love, 
but through hatred, not in worship, but 
in contempt. The hold I have over 
him 

Lady W. CRising.) Ah! you admit you 
have a hold ! 

3Irs. E. Yes, and T will tell you what it 
is. It is his love for you. Lady Winder- 
mere. 

Lady W. You expect me to believe that? 



824 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Mrs. E. You must believe it! It is true. 
It is his love for you that has made him 
submit to — oh ! call it what you like, 
tyranny, threats, anything you choose. 
But it is his love for you. His desire to 
spare you — shame, yes, shame and dis- 
grace. 

Lady W. What do you mean *? You are 
insolent ! What have I to do with you % 

Mrs. E. {Humbly.) Nothing. I know it 
— but I tell you that your husband loves 
you — that you may never meet with such 
love again in your whole life — that such 
love you will never meet — and that if you 
throw it away, the day may come when 
you will starve for love and it will not be 
given to you, beg for love and it will be 
denied you — Oh ! Arthur loves you ! 

Lady W. Arthur? And you tell me there 
is nothing between you"? 

Mrs. E. Lady Windermere, before Heaven 
your husband is guiltless of all offence 
towards you ! And I — I tell you that had 
it ever occurred to me that such a mon- 
strous suspicion would have entered your 
mind, I would have died rather than have 
crossed your life or his — oh ! died, gladly 
died ! 

{Moves away to sofa r.) 

Lady W. You talk as if you had a heart. 
Women like you have no hearts. Heart 
is not in you. You are bought and sold. 
{Sits I. c.) 

Mrs. E. {Starts, with a gesture of pain. 
Then, restrains herself, and comes over to 
where Lady W. is sitting. As she speaks, 
she stretches out her hands towards her, 
hut does not dare to touch her.) Believe 
what you choose about me. I am not 
worth a moment's sorrow. But don't 
spoil your beautiful young life on my ac- 
count ! You don't know what may be in 
store for you, unless you leave this house 
at once. You don't know what it is to 
fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, 
abandoned, sneered at — to be an outcast ! 
to find the door shut against one, to have 
to creep in by hideous byways, afraid 
every moment lest the mask should be 
stripped from one's face, and all the 
while to hear the laughter, the horrible 
laughter of the world, a thing more tragic 
than all the tears the world has ever shed. 
You don't know what it is. One pays for 
one's sin, and then one pays again, and 
all one's life one pays. You must never 
know that. — As for me, if suffering be an 
expiation, then at this moment I have ex- 
piated all my faults, whatever they have 



been ; for to-night you have made a heart 
in one who had it not, made it and broken 
it. — But let that pass. I may have 
wrecked my own life, but I will not let 
you wreck yours. You — why, you are a 
mere girl, you would be lost. You 
have n't got the kind of brains that en- 
ables a woman to get back. You have 
neither the wit nor the courage. You 
could n't stand dishonor. No ! Go back, 
Lady Windermere, to the husband who 
loves you, whom you love. You have a 
child, Lady Windermere. Go back to 
that child who even now, in pain or in 
joy, may be calling to you. {Lady W. 
rises.) God gave you that child. He 
will require from you that you make his 
life fine, that you watch over him. What 
answer will you make to God if his life 
is ruined through you"? Back to your 
house, Lady Windermere — your husband 
loves you. He has never swerved for a 
moment from the love he bears you. But 
even if he had a thousand loves, you must 
stay with your child. If he was harsh to 
you, you must stay with your child. If 
he ill-treated you, you must stay with 
your child. If he abandoned you, your 
place is with your child. {Lady W. 
hursts into tears and huries her face in, 
her hands.) {Rushing to her.) Lady 
Windermere ! 

Lady W. {Holding out her hands to her, 
helplessly, as a child might do.) Take 
me home. Take me home. 

Mrs. E. {Is about to embrace her. Then 
restrains herself. There is a look of 
loonderful joy in her face.) Come! 
Where is your cloak? {Getting it from 
sofa.) Here. Put it on. Come at 
once! {They go to the door.) 

Lady W. Stop ! Don't you hear voices *? 

Mrs. E. No, no ! There is no one ! 

Lady W. Yes, there is ! Listen ! Oh ! 
that is my husband's voice! He is com- 
ing in ! Save me ! Oh, it 's some plot ! 
You have sent for him ! 

{Voices outside.) 

Mrs. E. Silence ! I am here to save you 
if I can. But I fear it is too late ! 
There! (Points to the curtain across the 
window.) The first chance you have, slip 
out, if you ever get a chance ! 

Lady W. But you! 

Mrs. E. Oh ! never mind me. I '11 face 
them. 

(Lady W. hides herself behind the curtain.) 

Lord A. (Outside.) Nonsense, dear Win- 
dermere, you must not leave me ! 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



825 



Mrs. E. Lord Augustus ! Then it is I 

who am lost ! 
{Hesitates for a moment, then looks round 

and sees door r., and exit through it.) 

{Enter Lord B., Mr. D., Lord W., Lord 
A. L., and Mr. Cecil G.) 

Dumhy. What a nuisance their turning us 
out of the club at this hour ! It 's only 
two o'clock. {Sinks into a chair.) The 
lively part of the evening is only just be- 
ginning. 

{Yawns and closes his eyes.) 

Lord W. It is very good of you, Lord 
Darlington, allowing Augustus to force 
our company on you, but I 'm afraid I 
can't stay long. 

Lord D. Really! I am so son-y! You'll 
take a cigar, won't you? 

Lord W. Thanks! 

{Sits down.) 

Lord A. {To Lord W.) My dear boy, 
you must not dream of going. I have 
a great deal to talk to you about, of 
demmed importance, too. 

{Sits down with him at I. table.) 

Cecil G. Oh! we all know what that is! 
Tuppy can't talk about anytliing but INIrs. 
Erlynne ! 

Lord W. Well, that is no business oC 
yours, is it, Cecil"? 

Cecil G. None ! That is wdiy it interests 
me. My own business always bores me 
to death. I prefer other people's. 

Lord D. Have something to drink, you 
fellows. Cecil, you '11 have a whisky and 
soda? 

Cecil G. Thanks. {Goes to the table with 
Lord D.) Mrs. Erlynne looked ver>' 
handsome to-night, didn't she? 

Lord D. 1 am not one of her admirers. 

Cecil G. I use n't to be, but I am now. 
Why ! she actually made me introduce 
her to poor dear Aunt Caroline. I be- 
lieve she is going to lunch there. 

Lord D. {In surprise.) No? 

Cecil G. She is, really. 

Lord D. Excuse me, you fellows. I 'm 
going away to-morrow. And I have to 
write a few letters. 
{Goes to writing table and sits doivn.) 

Dumby. Clever woman, Mrs. Erlynne. 

Cecil G. Hallo, Dumby! I thought you 
were asleep. 

Dumby. I am, I usually am ! 

Lord A. A very clever woman. Knows 
perfectly well what a demmed fool I am 
— knows it as well as T do myself. {Cecil 
G. comes towards him laughing.) Ah! 



you may laugh, my boy, but it is a great 
thing to come across a woman who thor- 
oughly understands one. 

Dumby. It is an awfully dangerous thing. 
They always end by marrying one. 

Cecil G. But I thought, Tuppy, you were 
never going to see her again. Yes! you 
told me so yesterday evening at the club. 
You said you 'd heard — 

{Whispering to him.) 

Lord A. Oh, she 's explained that. 

Cecil G. And the Wiesbaden affair? 

Lord A. She 's explained that, too. 

Dumby. And her income, Tuppy? Has 
she explained that? 

Lord A. {In a very serious voice.) She's 
going to explain that to-morrow. 
{Cecil G. goes back to c. table.) 

Dumby. Awfully commercial, women now- 
a-days. Our grandmothers threw their 
caps over the mills, of course, but, by 
Jove, their granddaughters only throw 
their caps over mills that can raise the 
wind for them. 

Lord A. You want to make her out a 
wicked woman. She is not ! 

Cecil G. Oh ! Wicked women bother one. 
Good women bore one. That is the only 
difference between them. 

Lord D. {Puffing a cigar.) Mrs. Erlynne 
has a future before her. 

Dumby. Mrs. Erlynne has a past before 
her. 

Lord A. I prefer women with a past. 
Thev 're always so demmed amusing to 
talk to. 

Cecil G. Well, you '11 have lots of topics 
of conversation with her, Tuppy. 
{Rising and going to him.) 

Lord A. You're getting annoying, dear 
boy; you're getting demmed annoying. 

Cecil G. {Puts his hands on his shoid- 
ders.) Now, Tuppy, you've lost your 
figure and you 've lost your character. 
Don't lose your temper; you have only 
got one. 

Lord A. My dear boy, if I was n't the 
most good-natured man in London 

Cecil G. We 'd treat you with more re- 
spect, wouldn't we, Tuppy? 
{Strolls away.) 

Dumby. The youth of the present day are 
quite monstrous. They have absolutely 
no respect for dyed hair. 

{Lord A. looks round angrily.) 

Cecil G. Mrs. Erlynne has a very great 
respect for dear Tuppy. 

Dumby. Then Mrs. Erlynne sets an ad- 
mirable example for the rest of her sex. 



826 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



it is perfectly brutaf the way most women 
now-a-days behave to men who are not 
their husbands. 

Lord W. Duniby, you are ridiculous, and 
Cecil, you let your tongue run away with 
you. You must leave Mrs. Erlynne 
alone. You don't really know anything- 
about her, and you're always talking 
scandal against her. 

Cecil G. {Coming towards him I. c.) 
My dear Arthur, I never talk scandal. I 
only talk gossip. 

Lord W. What is the difference between 
scandal and gossip 1 

Cecil G. Oh ! gossip is charming ! His- 
tory is merely gossip. But scandal is 
gossip made tedious by morality. Now I 
never moralize. A man who moralizes is 
usually a hypocrite, and a woman who 
moralizes is invariably plain. There is 
nothing in the whole world so unbecom- 
ing to a woman as a Non-conformist con- 
science. And most women know it, I 'm 
glad to say. 

Lord A. Just my sentiments, dear boy, 
just my sentiments. 

Cecil G. Sorry to hear it, Tuppy; when- 
ever people agree with me, I always feel 
I must be wrong. 

Lord A. My dear boy, when I was your 
age 

Cecil G. But you never were, Tuppy, and 
you never will be. {Goes up c.) I say, 
Darlington, let us have some cards. 
You '11 play, Arthur, won't you ? 

Lord W. No, thanks, Cecil. 

Bumhy. {With a sigh.) Good heavens! 
how marriage ruins a man ! It 's as de- 
moralizing as cigarettes, and far more es- 
IDensive. 

Cecil G. You'll play, of course, Tuppy'? 

Lord A. {Pouring himself out a brandy 
and soda at table.) Can't, dear boy. 
Promised Mrs. Erlynne never to play or 
drink again. 

Cecil G. Now, my dear Tuppy, don't be 
led astray into the paths of virtue. Re- 
formed, you would be perfectly tedious. 
That is the worst of women. They al- 
Avays want one to be good. And if we 
are good, when they meet us, they don't 
love us at all. They like to find us quite 
iri-etrievably bad, and to leave us quite 
unattractively good. 

Lord D. {Bising from r. table, where he 
has been writing letters.) They always 
do find us bad \ 

Bumby. I don't think we are bad. I think 
we are all good except Tuppy. 



Lord B. No, we are all in the gutter, but 
some of VIS are looking at the stars. 
{Sits down at c. table.) 

Bumby. We are all in the gutter, but some 
of us are looking at the stars ■? Upon my 
word, you are very romantic to-night, 
Darlington. 

Cecil G. Too romantic ! You must be in 
love. Who is the girl? 

Lord B. The woman I love is not free, or 
thinks she is n't. 

{Glances instinctively at Lord W. while he 
speaks.) 

Cecil G. A married woman, then ! Well, 
there 's nothing in the world like the 
devotion of a married woman. It 's a 
thing no married man knows anything 
about. 

Lord B. Oh ! she does n't love me. She is 
a good woman. She is the only good 
woman I have ever met in my life. 

Cecil G. The only good woman you have 
ever met in your life? 

Lord B. Yes! 

Cecil G. {Lighting a cigarette.) Well, 
you are a lucky fellow! Why, I have 
met hundreds of good women. I never 
seem to meet any but good women. The 
world is perfectly packed with good 
women. To know them is a middle-class 
education. 

Lord B. This woman has purity and inno- 
cence. She has eveiything we men have 
lost. 

Cecil G. My dear fellow, what on earth 
should we men do going about with purity 
and innocence? A carefully thought-out 
buttonhole is much more effective. 

Bumby. She does n't really love you then ? 

Lord B. No, she does not ! 

Bumby. I congratulate you, my dear fel- 
low. In this world there are only two 
tragedies. One is not getting Avhat one 
wants, and the other is getting it. The 
last is much the worst, the last is a real 
tragedy! But I am interested to hear 
she does not love you. How long could 
vou love a woman who did n't love you, 
Cecil? 

Cecil G. A woman who didn't love me? 
Oh, all my life. 

Btimby. So could I. But it's so difficult 
to meet one. 

Lord B. How can vou be so conceited, 
Dumby? 

Bumby. I did n't say it as a matter of con- 
ceit. I said it as a matter of regret. I 
have been wildly, madly adored. I am 
sorry I have. It has been an immense 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



827 



nuisance. I should like to be allowed a 
little time to myself, now and then. 

Lord A. {Looking round.) Time to edu- 
cate yourself, I suppose. 

Dumby. No, time to forget all I have 
learned. That is much more important, 
dear Tuppy. 
{Lord A. moves uneasily in his chair.) 

Lord D. What cynics you fellows are ! 

Cecil G. What is a cynic? 

{Sitting on the hack of the sofa.) 

Lord D. A man who knows the price 
of evei-ything, and the value of noth- 
ing. 

Cecil G. And a sentimentalist, my dear 
Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd 
value in everything, and doesn't know 
the market price of any single thing. 

Lord D. You alwaj's amuse me, Cecil. 
You talk as if you were a man of ex- 
perience. 

Cecil G. I am. 

{Moves up to front of fireplace.) 

Lord D. You are far too young! 

Cecil G. That is a great eiTor. Experi- 
ence is a question of instiuct about lite. 
I have got it. Tuppy has n't. Experi- 
ence is the name Tuppy gives to his mis- 
takes. That is all. 
{Lord A. looks round indignanthi.) 

Dumby. Experience is the name eveiy one 
gives to their mistakes, 

Cecil G. {Standing icith his hack to fire- 
place.) One shouldn't commit any. 
{Sees Lady W.'s fan on sofa.) 

Dumhy. Life would be very dull without 
them. 

Cecil G. Of course you are quite faithful 
to this woman you are in love with, Dar- 
lington, to this good woman"? 

Lord I). Cecil, if one really loves a 
woman, all other women in the world be- 
come absolutely meaningless to one. 
Love changes one — I am changed. 

Cecil G. Dear me! How very interest- 
ing! Tuppy, I want to talk to you. 
{Lord A. takes no notice.) 

Dumhy. It 's no use talking to Tuppy. 
You might just as well talk to a brick 
wall. 

Cecil G. But I like talking to a brick wall 
— it 's the only thing in the world tliat 
never contradicts me ! Tuppv ! 

Lord A. Well, what is it? What is it"? 
(7??.sm/7 and going over to Cecil G.) 

Cecil G. Come over here. T want you 
particularly. {Aside.) Darlington has 
been moralizing and talking about the 
purity of love, and that sort of thing, and 



he has got some woman in his rooms all 

the time. 
Lord A. No, really! really! 
Cecil G. {In a low voice.) Yes, here is 



{Points to the fan. 
{Chuckling.) By 



her fan. 

Lord A. {Chuckling.) By Jove! By 
Jove ! 

Lord W. {Up hy door.) I am really off 
now. Lord Darlington. I am sorry you 
are leaving England so soon. Pray call 
on us when you come back ! My wife and 
I will be charmed to see you ! 

Lord D. {Up stage with Lord W.) I am 
afraid I shall be away for many years. 
Good-night ! 

Cecil G. Arthur! 

Lord W. What? 

Cecil G. I want to speak to you for a 
moment. No, do come! 

Lord W. {Putting on his coat.) I can't 
—I'm off! 

Cecil G. It is something veiy particular. 
It will interest you enormously. 

Lord W. {Smiling.) It is some of your 
nonsense, Cecil. 

Cecil G. It is n't ! It is n't really ! 

Lord A. {Going to him.) My dear fel- 
low, you mustn't go yet. I have a lot 
to talk to you about. And Cecil has 
something to' show you. 

Lord W. {Walking over.) Well, what is 
it? 

Cecil G. Darlington has got a woman here 
in his rooms. Here is her fan. Amus- 
ing, isn't it? 

{A pause.) 

Lord W. Good God! 

{Seizes the fan — Dumhy rises.) 

Cecil G. What is the matter? 

Lord W. Lord Darling-ton ! 

Lord D. {Turning round.) Yes! 

Lord W. What is my wife's fan doing 
here in your rooms? Hands off, Cecil. 
Don't touch me. 

Lord D. Your wife's fan? 

Lord W. Yes, here it is! 

Lord D. {Walking towards him.) 1 
don't know! 

Lord W. You must know, I demand an 

explanation. Don't hold me, you fool, 

{To Cecil G.) 

Lord D. {Aside.) She is here after all! 

Lord W. Speak, sir! Wliy is my wife's 

fan here ? Answer me, by God ! I '11 

search your rooms, and if my wife 's here, 

I'll ^ 

{Moves.) 
Lord D. You shall not search my rooms. 



828 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



You have no right to do so. I forbid 
you! 

Lord W. You scoundrel ! I '11 not leave 
your room till I have searched eveiy cor- 
ner of it ! What moves behind that cur- 
tain? 

{Rushes toivards the curtain c.) 

Mrs. E. {Enters behind r.) Lord Win- 
dermere ! 

Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne ! 

{Every one starts and turns round. Lady 
W. slips out from behind the curtain and 
glides from the room I.) 

Mrs. E. I am afraid I took your wife's 
fan in mistake for my own, when I was 
leaving your house to-night. I am so 
sorry. 

( Takes fan from him. Lord W. looks at 
her in contempt. Lord D. in mingled 
astonishment and anger. Lord A. turns 
away. The other men smile at each 
other.) 

Act-drop, 



ACT IV. 

Scene — Same as in Act I. 

Lady W. {Lijing on sofa.) How can I 
tell him? I can't tell him. It would kill 
me. I wonder what happened after I 
escaped from that horrible room. Per- 
haps she told them the true reason of her 
being' there, and the real meaning of that 
— fatal fan of mine. Oh, if he knows — 
how can I look him in the face again*? 
He would never forgive me. {Touches, 
bell.) How securely one thinks one lives 
■ — out of reach of temptation, sin, folly. 
And then suddenly — Oh! Life is ter- 
rible. It rules us, we do not rule it. 

{Enter Bosalie r.) 

Rosalie. Did your ladyship ring for me? 

Lady W. Yes. Have you found out at 
what time Lord Windermere came in last 
night? 

Rosalie. His lordship did not come in till 
five o'clock. 

Lady W. Five o'clock! He knocked at 
my door this morning, didn't he? 

Rosalie. Yes, my lady — at half-past nine. 
I told him your ladyship was not awake 
yet. 

Lady W. Did he say anything? 

Rosalie. Something about your ladyship's 
fan. T did n't quite catch what his lord- 
ship said. Has the fan been lost, my 



lady? I can't find it, and Parker says it 
was not left in any of the rooms. He 
has looked in all of them and on the ter- 
race as well. 
Lady W. It doesn't matter. Tell Par- 
ker not to trouble. That will do. 
{Exit Rosalie.) 
Lady W. {Rising.) She is sure to tell 
him. I can fancy a person doing a won- 
derful act of self-sacrifice, dohig it spon- 
taneously, recklessly, nobly — and after- 
wards finding out tliat it costs too much. 
Why should she hesitate between her ruin 
and mine? . . . How strange! I would 
have publicly disgraced her in my own 
house. She accepts public disgrace in 
the house of another to save me. . . . 
There is a bitter irony in things, a bitter 
irony in the way we talk of good aud bad 
women. . . . Oh, what a lesson! and 
what a pity that in life we only get our 
lessons when they are of no use to us! 
For even if she does n't tell, I must. Oh ! 
the shame of it, the shame of it. To tell 
it is to live through it all again. Actions 
are the first tragedy in life, words are 
the second. Words are perhaps the 
worst. Words are merciless. ... Oh! 
{Starts as Lord W. enters.) 
Lord W. {Kisses her.) Margaret — how 

pale you look ! 
Lady W. I slept very badly. 
Lord W. {Sitting on sofa icith her.) I 
am so Sony. I came in dreadfully late, 
and did n't like to wake you. You are 
crying, dear. 
Lady W. Yes, I am crv'ing, for I have 

something to toll you, Arthur. 
Lord W. My dear child, you are not well. 
You 've been doing too much. Let us go 
away to the country. You '11 be all right 
at Selby. The season is almost over. 
There is no use staying on. Poor dar- 
ling! We'll go away to-day, if you like. 
{Rises.) We can easily catch the 4.30. 
I'll send a wire to Fannen. 
{Crosses and sits down at table to icrite 
a telegram.) 
Lady W. Yes; let us go away to-day. 
No; I can't go to-day, Arthur. There is 
some one I must see before I leave town 
— some one who has been kind to me. 
Lord W. {Rising and leaning over sofa.) 

Kind to you? 
Lady W. Far more than that. {Rises 
and goes to him.) I will tell you, Ar- 
thur, but only love me, love me as you 
used to love me. 
Lord W. Used to? You are not think- 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



829 



ing of that wretched woman who came 
here last night? (Coming round and sit- 
ting r. of her.) You don't still imagine 
no, you could n't. 

Lady W. I don't. I know now I was 
wrong and foolish. 

Lord W. It was very good of you to re- 
ceive her last night — but you are never 
to see her again. 

Lady W. Why do you say that? 
{A pause.) 

Lord W. [Holding her hand.) Mar- 
garet, I thought Mrs. Erlynne was a wo- 
man more sinned against than sinning, as 
the phrase goes. I thought she wanted to 
be good, to get back into a place that she 
had lost by a moment's folly, to lead 
again a decent life. I believed what she 
told me — I was mistaken in her. She is 
bad — as bad as a woman can be. 

Lady W. Arthur, Arthur, don't talk so 
bitterly about any woman. I don't think 
now that peojde can be divided into the 
good and the bad, as though they were 
two sei)arate races or creations. What 
are called good women may have terrible 
things in them, mad moods of reck- 
lessness, assertion, jealousy, sin. Bad 
women, as they are termed, may have in 
them sorrow, repentance, pity, sacrifice. 
And I don't think I\Irs. Erlynne a bad 
woman — I know she 's not. 

Lord W. My dear child, the woman 's im- 
possible. No matter what harm she tries 
to do us, you must never see her again. 
She is inadmissible anywhere. 

Lady IT'. But I want to see her. I want 
her to come here. 

Lord W. Never! 

Lady W. She came here once as your 
guest. She must come now as mine. 
That is but fair. 

Lord W. She should never have come 
here. 

Lady W. (Rising.) It is too late, Ar- 
thur, to say that now. 

(Moves away.) 

Lord W. (Rising.) Margaret, if you 
knew where Mrs. Erlynne went last 
night, after she left this house, you 
Avould not sit in the same room with her. 
It was absolutely shameless, the whole 
thing. 

Lady W. Arthur, I can't bear it any 
longer. I must tell you. Last night 

(Enter Parker with a tray on ichich lie 
Lady W.'s fan and a card.) 

Parker. Mrs. Erlynne has called to re- 



turn your ladyship's fan which she took 
away by mistake last night. Mrs. Er- 
lynne has written a message on the card. 

Lady W. Oh, ask Mrs. Erlynne to be kind 
enough to come up, (Reads card.) 
Say I shall be very glad to see her. 
(Exit Parker.) She wants to see me, 
Arthur. 

Lord W. (Takes card and looks at it.) 
]Margaret, 1 heg you not to. Let me see 
her first, at any rate. She 's a very dan- 
gerous woman. She is the most danger- 
ous woman I know. You don't realize 
what you 're doing. 

Lady W. It is right that I should see her. 

Lord W. My child, you may be on the 
brink of a great soitow. Don't go to 
meet it. It is absolutely necessary that 
I should see her before you do. 

Lady W. Why should it be necessary? 

(Enter Parker.) 
Parker. Mrs. Erlynne. 

(Enter Mrs. E. Exit Parker.) 

BIrs. E. How do you do, Lady Winder- 
mere ? ( To Lord W. ) How do you do ? 
Do you know, Lady Windermere, I am 
so sorry about your fan. I can't imagine 
how I made such a silly mistake. Most 
stupid of me. And as I was driving in 
your direction, I thought I would take the 
opportunity of returning your property 
in person, with many apologies for my 
carelessness, and of bidding you good- 
bye. 

Lady W. Good-bye? (Moves towards 
sofa with Mrs. E. and sits dotvn beside 
her.) Are you going away, then, Mrs. 
Erlynne? 

Mrs. E. Yes; I am going to live abroad 
again. The English climate doesn't suit 
me. My — heai-t is affected here, and 
that I don't like. I prefer living in the 
south. London is too full of fogs and — 
and serious people. Lord Windermere. 
Whether the fogs produce the serious 
people or whether the serious people pro- 
duce the fogs, I don't know, but the 
whole thing rather gets on my nerves, 
and so I 'm leaving this afternoon by the 
Club Train. 

Lady W. This afternoon? But I wanted 
so much to come and see you. 

3Irs. E. How kind of you! But I am 
afraid I have to go. 

Lady W. Shall I never see you again. 
Mrs. Erlynne? 

Mrs. E. i am afraid not. Our lives lie 



830 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



too far apart. But there is a little thing 
I would like you to do for me. I want 
a photograph of you, Lady Windermere 
— would you give me one? You don't 
know how gratified I should be. 

Lady W. Oh, with pleasure. There is one 
on that table. I '11 show it to you. 
{Goes across to the table.) 

Lord W. {Coming up to Mrs. E. and 
speaking in a low voice.) It is mon- 
strous your intruding yourself here after 
your conduct last night. 

Mrs. E. {With an amused smile.) My 
dear Windermere, manners befoi'e 
morals ! 

Lady W. {Returning.) I 'm afraid it is 
veiy flattering — I am not so pretty as 
that. 

{Showing photograph.) 

Mrs. E. You are much prettier. But 
haven't you got one of yourself with 
your little boy? 

Ladij W. I have. Would you prefer one 
of those? 

Mrs. E. Yes. 

Lady W. I '11 go and get it for you, if 
you '11 excuse me for a moment. I have 
one upstairs. 

Mrs. E. So sorry, Lady Windermere, to 
give you so much trouble. 

Lady W. {Moves to door r.) No trouble 
at all, Mrs. Erlynne. 

Mrs. E. Thanks so much. {Exit Lady W. 
r.) You seem rather out of temper this 
morning, Windermere. Why should you 
be? Margaret and I get on charmingly 
together. 

Lord W. I can't bear to see you with her. 
Besides, you have not told me the truth, 
Mrs. Erlynne, 

Mrs.. E. I have not told her the truth, 
you mean. 

Lord W. {Standing c.) I sometimes wish 
you had. I should have been spared 
then the misery, the anxiety, the annoy- 
ance of the last six months. But rather 
than my wife should know — that the 
mother whom she was taught to consider 
as dead, the mother whom she has 
mourned as dead, is living — a divorced 
woman going about under an assumed 
name, a bad woman preying upon life, 
as I know you now to be — rather than 
that, I was ready to supply you with 
money to pay bill after bill, extravagance 
after' extravagance, to risk what occurred 
yesterday, the first quarrel I have ever 
had with my wife. You don't under- 
stand what that means to me. How 



could you? But I tell you that the only 
bitter words that ever came from those 
sweet lips of hers were on your account, 
and I hate to see you next her. You 
sully the innocence that is in her. 
{Moves I. c.) And then I used to think 
that with all your faults you were frank 
and honest. You are not. 

Mrs. E. Why do you say that? 

Lord W. You made me get you an in- 
vitation to my wife's ball. 

Mrs. E. For my daughter's ball — yes. 

Lord W. You came, and within an hour 
of your leaving the house, you are found 
in a man's rooms — you are disgraced be- 
fore every one. 

{Goes up stage c.) 

Mrs. E. Yes. 

Lord W. {Turning round on her.) 
Therefore I have a right to look upon 
you as what you are — a worthless, vicious 
woman. I have the right to tell you 
never to enter this house, never to at- 
tempt to come near my wife 

Mrs. E. {Coldly.) My daughter, you 
mean. 

Lord W. You have no right to claim her 
as your daughter. You left her, aban- 
doned her, when she was but a child in 
the cradle, abandoned her for your lover, 
who abandoned you in turn. 

BIrs. E. {Rising.) Do you count that to 
his credit. Lord Windermere — or to 
mine ? 

Lord W. To his, now that I know you. 

Mrs. E. Take care — you had better be 
careful. 

Lord W. Oh, I am not going to mince 
words for you. I know you thoroughly. 

ilfrs. E. {Looking steadily at him.) I 
question that. 

Lord W. I do know you. For twenty 
years of your life you lived without your 
child, without a thought of your child. 
One day you read in the papers that she 
had married a rich man. You saw your 
hideous chance. You knew that to spare 
her the ignominy of learning that a 
woman like you was her mother, I would 
endure anything. You began your 
blackmailing. 

Mrs. E. {Shrugging her shoulders.) 
Don't use ugly words, Windermere. 
They are vulgar. I saw my chance, it is 
true, and took it. 

Lord W. Yes, you took it — and spoiled it 
all last night by being found out. 

Mrs. E. {With a strange smile.) You 
are quite right, I spoiled it all last night. 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



831 



Lord W. And as for your blunder in tak- 
ing my wife's fan from here, and then 
leaving' it about in Darlington's rooms, it 
is unpardonable. I can't bear the sight 
of it now. I shall never let my wife use 
it again. The thing is soiled for me. 
You should have kept it, and not brought 
it back. 

Mrs. E. I think I shall keep it. {Goes 
up.) It's extremely pretty. {Takes up 
fan.) I shall ask Margaret to give it to 
me. 

Lord W. I hope my wife will give it you. 

Mrs. E. Oh, I 'm sure she will have no 
objection. 

Lord W. I wish that at the same time she 
would give you a miniatuie she kisses 
every night before she prays — It 's the 
miniature of a young, innocent-looking 
girl with beautiful dark hair. 

Mrs. E. Ah, yes, I remember. How long 
ago that seems! {Goes to sofa and sits 
down.) It was done before I was mar- 
ried. Dark hair and an innocent ex- 
pression were the fashion then, Winder- 
mere ! 

{A pause.) 

Lord W. What do you mean by coming 
here this morning? What is your ob- 
ject? 

{Crossing I. c. and sitting.) 

BIrs. E. ( With a note of ironij in her 
voice.) To bid good-bye to my dear 
daughter, of course. {Lord W. hites his 
underlip in anger. Mrs. E. looks at him, 
and her voice and manner become serious. 
In her accents as she talks there is a note 
of deep tragedy. For a moment she re- 
veals herself.) Oh, don't imagine I am 
going to have a pathetic scene with her, 
weep on her neck and tell her who I am, 
and all that kind of thing. I have no 
ambition to play the part of a mother. 
Only once in my li"e have I known a 
mother's feelings. That was last night. 
They were terrible — they made me suffer 
— they made me suffer too much. For 
twenty years, as you say, I have lived 
childless — I want to live childless still. 
{Hiding her feelings with a trivial 
laugh.) Besides, my dear Windermere, 
how on earth could I pose as a mother 
with a grown-up daughter'? Margaret is 
twenty-one, and I have never admitted 
that I am more than twenty-nine, or 
thirty at the most. Twenty-nine when 
there are pink shades, thirty when there 
are not. So you see what difficulties it 
would involve. No, as far as I am con- 



cerned, let your wife cherish the memory 
of this dead, stainless mother. Why 
should I interfere with her illusions'? I 
find it hard enough to keep my own. I 
lost one illusion last night. I thought I 
had no heart. I find I have, and a heait 
does n't suit me, Windermere. Somehow 
it does n't go with modern dress. It 
makes one look old. {Takes up hand- 
mirror from table and looks into it.) 
And it spoils one's career at critical mo- 
ments. 

Lord W. You fill me with horror — with 
absolute horror. 

3Irs. E. {Rising.) I suppose, Winder- 
mere, you would like me to retire into a 
convent or become a hospital nurse or 
something of that kind, as people do in 
silly modern novels. That is stupid of 
you, Arthur ; in real life we don't do such 
things — not as long as we have any good 
looks left, at any rate. No — what con- 
soles one now-a-days is not repentance, 
but pleasure. Repentance is quite out of 
date. And besides, if a woman really re- 
pents, she has to go to a bad dressmaker, 
otherwise no one believes in her. And 
nothing in the world would induce me to 
do that. No ; I am going to pass entirely 
out of your two lives. My coming into 
them has been a mistake — I discovered 
that last night. 

Lord W. A fatal mistake. 

Mrs. E. {Smiling.) Almost fatal. 

Lord W. I am sori-y now I did not tell 
my wife the whole thing at once. 

Mrs. E. I regret my bad actions. You 
regret your good ones — that is the differ- 
ence between us. 

Lord W. I don't trust you. I ivill tell 
my wife. It 's better for her to know, 
and from me. It will cause her infinite 
pain — it will humiliate her terribly, but 
it 's right that she should know. 

Mrs. E. You propose to tell her'? 

Lord W. I am going to tell her. 

Mrs. E. {Going up to him.) If you do, 
I will make my name so infamous that 
it will mar every moment of her life. It 
will ruin her and make her wretched. 
If you dare to tell her. there is no depth 
of degradation I will not sink to, no pit 
of shame I will not enter. You shall not 
tell her — T forbid you. 

Lord W. Why? 

Mrs. E. {After a pause.) If I said to 
you that I eared for her, perhaps loved 
her even — you would sneer at me, 
would n't you ? 



832 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



Lord W. I should feel it was not true. 
A mother's love means devotion, unself- 
ishness, sacrifice. What could 3'ou know 
of such things 1 

Mrs. E. You are right. What could I 
know of such things'? Don't let us talk 
any more about it, as for telling my 
daughter who I am, that I do not allow. 
It is my secret, it is not yours. If I 
make up my mind to tell her, and I think 
I will, I shall tell her before I leave this 
house — if not, I shall never tell her. 

Lord W. (Angrily.) Then let me beg of 
you to leave our house at once. I will 
make your excuses to Margaret. 

(Enter Lady W. r. She goes over to Mrs. 
E. with the photograph in her hand. 
Lord W. moves to back of sofa, and anx- 
iously watches Mrs. E. as the scene pro- 
gresses.) 

Lady W. I am so sorry, Mrs. Erlynne, to 
have keiit you waiting. I could n't find 
the photograph anywhere. At last I 
discovered it in my husband's dressing- 
room — he had stolen it. 

Mrs. E. (Takes the photograph frorti her 
and looks at it.) I am not surprised — 
it is charming. (Goes over to sofa xcith 
Lady W. and sits doivn beside her. 
Looks again at the photograph.) And 
so that is your little boy! What is he 
called? 

Lady W. Gerard, after my dear father. 

Mrs. E. (Laying the photograph down.) 
Really? 

Lady iv. Yes, If it had been a girl, I 
would have called it after my mother. 
My mother had the same name as myself, 
Margaret. 

Mrs. E. My name is Margaret, too. 

Lady W. Indeed! 

Mrs. E. Yes. (Pause.) You are devoted 
to your mother's memory, Lady Winder- 
mere, your husband tells me. 

Lady W. We all have ideals in life. At 
least we all should have. Mine is my 
mother. 

Mrs. E. Ideals are dangerous things. 
Realities are better. They wound, but 
they are better. 

LadyW. (Shaking her head.) If I lost 
my ideals, I should lose everything. 

Mrs. E. Everything? 

Lady W. Yes. 

(Pause.) 

Mrs. E. Did your father often speak to 
you of your mother? 



Lady W. No, it gave him too much pain. 
He told me how my mother had died a 
few months after I was born. His eyes 
filled with tears as he spoke. Then he 
begged me never to mention her name to 
him again. It made him suffer even to 
hear it. My father — my father really 
died of a broken heart. His was the 
most ruined life I know. 

Mrs. E. (Rising.) I am afraid I must go 
now, Lady Windermere. 

Lady W. (Rising.) Oh no, don't. 

Mrs. E. I think I had better. My car- 
riage must have come back by this time. 
I sent it to Lady Jedburgh's with a note. 

Lady W. Arthur, would you mind seeing 
if Mrs. Erlynne's carriage has come 
back? 

Mrs. E. Pray don't trouble Lord Winder- 
mere, Lady Windermere. 

Lady W. Yes, Arthur, do go, please. 
(Lord W. hesitates for a moment and 
looks at Mrs. E. She remains quite im- 
passive. He leaves the room.) (To 
Mrs. E.) Oh, what am I to say to you? 
You saved me last night ! 

(Goes toward her.) 

Mrs. E. Hush — don't speak of it. 

Lady W. I must speak of it. I can't let 
you think that I am going to accept this 
sacrifice. I am not. It is too great. I 
am going to tell my husband everything. 
It is my duty. 

3Irs. E. It is not your duty — at least you 
have duties to others besides him. You 
say you owe me something? 

Lady W. I owe you everything. 

Mrs. E. Then pay your debt by silence. 
That is the only way in which it can be 
paid. Don't spoil the one good thing I 
have done in my life by telling it to any 
one. Promise me that what passed last 
night will remain a secret between us. 
You must not bring misery into your hus- 
band's life. Wiiy spoil his love? You 
must not spoil it. Love is easily killed. 
Oh, how easily love is killed ! Pledge 
me your word. Lady Windermere, that 
you will never tell him. I insist upon 
it. 

Lady W. (With bowed head.) It is your 
will, not mine. 

Mrs. E. Yes, it is my will. And never 
forget your child — I like to think of you 
as a mother. I like you to think of your- 
self as one. 

Lady W. (Looking up.) I always will 
now. Only once in my life I have for- 
gotten my own mother — that was last 



LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 



nig-ht. Oh, if I had remembered her, I 
should not have been so foolish, so 
wicked. 
Mrs. E. {With a slight shudder.) Hush, 
last night is quite over. 

{Enter Lord W.) 

Lord W. Your carriage has not come back 
yet, Mrs. Erlynne. 

Mrs. E: It makes no matter. I '11 take a 
hansom. There is nothing in the world 
so respectable as a good Shrewsbury and 
Talbot. And now, dear Lady Winder- 
mere, I am afraid it is really good-bye. 
{Moves up e.) Oh, I remember. 
You '11 think me absurd, but do you 
know, I 've taken a great fancy to this 
fan that I was silly enough to run away 
with last night frozn your ball. Now, I 
wonder would you give it to me? Lord 
Windermere says you may. I know it is 
his present. 

Lady W. Oh, certainly, if it will give you 
any pleasure. But it has my name on it. 
It has "Margaret" on it. 

Mrs. E. But we have the same Christian 
name. 

Lady W. Oh, I forgot. Of coux'se, do 
have it. What a wonderful chance our 
names being the same ! 

Mrs. E. Quite wonderful. Thanks — it 
will always remind me of you. 
{Shakes hands with her.) 

{Enter Parker.) 

Parker. Lord Augustus Lorton. Mrs. 
Erlynne's carriage has come. 

{Enter Lord A.) 

Lord A. Good-morning, dear boy. Good- 
morning, Lady Windermere. {Sees 
Mrs. E.) Mrs. Erlynne! 

Mrs. E. How do you do. Lord Augustus? 
Are you quite well this morning? 

Lord A. {Coldly.) Quite well, thank you, 
Mrs. Erlynne. 

Mrs. E. You don't look at all well, Lord 
Augustus. You stop up too late — it is 
so bad for you. You really should take 
more care of yourself. Good-bye, Lord 
Windermere. {Goes towards door with 
a how to Lord A. Suddenly smiles, and 
looks hack at him.) Lord Augustus! 
Won't you see me to my carriage? You 
might carry the fan. 

Lord W. Allow me I 

Mrs. E. No, I want Lord Augustus. I 
have 3. special jriessage for the dear 



833 



Duchess. Won't you carry the fan. Lord 
Augustus? 

Lord A. If you really desire it, Mrs. Er- 
lynne. 

Mrs. E. {Laughing.) Of course I do. 
You'll carry it so gracefully. You 
would carry oif anything gracefully, 
dear Lord Augustus. 

{When she reaches the door she looks hack 
for a moment at Lady W. Their eyes 
meet. Then she turns, and exit c., fol- 
lowed by Lord A.) 

Lady W. You will never speak against 
Mrs. Erlynne again, Arthur, will you? 

Lord W. (Gravely.) She is better than 
one thought her. 

Lady W. She is better than I am. 

Lord W. {Smiling as he strokes her hair.) 
Child, you and she belong to different 
worlds. Into your world evil has never 
entered. 

Lady W. Don't say that, Arthur. There 
is the same world for all of us, and good 
and evil, sin and innocence, go through 
it hand in hand. To shut one's eyes to 
half of life that one may live securely is 
as though one blinded oneself that one 
might Avalk with more safety in a land 
of pit and precipice. 

Lord W. {Moves down with her.) Dar- 
ling, why do you say that? 

Lady W. {Sits on sofa.) Because I, who 
had shut my eyes to life, came to the 
brink. And one who had separated 
us ■ 

Lord W. We were never parted. 

Lady W. We never must be again. Oh, 
Aitlnir, don't love me less, and I will 
trust you moi'e. I will trust you abso- 
lutely. Let us go to Selby. In the Rose 
Garden at Selby, the roses are white and 
red. 

{Enter Lord A. c.) 

Lord A. Arthur, she has explained every- 
thing! {Lady W. looks horribly fright- 
ened. Lord W. starts. Lord A. takes 
Lord W. by the arm, and brings him to 
front of stage.) My dear fellow, she has 
explained every demned thing. We all 
wronged her immensely. It was entirely 
for my sake she went to Darlington's 
rooms — called first at the club. Fact is, 
wanted to put me out of suspense, and 
being told I had gone on, followed — nat- 
urally — frightened when she heard a lot 
of men coming in — retired to another 
room — I assure you, most gratifying to 
me, the whole thing. We all behaved 



834 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



brutally to her. She is just the woman 
for me. Suits me down to the ground. 
All the condition she makes is that we 
live out of England — a very good thing, 
too! — Demmed clubs, deramed climate, 
demmed cooks, demmed everything! 
Sick of it all. 
Ladij W. {Frightened.) Has Mrs. Er- 
lynne ? 



Lord A. {Advancing towards her with a 
bow.) Yes; Lady Windermere, Mrs. Er- 
lynne has done me the honor of accepting 
my hand. 

Lord W. Well, you ai'e certainly marry- 
ing a very clever woman. 

Lady W. {Taking her husband's hand.) 
Ah ! you 're marrying a very good 
woman. 



Curtain, 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



GENERAL WORKS 

Cambridge History of English Literature. 
Chambers, E. K. The Mediceval IStage. 
2 vols. 1903. 

Clarence, R. Stage Cyclopedia. 1909 (on 
stage history and performances of plays). 

Collier, J. P. History of English Dramatic 
Poetry. New ed. 3 vols. 1879. 

Dictionary of National Biography (for 
biography and bibliography). 

Fleay, V. G. A Biographical Chrvnicle of 
the English Drama, 1559-16-'i2. 2 vols. 
1891. 

Fleay, F. G. .1 Chronicle History of the 
English Stage, lo5<)-l(]Ji2. 1800. 

Gayley, C. M. Representative English 
Comedies. 3 vols. 1903 (a collection of 
plays; in progress). 

Murray, J. T. English Dramatic Com- 
panies, 1558-lGJi2. ' 1910. 

Neilson, W. A. The Chief EUzahethan 
Dramatists. 1911 (a collection). 

Nettleton, G. H. English Drama of the 
Restoration and Eighteenth Century. 
1914. 

Schelling, F. E. EUmbethan Drama. 2 
vols. 1908. 

Sharp, R. F. A Short History of the Eng- 
lish Stage. 1009. 

Swinburne, A. C. The Age of Shakespeare. 
1908. 

Symonds, J. A. Shakespeare's Predecessors 
in the English Drama. 1881. 

Thorndike, A. II. Shakespeare's Theatre. 
1910. 

Thorndike, A. H. Tragedy. 1908. 

Tupper, F. and J. W. Representative Eng- 
lish Dramas from Dryden to Sheridan. 
1914 (a collection). 

Ward, A. W. A History of English Dra- 
matic Literature to the Death of Queen 
Anne. Second ed. 3 vols. 1890. 



THE MIRACLE PLAY 

Bates, I^ L. The English Religious Drama. 

1893. 
Deimling, G. Chester Plays (first 13). 

Early English Text Society. Ex. Ser. 

LXXII. 1893. 
England, G. Touneley Plays. E. E. T. S. 

Ex. Ser. LXXl. 1897. 
Gayley, C. M. Plays of Our Forefathers 

1907. 
Iliilliwoll-rhillipps, J. O. Ludus Coventricr. 

Shakespeare Society Publications. 1841. 



Manly, J. M. Specimens of Pre-Shakes- 
pearean Drama. 2 vols. 1897 (the 
source of the present texts). 

Pollard, A. W. English Miracle Pluys, 
Moralities, and Interludes. Fifth ed. 
1909. 

Smith, L. T. York Mystery Plays. 1885. 

Wright, T. Chester Plays, Shakespeare 
Soc. Publ. 2 vols. 1843-7. 

Interesting examples of the miracle 
play, other than the three herein printed, 
may be found in Manly. Modernized ver- 
sions of Abraham and IsaaQ and The 
Second Shepherds' Play may be found in 
No. 191 of the Riverside Literature Series 
(Houghton, Mifflin), edited by C. G. Child, 
with a good introduction. 

THE MORALITY 

Mackenzie, W. R. The English Moralities. 
1914. 

Mackenzie, W. R. The Origin of the Eng- 
lish Morality. Washington Univ. Studies, 
Vol. II. Pt. ii. No. 2. 1915. 

Everyman. Ed. W. W. Greg. Bang's 
Materialcn zur kunde des dlteren eng- 
lischen Dramas. Vol. IV. 1904 (the 
source of the present text). Ed. F. 
Sidgwick. 1902. Also in the Every- 
man's Library, vol. 381. Modernized by 
C. G. Child in Early Plays (see above). 
For the relations between Everyman 
and the Dutch play Elckerlijc, see two 
articles by J. M. Manly and F. A. Wood 
on Elckerlijc-Everyman: The Question 
of Priority, in Modern Philology, Oct. 1900, 
Vol. Vill. Other works are mentioned 
under the preceding heading. 

Other good moralities may be found in 
Manly; also other short early plays ("In- 
terludes") of a more secular character. 

II 

JOHN LYLY 

Bond, R. W. The Complete ^Yorks of John 

Lyly. 3 vols. 1902 (the source of the 

present text). 

Child, C. G. John Lyly and Euphuism. 

Miinchener Beitrdge. Vol. VII. 1904. 
Feuillerat, A. John Lyly. 1910. 

Other plays of Lyly to be recommended 
are Endymion and Sapho and Phaon. 

Other plays showing the new classical 
influence are Sackville and Norton's 
Gorboduc, and Udall's Ralph Roister 
Doister. 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

Collected Editions; A. H. BuUen. 3 vols. 



835 



836 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



1884-5. Brooke, C. F. T. 1910. Ellis, 
H. Mermaid ed. 1887. Phelps, W. L. 
Masterpieces of the Enfilish Drama. 1912. 
Plays and Poems in the Everyman's Li- 
brary, vol. 383. 

Edward II. Ed. Verity, A. W. Temple Dra- 
matists. 1896. McLaughlin, E. T. 1894. 

Ingram, J. H. Christopher Marlowe and his 
Associates. 1904. 

Baker, G. P. Dramatic Technique in Mar- 
lowe, in Essays and studies by Members of 
the English Association, Vol. IV. 1913. 

Schelling, F. E. The English Chronicle 
Play. 1902. 

(Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
lated with Brooke's.) 

Other chronicle-plays are Bale's Kyng 
Johan and Sackville and Norton's Gor- 
boduo (forerunners of the type), the 
anonjTiions Troublesome Reign of King 
John, Heywood's Edward IV and // Yoit 
Know not Me You know Nobody, Ford's 
Perkin Warbeck. 

THOMAS DEKKER 

Collected Editions: Pearson, J. 4 vols. 

1873, Rhys, E. Mermaid ed. 1895. 

The Shoemakers' Holiday. Lange, A. F. 
(in Gayley's Representative English 
Comedies. Vol. III. 1914). 

Grosart, A. B. The Non-Dramatic Works 
of Thomas Dekker. 5 vols. 1884-6. 

Hunt, Mary L. Thomas Dekker: A Study. 
1911. 

(Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
lated with Lange's.) 

Other comedies of London life are East- 
ioard Ho! by .lonson, Chapman and Mars- 
ton, Middleion's A Mad M'o7-ld My Mas- 
ters, A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, A Trick 
to Catch the Old One, Fletcher's Monsieur 
Thomas and Wit Without Money. 

THOMAS HEYWOOD 

Collected Editions: Pearson, J. 6 vols. 

1874. Verity, A. W. Mermaid ed. 1888. 
The Captives. In Bullen's Old Plays. Vol. 

IV. 1883. 
A Woman Killed unth Kindness. Ed. A. 
W. Ward, Temple Dramatists. 1897. 
(Present text based on Neilson's, collated 
with Pearson's and Verity's.) 

Other examples of domestic drama are: 
Arden of Fever sham. How a Man May 
Choose a Good Wife from a Bad, Hey- 
wood's The English Traveller and For- 
tune by Land <and Sea, Middleton and 
Eowley's A Fair Quarrel. 

BEN JONSON 
Collected Editions: GiflFord, W. 9 vols. 
1816. Cunningham, F. 9 vols. 1871-5. 
Nicholson, B. Mermaid ed. 3 vols. 
1893-4. Rhys, E. Masterpieces of The 
English Drama. Everyman's Librq.ry, 
vols. 489, 490. Several of the plays have 



been edited in Yale Studies in English. 

The Alchemist. Ed. Hathaway, C. H. 
Yale tStudies in English. 1903. Ed. 
with Eastward Ho! by Schelling, F. E. 
Belles Lettres Series. 1903. 

Castelain, M. Ben Jonson: L'Homme et 
rOeuvre. 1907. 

Koeppel, E. Ben Jonson's Wirkung auf 
zeitgenossische Dramatiker. Anglistische 
Forschungen. 1900. 

Koeppel, E. Quellenstudien zu den Dramen 
Ben Jonson's. 1895. 

Swinburne, A. C. A Study of Ben Jonson. 
1889. 

Symonds, J. A. Ben Jonson. 1886. 

Woodbridge, E. Studies in Jonson's 
Comechj. 1898. 

( Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
lated with Schelling's.) 

A reading of 'J he Alchemist may be 
supplemented by that of others of Jon- 
son's plays: Every Man in His Humor, 
Sejanus, Volpone, Epicene, Bartholomeio 
Fair. Massinger's New Way to Pay Old 
Debts shows his influence. 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 

Collected Editions. Bullen, A. H. Va- 
riorum ed. (4 vols, published; in prog- 
ress). 1904, etc. Glover, A. and Waller, 
A. R. 10 vols. 1905-12. Schelling, F. 
E. Masterpieces of the English Drama. 
1912. Select Plans, in Everyman's Li- 
brary, vol. 506. Strachey, J. St. L. Mer- 
maid ed. 2 vols. 1887. 

Philaster. Ed. Boas, F. S. Temple Dra- 
vKitists. 1898. Thorndike, A. H. Belles 
Lettres Series. 1900. 

Gavley, C. M. Beaumont the Dramatist. 
1914. 

Hatcher, O. L. John Fletcher, a Study in 
Dramatic Method. 1905. 

Macaulay, G. C. Francis Beaumont, a 
Critical Study. 1883. 

Thorndike, A. H. The Influence of Beau- 
mont and Fletcher on Shakespeare. 1901. 
(Both present texts are based on Neil- 
son's, collated with Thorndike's for Phil- 
aster, and Glover and Waller's for Wild 
Goose Chase.) 

Other good examples of tragi-comedy 
are: The Two Noble Kinsmen, at- 
tributed to Shakespeare and Fletcher, 
Beaumont and Fletcher's King and No 
King, Fletcher's The Chances and The 
Loyal Subject, Heywood's A Challenge 
for Beauty, Massinger's The Maid of 
Honor and The Great Duke of Florence, 
Middleton and Rowley's The Spanish 
Gipsy, Shirley's The Coronation and The 
Royal Master, D'Avenant's Love and 
Honor. 

Other good examples of high comedy, 
pointing toward Restoration comedy, are 
Shirley's Lady of Pleasure and Hyde 
Park. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



837 



JOHN WEBSTER 

Collected Editions: Dyce, A. 4 vols. 
1830. Hazlitt, W. 4 vols. 1857. 

The Duchess of Malfi and The White Devil. 
Ed. Sampson, M. W. Belles Lettres Se- 
ries. 1904. Syniond^, J. A. Mermaid 
ed. 1888. Thorndike, A. H. Master- 
pieces of the English Drama. 1912. 

Gosse, E. John Webster, in Seventeenth 
Century Studies. 1883. 

Stoll, E. E. John Webster, the Periods of 
Uis Work. 1905. 

(Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
lated with Sampson's and Thorndike's.) 
Tlie most important early tragedy of 
blood or revenge is Kyd's Spanish Tragedy. 
Other examples of romantic tragedy are 
the following: Beaumont and Fletcher's 
The Maid's Tragedy, Fletcher's Bonduca 
and Yalentinian. Marston's The Insatiate 
Countess, Tourneur's The Revenger's 
Tragedy, Middleton's Women Beware 
Women, Webster's The White Devil, Mas- 
singer's The Virgin Martyr and The Bond- 
man, Ford's The Broken Heart, Shirley's 
The Traitor and The Cardinal. 

MIDDLETON AND ROWLEY 

Collected Editions of Middleton: Bullen, 
A. H. 8 vols. 1885-6. Ellis, H. Mer- 
maid ed. 2 vols. 1887. Sampson, M. 
W. Masterpieces of the English Drama. 

Middleton and Rowley. The Spanish dps;) 
and All's Lost by Lust. Ed. Morris, F. 
C. Belles Lettres Series. 1908. 

Rowley. All 's Lost by Lust, and A Shoe- 
maker a Gentleman. Ed. Stork, C. W. 
1910. 

Wiggin, P. G. An Inquiry into the Author- 
ship of the Middleton-Rouley Plays. 1897. 
(Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
lated with Ellis'.) 

For similar plays see the list for Web- 
ster. 

Ill 
JOHN DRYDEN 

Collected editions: Scott and Saintsbury. 
18 vols. 1882-1893. Selected Dramas, 
ed. G. R. Noyes, 1910 (the source of the 
present text). Ed. G. Saintsbury {Mer- 
maid ed.), 2 vols. 

Dr.yden's Essay on Heroic Plays, in Scott- 
Saintsbury, Vol. IV. and in Noyes. 

Chase, L. N. The English Heroic Play. 
1903. 

Sherwood, M. Dryden's Dramatic Theory 
and Practice (Yale Stud, in Engl. No. 4). 

Verrall, A. W. Lectures on Dryden, 1914. 

Saintsbury, G. Dryden (Engl. Men of Let- 
ters 8er.), 1881. 

Tlie other play of Dryden's best to read 
is All for Love, " regularized " from 
Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. 



THOMAS OTWAY 

Collected editions: T. Thornton, 3 vols., 
1813. Roden Noel. Mermaid ed. 

Tewtce Preserved. Ed. C. F. McClum- 
pha (with The Orphan and the essential 
parts of St. Real's narrative). Belles 
Lettres Ser. 1908 (the source of the pres- 
ent text). Ed. I. Gollancz, Temple 
Dramatists. 

Gosse, E. W. Seventeenth Century Studies. 
1883. 

Brown, H. F. Studies in Venetian History, 
I. 24.5-295. 

Otway's The Orphan is also character- 
istic. 

WILLIAM CONGREVE 

Collected editions: G. S. Street, 1895. W. 
Archer, 1912. A. C. Ewald (lUermaid 
ed.). 

Lamb, Charles. Essay On the Artificial 
Comedy of the Last Century. 

Thackeray, W. M. English Humorists. 

Macaulay, T. B. Essay on Leigh Hunt's 
Comic Dramatists of the Restoration. 

Gosse, E. W. Life of Congreve. 1888. 

The present text is founded on the first 
edition, 1700. Other similar comedies 
are Congreve's Love for Love. Wycherley's 
Country Wife, Farquliar's Beaux Strata- 
gem, and The Recruiting Officer. 

IV 

JOSEPH ADDISON 

Works, ed. G. W. Greene, 6 vols., 1858. 

Life, Lucy Aikin, 2 vols., 1843. 

Life, W. J. Courthope {English Men of Let- 
ters Ser.), 1886. 

Oliphant, M. Historical Characters of the 
Reign of Queen Anne, 1894. 

The present text is founded on the ed- 
ition of 1721. Another celebrated 18th- 
century tragedy, in verse, but romantic in 
character, is John Home's Douglas; influ- 
ential bourgeois tragedies in prose are 
George Lillo's London Merchant, or 
George Barnicell, and Edward Moore's 
Gamester. 

SIR RICHARD STEELE 
Plays. 4 vols. London, 1734-40. Ed. G. A 

Aitken {Mermaid ed., Unwin, London, and 

Scribner's, New York). 
Life. Aitken, G. A. 2 vols. 1889. 
Life. Dobson, A. {English Men of Letters 

Ser.) 1888. 
Waterliouse, 0. The Development of English 

Sentimental Comedy in the Eighteenth 

Century. Anglia, XXX. 137-172, 269- 

305. 

The present text is founded on Aitken's, 

but with collations (badly needed) from 

the edition of Edinburgh, 1755. 

Later sentimental comedies are Sir Rich- 
ard Cumberland's West Indian, and Hugh 

Kelly's False Delicacy. 



838 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



HENRY FIELDING 

Works, 12 vols. Ed. W. E. Henley. 1002. 
Ed. G. H. Maynardier. 1903. 

Tom Thumb, ed. by Felix Lindner (Eng- 
lische Textbibliothek) , 1899 (the source of 
the present text) . 

Lindner, F. Henry Fieldings dramatische 
Werke. Litterarische Sttidie. 1895. 

Godden, G. M. Memoir. 1910. 

Dobson, A. Memoir, 1900. 

Other burlesques are the Duke of Buck- 
ingham's Rehearsal (earlier) and Sheri- 
dan's Critic (later). 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Miscellaneous Works, ed. David Masson 
(Globe edition). 1869. 

Poems and Plays. Everyman's Library, vol. 
415. 

The Good Natiir'd Man and She Stoops to 
Conquer, ed. A. Dobson and G. P. Baker 
{Belles Lettres Ser.), 1005. 

She Stoops to Conquer. Temple Dramatists. 

Life and Adventures of Oliver Ooldsmith, 
Forster, J. 1848. 

Life. Moore, F. F. 1910. 

Life. King, R. A. 1910. 

Memoir. Dobson, A. 1899. 

Buckland, E. S. L. (a short monograph) 
1910. 

The present text is founded on the fifth 
edition (1773), probably the most authen- 
tic. The Good Xaturd Man may also be 
mentioned. 

R. B. SHERIDAN 

Collected editions: Sheridan's Plays now 
Printed as he Wrote them, W. F. Pvae, 1902 
(the source of the present text). The 
Major Dramas of Sheridan, G. H. Nettle- 
ton, 1906. 

Everyman's Library, Vol. 95. 

The School for Scandal. Temple Dramatists. 

Sichel, W. S. Sheridan, from Kew and Or- 
iginal Material, 2 vols. 1909. 

Eae, W. F. Biography, 2 vols., 1896. 

Oliphant, M. Life {Engl. Men of Letters 
Ser.), 1898. 

The Rivals may also be mentioned. 



P. B. SHELLEY 

Works. Ed. H. B. Forman, 8 vols., 1880. 

Ed. G. E. Woodberry, 1901. Everyman's 

Librarii, Vols. 257, 258. 
The Cenci. Ed. G. E. Woodberry (Belles 

Lettres Ser.), 1909. 
Crawford, F. Marion. Beatrice Cenci; the 

True Story of a Misunderstood Tragedy. 

The Century Magazine, LXXV. 449-466 

(Jan. 1908). 



A Study of The Cenci, E. S. Bates (Colum- 
bia dissertation). 1008. 

Dowden, E. Life, 2 vols., 1886. 

The present text is founded on A. and 
H. B. Forman's edition, published by the 
Shelley Society, 1886. 

Another fine poetic tragedy of the early 
part of the century is Sir T. N. Talfourd's 
Ion. 

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 

Works. 1840, 1848, 1850. Dramatic Works, 
now First Collected, 1841 (the source of 
the present te.xt ) . 

The Lady of Lyons. 1st ed. 1838. Ed. with 
others of Bulwer's plays, by K. F. Sharp, 
1904. 

Life. By his son, 2 vols. 1883. By his 
grandson, the Earl of Lytton. 2 vols. 
1913. 

Bulwer's best other play is Richelieu. 
Later influential sentimental prose come- 
dies, " realistic " and moralistic rather 
than romantic, are T. W. Robertson's 
Caste and Society. 

ROBERT BROWNING 

Works. Riverside ed., 6 vols., 1888. Smith, 
Elder and Co., London, 1S8S~9, 17 vols, 
(tlie source of the present text). 

Ed. H. E. Scudder (Cambridge ed.) 1895. 
Everyman's Library, Vols. 41, 42. 

Bells and Pomegranates. 1st Ser. Reissued 
in an exact reprint (Ward, Lock and Co., 
London ) . 

Life and Letters, Mrs. Sutherland Orr, 2 
vols, 1891. 

Biography, Edward Dowden, 1904; C. H. Her- 
ford, 1005. 

E. C. Mayne, Bronning's Heroines, 1913. 

Tennyson's Becket may be mentioned 
also. 

OSCAR WILDE 

Works (Sunflower ed.), 1909. 

Lady Windermere's Fan (Ariel Booklets), 
Putnam's, New York. 

Life, R. H. Sherard, 1006. 

Oscar Wilde (a study), L. C. Ingleby, 1007. 

Oscar Wilde: A Critical Study, A. Ransome, 
1012. 

The English Stage of To-day, ]\Iario Borsa 
(Englia.h translation by Brinton), 1008. 

Others of Wilde's comedies are The Im- 
portance of Being Earnest, A Wo^nan of 
No Importance, -a,nd An Ideal Husband. 
For the best plays of contemporary drama- 
tists the reader is referred to those printed 
in Professor T. H. Dickinson's Chief Con- 
temporary Dramatists (Houghton, Mifflin 
and Co., 1015). Of Mr. Percy MacKaye's 
poetic dramas the chief are The Canterbury 
Pilgrims, Jeanne d'Arc, and Sapho and 
Phaon: of his prose plays. The Scarecrow 
and Ant i- Matrimony. 



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